A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,12

facing her first assembly: Simon and more paintings.

They ascended yet another set of stairs, these wooden and carpeted with a rich maroon and gold pattern that seemed to levitate above the floor. Honey felt almost guilty stepping on such lovely, intricate work. She had never seen its like.

“And here we are,” he said, flinging open the first door on the right.

Honey gaped. She was vaguely aware that she was spending far too much time with her mouth hanging open and shut it.

The sitting room was a cream and lemon-yellow shade that felt crisp and cool. Delicate, spindle-legged chairs and a low-slung settee were arranged in front of a massive fireplace with an off-white marble mantle and surround.

“Through this door,” he opened a door to the right, “Is your dressing room.” The room was monstrous and Honey’s paltry collection of dresses would scarcely fill a corner of one of the huge armoires. A washstand, dressing table, clothing chest, several chairs, damask covered chaise longue, and large bathing tub near a fireplace weren’t enough to make the huge room feel crowded.

“And here is your bed chamber.” This last door opened to the most opulent room of the three. A monstrous four-poster bed held pride of place, curtained and canopied in the same lemon yellow and cream, but with hints of gold. Rich velvet drapes covered the floor to ceiling windows that made up part of one wall.

Honey realized that he was waiting for some reaction.

“These rooms are lovely and quite … spacious.”

“This is the family’s section of the house. This room used to belong to his grace’s grandmother.”

“How kind of the duke to treat me with such generosity and condescension.”

Mr. Fairchild’s expression said that he agreed. “He is quite excited that you are here to paint our dear Becca and the duchess. Do you ride?” he asked.

“Adequately.”

“Well, I’m sure you won’t be working all the time, so I hope you’ll allow me to show you some of the beauties of Whitcomb.”

Before she could answer the door opened and a footman entered with her portmanteau.

“Ah, here is your baggage,” Mr. Fairchild said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light tea and I will send up a maid to assist you.”

“You’re most kind,” Honey murmured.

“Is there anything else I can arrange for you, Miss Keyes?”

“No, thank you. This is all very lovely.”

“The duke’s study is at the other end of the Old Gallery. Ring the bell and a servant will escort you. His grace will expect you at seven.”

“Thank you.” Honey didn’t bother telling Mr. Fairchild that she’d be able to find her way back to those portraits asleep and in the dark.

Chapter Four

Honey was ready a full fifteen minutes before her meeting. Rather than sit in her room staring out at the view—admittedly quite a remarkable one that provided a sweeping panorama of the topiary and past that, the deer park—she made her way back to the old gallery.

The wide, black and white tiled corridor was partly illuminated with windows set high above, perhaps thirty feet. The angle of the light was such that it would never touch directly on a painting.

She noticed that she was actually walking on tiptoes as she made her way down the length of the hall, as if approaching a holy relic. Well, for her this was the equivalent of a holy relic.

Her gaze flickered greedily across the collected booty of centuries: a Van Dyke, a Devit, a Seymore—complete with trusty steed, a Dance-Holland, a—she gasped and lurched toward a portrait slightly smaller than those beside it—a Hogarth! The subject, a beautiful woman whose eyes and expression invited the viewer into her boudoir, indeed, who promised and enticed—

A door down the hall swung open so violently it crashed against the wall hard enough that she could feel the vibration in her feet.

“You can go sod yourself, Wyndham!” The roar filled the hallway, although its owner was still inside the room.

Honey had never heard the voice pulse with so much rage when she’d known him, but she recognized it all the same.

Instead of simply scurrying away—as she should have done—she stood motionless, her eyes riveted on the gaping doorway. A soft murmur broke the silence—the person who was currently being yelled at, she supposed.

“Ha!” The word dripped with loathing and fury. “I don’t bloody care; haven’t you been listening? The whole place can go to the devil and you along with it. I’m telling you for the last time, Wyndham—do not meddle in my affairs ever again or