A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,103
fingers; they were work-roughened but still elegant, and easily twice as thick as hers.
He reached for her chin with his other hand and tilted her face up, until she couldn’t avoid his consuming stare. “Are you still angry with me? You have every right to be,” he said before she could answer, his smile wry.
Honey hesitated. She considered just accepting his apology and moving on.
That is a bad habit, Honey. Begin as you would go on.
“What happened last night?”
He released her chin but not her hand. “Heyworth asked several sticky questions about the improvements during dinner and I got caught up in those.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m a bit, er, well, obsessed with the project and I simply lost track of time.”
Honey nodded slowly; she swore he was not telling her the truth. At least not all of it.
She certainly believed the part about being obsessed, but she wasn’t convinced it was the stables that had kept him occupied last night.
He squeezed her hand. “I will guard against it happening again—whether we have guests, or not.” He hesitated, and then said, “I would be obliged if you came to me if it were ever to occur again. I dislike blaming my injuries, but the truth is that I’m not always aware of the passage of time. And I do tend to forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”
That, at least, sounded honest. “I can do that,” she said.
Before he could reply the door opened and the first course arrived.
***
Simon was grateful that his new wife was not churlish or tending toward grudges—not that he deserved easy forgiveness.
Still, it was fortunate she was understanding because he did have a tendency to focus on one matter to the exclusion of all others.
And if he’d fibbed a little by neglecting to mention the other issue that had consumed his thoughts last night? Well, he believed that it had been better to pass along a small falsehood than to hurt her.
Wasn’t it?
Besides, his conversation with Bella today had put to rest any concerns he might have had about lingering feelings for her.
Other than a certain nostalgic fondness and admiration for a beautiful woman, he’d felt nothing for her when he’d sat in the shabby sitting room at Frampton Park.
Not only was his own mind settled, but, after today’s conversation, Bella now knew that Simon was very married.
He knew that Bella didn’t love or yearn for him; he’d recognized the familiar glint in her eyes: she’d been hoping for a bit of sport—a diversion from what likely a very mundane existence.
The only sport he’d offered her was the use of one of the new hunters he’d bought, a fine mare he intended to breed as soon as his new stud was delivered.
Bella was one of the most skilled equestriennes he’d ever seen. Hell, she was a better rider than most men.
Simon had planned to pay a rough rider this hunting season as he had several hunters he wished to sell. This way he could pay Bella, even though money had never been mentioned.
She’d told him that her husband had been hunting mad and she’d gone with him every year, so he knew she’d kept up with the sport.
Apparently, MacLeish had been deeply dipped and when he’d died the ancestral home had gone to a cousin, since Bella and her husband had only had one daughter.
She’d been forced to move back in with her parents because all MacLeish’s personal property had gone for debts.
Since Bella was too bloody poor to even own a riding hack, he’d opened his stables to her, as well. Not only was it a small kindness that he could well afford, but he wanted her in top fettle if she was going to be hunting one of his horses this year.
Like most females who hunted seriously, Bella rode astride. His niece Rebecca did, as well, at Wyndham’s insistence. Simon was proud that his stiff brother valued his daughter’s health over a bit of scandalous clothing. It was just too damned dangerous to hunt on a woman’s pleasure saddle, in Simon’s opinion.
There would be plenty of riders with the local hunt who would recall Bella from years ago. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought of how she would shake up many of the parochial men—and then ride them into the dirt.
Simon saw that Honey was looking at him and realized he’d been woolgathering rather than entertaining his wife.
“Wine?” he asked, picking up the bottle that had been decanting.