A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,117

he pulled them on. “I worry that perhaps his horse pulled up lame and he is stranded. It is a very long walk on foot. I’ll bring a mount with me, so that—”

The door swung open and Honey and Mr. Heyworth turned at the sound.

Simon stood in the doorway, dusty and disheveled. He smiled at Honey, his expression wry. “I supposed I missed dinner?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Simon could see that his wife was very unhappy and worried; he could not blame her.

He was enraged, even though he’d had three hours to do nothing but sort out his anger.

But right now, he was starving and his blisters had blisters. He turned to Hume, who was hovering. “Could you please have a tray sent up to my chambers? Something cold is fine.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Simon turned to Heyworth once the butler had left. “You’ll need to send a wagon to fetch Saturn.”

Honey raised her hand to her mouth and Heyworth stared.

Simon gestured to the leg of his breeches.

Because he wore leathers that had been died dark brown, the blood stains had not immediately been apparent; Honey saw them now.

“My God, Simon—is that blood?” She grabbed his coat and pulled him closer to a nearby candelabrum.

Simon’s lips twitched; as angry as he was, he couldn’t help being amused by the sight of his steward blushing as the lady of the house bent low to stare at her husband’s groin.

“It is not mine, love,” he said.

His voice brought her back to herself, and she straightened up, blushing as furiously as his steward. “What happened?”

“Somebody shot in my direction—by mistake, I expect. No doubt whoever it was didn’t expect anyone to be out on that remote path so late. Probably a poacher.” Simon grimaced, sickened as he recalled the equine scream of pain just before Saturn staggered and fell.

“Thankfully, the horse didn’t suffer, but I couldn’t get my foot out quickly enough, so it’s a bit sore.” He lifted his injured leg—his left, of course—and winced.

“Come,” she said, shaking off her shock. “Let’s get you upstairs.” She turned to the footman who’d just appeared. “Have a bath brought up to his lordship’s room immediately.”

“Very good, my lady.”

“Here,” she said, thrusting her delicate shoulder beneath his arm. “You can lean on me.”

Simon could walk well enough—he’d done so for hours—but he found that he liked being coddled by his wife.

“I’ll be off if you don’t need anything?” Heyworth said.

“Just collect Saturn—don’t go looking for anything,” Simon warned as he limped toward the stairs. “We’ll comb the area tomorrow and speak to the sheriff.”

Heyworth nodded and left them alone.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner, love,” he said as they made slow progress up the stairs; Simon might have held her tighter than strictly necessary.

“You were missed,” she said, and then asked, “Why didn’t you send Lady MacLeish for help?”

Simon frowned. “Bella wasn’t with me,” he said. And then it hit him. “Oh, you saw us leave together. She only rode as far as the turnoff to Frampton Park and then headed home. I told her she could stable Bacchus at her father’s.” Simon actually felt the tension drain from her long, slender body. So, she still worried about Bella.

Honey took control of matters when they reached his chambers. She ordered Peel to strip him, inspect him for injuries, and then put him in his bath.

“Your meal will be waiting for you in a quarter of an hour,” she told Simon, before bustling from the room.

A throat cleared beside him and Simon realized that he’d been staring after his wife, likely with a foolish, adoring grin on his face. One look at his valet’s faintly amused, superior expression told him he was right.

Simon was notorious for loathing coddling of any sort.

Until now.

He smirked down at his valet and then dropped into his chair, lifting up one dusty, battered boot. “We’d best do as my lady says and get me into that tub, Peel.”

***

Honey was seated across from Simon at a small table that a footman must have had brought up.

Her husband was wearing only his robe and his gold curls were damp from his bath. His poor feet were bare rather than in slippers due to the bloody blisters he had from toe-to-heel on both feet.

“This cannot be normal,” she said, absently watching as Simon took a second piece of ham from the platter of cold meats Cook had sent up.

“Hmm?” he said.

“That’s twice you’ve been shot in less than three months, Simon.”

He nodded, finishing chewing before taking a drink of