A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,115

to turn away when Raymond looked up. His smile spread when he saw her, a markedly more pleased expression than only a moment before, and he waved—drawing everyone else’s attention to her, as well.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Raymond,” she muttered through clenched teeth, waving back.

When he strode toward the house, Honey sighed and prepared to meet him. She removed her painting smock and then smoothed her hair before going to the smaller, and cozier, sitting room that she favored.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Raymond—she did. But he was strangely … cloying.

When she’d told Simon that, he’d chuckled. “That he is—and always has been. I think it’s a result of being orphaned at such a young age. He has never spoken about what his life was like when Wyndham went to collect him and bring him back to Whitcomb, but I know he lived in squalor. He can be annoying at times, but, overall, he’s a good egg,” he’d added, “And he adores you, Honey.”

Unfortunately, Raymond made that all too plain. Indeed, sometimes his affection was a little overwhelming.

But he was family—something she had always dreamed of having—and so Honey pasted on a smile.

***

Honey stood back from the Duchess of Plimpton’s portrait and smiled.

Although the woman was bland, self-centered, and aloof, there’d been something beneath her beautiful features that Honey hadn’t even realized existed until she saw it on the canvas.

Cecily Fairchild was a strong woman, for all that she languished on her chaise longue as the world went on around her.

Oh, Honey didn’t believe that the woman’s physical delicacy was contrived, but it was clear that the duchess wielded her invalid status like a weapon—a very powerful, effective weapon.

Honey was proud that she’d managed to capture the woman’s subtle strength—it was the sort of detail that separated a workmanlike painting from a great one. Honey believed this portrait came close to that second category.

She was pleased that she’d managed to finish the portrait before she left for London two days hence. When she returned from her commissions in the city there would be a grand ceremony to unveil both canvases.

“It will be a ball,” the dowager had told her with a sparkle in her eyes. “Wyndham wants this to be a combination celebration of your marriage as well as an unveiling of the portraits. You must invite all your friends, Honoria. If you don’t have room at Everley we can accommodate them at Whitcomb.”

Honey had to admit the prospect of a grand event intrigued her.

And so she’d written to her friends, not having much hope as most of them worked for their crust. Still, it would be lovely to get everyone together again.

She untied her smock and went to hang it up when activity from the stables drew her attention; it was Simon and Bella, mounted and headed out.

Honey looked at the clock; it was after five. Tonight, was the night they’d have his family over to dine for the first time—Simon had relented toward the duke, and Honey had agreed. Where could he be going so late? With Bella.

Honey grimaced at the unwanted pang of jealousy—at least the pangs were getting milder rather than worse—and left the studio.

She encountered Mr. Heyworth on the stairs.

“I was just looking for you, my lady. His lordship wanted you to know he’d be back in time for dinner. He had to run out to the Turnbull farm to inspect some work.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid the man who was in charge of the job isn’t reliable enough to trust and the new tenants will be arriving sometime tomorrow.”

“Ah, I recall him mentioning that at breakfast,” Honey said, although she wished he’d not left it so late. She smiled at the steward, “I shall see you at dinner, Mr. Heyworth.”

As she made her way up the stairs, she tried to understand why she was so nervous about tonight. She’d acted as her father’s hostess on hundreds of occasions. She could only assume it was the duke’s presence that made her so anxious. She’d not seen him since the day they’d arrived at Everley, almost a month ago.

“I told Wyndham never to step foot in my house without my express invitation,” Simon had said when she’d asked if the duke would be coming to see the portraits.

To tell the truth, Honey could hardly be angry at Plimpton for being the force behind her marriage, as much as she might resent the high-handed behavior he’d employed to achieve his ends. Being married to Simon might be