A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,10
when she landed on her knees.
She held onto the seat as the carriage bounced over rough ground, waiting until the vehicle began to slow before pushing herself up until she could grasp the leather strap beside the door.
The pounding of her heart thundered in her ears, and not just because of the scare.
He was here.
Honey closed her eyes and relived the lighting-fast image of a Norse god on a magnificent mount. The image—no matter how fleeting—had shown him to be just as beautiful as before.
Simon was here.
The chaise shuddered to a halt and shook her out of her stunned reverie.
So what if he was here? What difference did that make? She’d known it might be the case. She’d prepared herself for seeing him again. Or at least she’d thought she had.
Honey grimaced at her pitiful dithering and released the strap, collapsing back against the squabs as the chaise shifted on its springs.
The door opened and the burly groom appeared in the opening. “You all right, Miss?” His homely face was creased with concern.
“Just a little shaken up. What happened?”
His expression shifted from concern to disgust. “Naught but a lunatic, riding hell-bent for leather. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss.” He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. “He came out of nowhere and went past in a blur—riding the damned finest piece of horseflesh I’ve ever seen,” he said with grudging admiration, and then grimaced, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,” he added, again.
Honey wanted to roll her eyes; men and their horses. “Are we close to Whitcomb House?”
“Aye, naught but ten minutes away.”
She smoothed her navy blue traveling dress over her lap with shaking hands.
Good God. I will see him again in only minutes.
“All right then?” the groom asked.
She mustered a smile and nodded. “Yes—yes of course. I am fine and ready to resume the journey.”
He closed the door and soon they were rolling.
Honey stared out the window and tried to sooth her jangled nerves, but the beautiful profile and flash of golden hair were stuck in her mind’s eye—a problem with artists. She would have known that classical profile—distinct enough to grace a coin—anywhere. Hatless with buckskin breeches, black clawhammer, and tall leather boots completed the brief picture. He’d looked vital, not damaged at all. He looked like a Corinthian—or at least that is what she imaged they looked like, those men who relished their own physicality: bruising riders, crack marksmen, determined pugilists, and other such overtly masculine foolishness.
Her stomach quivered at the image her mind would not relinquish. How could she endure the proximity of such a beautiful, vital, distracting man? It was simply too—
Calm yourself.
The cool voice was like a blast of frigid air waking her from a fevered dream.
Suddenly her anxiety was annoying rather than crippling; she was nine-and-twenty, not fifteen. So what if he was here? She wasn’t painting him, she was painting the duke’s wife and child. She was here to work, to build her reputation as a portraitist and a commission for a duke was a powerful thing—could be a powerful thing—if she concentrated and did her best.
You are a woman grown—no longer a tall, skinny, gangly fifteen-year-old, the logical, soothing voice in her head reminded her.
She snorted. No, she was now a tall, skinny, gangly twenty-nine-year-old. Good Lord. Hadn’t she learned anything in fourteen years?
The racing of her heart told her she’d not learned much—at least not when it came to Simon Fairchild.
The chaise crested the ridge and Honey gasped. “Oh my goodness.” Her eyes darted wildly as she tried to take it all in. Massive oaks flanked both sides of the drive at regular intervals, allowing glimpses of rolling parkland beyond. This was no house, not even a mansion—it seemed to stretch for miles and resemble a mediaeval township.
Honey had heard Whitcomb compared in size and character to Knole House and now understood why it was considered a national treasure. Her fingers itched to sketch it and she knew she would need to come back to this vantage point.
The sun was already low in the sky when the carriage rolled onto the cobble drive that curved in front of the massive entrance.
A blond man dressed in a dark coat and buff pantaloons waited at the foot of the shallow stone steps that led to arched doors at least fifteen feet at their peak, the heavy, weathered wood bound with intricate iron strapping.
Over the entrance the dragon and greyhound of Henry VIII supported the Royal Arms of England.