A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,109
with you.”
She paused and gave a jerky nod.
“I’m not exactly fit for the drawing room,” he said as they walked toward the house. “Should I go change?” he asked, hoping her answer would be no.
“I told them you were busy working,” she said, tightly.
Simon took her arm and stopped her. “You are angry. No,” he said when she opened her mouth to demur. “I might be insensitive and oblivious a good deal of the time, but I can see that you are unhappy with me. Is it because—”
“Lady MacLeish brought her daughter along with her.”
Simon frowned, confused. “And that upsets you? Er, is the chit ill-behaved?”
“No.” Her pinched expression was singular and Simon could not decipher what it meant. “Honey, what is it?”
She pulled away, heading toward the front door, which Hume was holding open
Simon followed his wife, a heavy feeling in his chest.
***
As she strode toward the sitting room Honey knew she was behaving badly, but never in her life had she been so furious: first at Lady MacLeish’s gall, second at herself for being consumed by anger and jealousy, and third—and not least—at Simon.
Why hadn’t he told her that he’d paid a call on the woman? She’d looked like a fool showing her surprise.
Probably because he knew you’d react like you’re reacting.
She gritted her teeth against the annoying, yet accurate, thought.
“Honey.” Simon’s hand landed on her arm.
She whirled around and glared up at him. “What?”
“What the hell is the matter?” he demanded.
Honey snorted and reached for the door to the sitting room before he could open it and hissed, “This, my lord.”
She didn’t take her eyes off him as he looked over the denizens of the room. A dozen emotions flickered across his face when his gaze landed on Lady MacLeish’s daughter.
“Thank you for allowing us to interrupt you, Simon,” Bella MacLeish said, her mesmerizing green eyes on Honey, rather than Simon as she spoke.
But Simon’s attention was all for the girl standing beside her.
“You remember my mother, of course,” the countess said. “And this is my daughter, Enola.”
Lady Frampton’s face was a mask of mortification.
Enola looked uncertainly from her mother to Simon—who still hadn’t spoken or moved—her unusual hydrangea-colored eyes wide as she dropped a coltish curtsey. “My lord.”
As if waking from a dream, Simon strode across the room, stopped in front of the girl and took her chin in fingers, raising her face to his. While the exotic tilt of Enola’s eyes was just like her mother’s, her patrician profile, complete with strong, aquiline nose, was a duplicate of Simon’s.
“Enola,” he said in a low, wondering voice, breaking the brittle silence that filled the room. “What a pretty name.” He dropped his hand and turned to Bella.
The sultry beauty gave him an innocent smile that didn’t fool Honey for a minute: she had purposely engineered this scene.
Honey realized she was a spectator in her own drawing room and moved toward the untouched tea tray.
For the next quarter of an hour, she smiled and made tea and distributed biscuits, nodding when appropriate and even answering the few questions directed her way.
When the women rose to leave, it was Simon who walked them out to their carriage.
Honey slumped back in her chair, staring at the remains of the tray.
Part of her wanted Simon to just return to the stables and they could pretend this hadn’t happened.
Part of her wanted to shout and throw things at him, and demand why he had not warned her.
And part of her wanted to pack her valise and get on a mail coach and go home.
They’d talked about separate lives before they’d married. Perhaps it was now—
She heard Simon’s distinctive, uneven tread before the door opened.
Honey could not make herself look at him.
“You are angry with me,” he said, taking the seat he’d just vacated.
Her head whipped up at his weary words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just wanted to speak to her alone—to make sure she knew that I wouldn’t tolerate her games. Bella has always been a bit, er, mischievous. In any case, the visit was harmless and I didn’t mean for my actions to appear secretive.”
“I’m not talking about your visit to Lady MacLeish,” she spat—although that did rankle. “I’m talking about the girl.”
“What about the girl?” he asked, but she could see that he was not as sanguine as he was attempting to sound.
“Don’t,” she said with a withering look.
“Fine. So, the child looks like a Fairchild—is that what you mean?”