A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,121
handed it to her, without speaking.
“What is it?” she asked, afraid to look at what he’d given her.
Simon only shook his head.
She turned to the letter. Letter wasn’t really the right word, there was only one sentence:
“Bella MacLeish’s child is also the duke’s.”
Honey had to read the sentence multiple times, and still her mind couldn’t seem to absorb the meaning. When she finally looked up, Simon was staring at her with an expression she’d not seen since her first week at Whitcomb: deadness.
“I can’t believe this is true,” she said. “Who would send something like this? And why? It’s just—”
“I’m going to talk to Wyndham.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
“Simon!”
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, shoulders so rigid they looked like they would shatter if she touched him.
But she had to touch him.
She laid a hand on his back and he shuddered. “Wait a bit, Simon. If you go now—”
He turned on her. “You think I will forgive him an hour from now?” he demanded.
She flinched back from his rage, but he just took a step toward her, gripping both her upper arms, hurting her. “I want you to know this is not about Bella,” he spat the word.
“I know that, Simon.” Honey had no siblings, but she had an imagination and what she was imagining right now was pain and betrayal.
“How could he do this to me?” Simon asked. “Not just then—but all these years making me believe—” he broke off, his gaze dropping to his hands. He immediately released her. “Oh hell, Honey! I hurt you—”
“Shhh.” She wrapped her arms around his body and laid her head over his heart; it was pounding almost out of his chest.
He stood as still and rigid as a statue. For a moment she thought he would push her away, but then his arms slid around her, crushing her.
“God, Honey,” he whispered into her hair. “I used to love and admire Wyndham so bloody much. This is just—”
“I know.” She felt the tautness—the need for action—and released him. “I know,” she said again. “Just—well, just be careful, Simon. Don’t let your anger guide your tongue.”
He hesitated a moment and she thought her words might overcome his need for haste. But then his eyes shuttered and he nodded. He kissed her on the forehead and was gone.
***
Honey’s brush hovered over the painting of Simon.
She’d been standing in front of the canvas for a good ten minutes, and still she hadn’t painted so much as a stroke.
She lowered the brush. Today wasn’t a good day to paint; it was a good day to work on canvasses and frames. She would—
Angry voices came from out in the corridor and the door swung open hard enough to slam against the wall.
It was Bella, with Hume close on her heels.
“I’m terribly sorry, my lady,” Hume said before Honey could speak. Her butler shot the breeches-wearing beauty a cold look. “I told Lady MacLeish that you were not to be disturbed when you—”
“Has something happened to Simon?” Honey looked from her butler to Bella’s wide-eyed and frightened face.
“Where is Simon?” Bella asked at almost the same moment, her magnificent eyes flickering around the room, as if Honey’s husband might be hiding somewhere among the painting paraphernalia.
Honey went limp with relief; if Bella was looking for Simon, that meant he wasn’t lying hurt or dead somewhere.
Her relief quickly turned to anger. “What can I do for you, Lady MacLeish?” Honey demanded.
“Where is Simon?” Bella repeated, louder this time.
“He has gone to speak to the duke,” Honey said coolly. “If you must know,” she added, “he has gone on a matter not so tangentially concerning you.”
“What do you mean?”
Honey looked pointedly at Hume, her meaning clear: if Bella wanted to demand answers in such a rude, public fashion, Honey would gladly share the truth in front of her servant.
But the other woman either didn’t catch her meaning or didn’t care. “I saw Raymond’s groom—Taft—last night and he was heading toward the Turnbull farm. I saw him not long after I left Simon.”
Honey shook her head, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I just now heard about Simon’s accident from one of your stable lads.”
Honey frowned, still unable to see her point. “And?”
“I don’t think Simon’s horse was the bullet’s target, my lady,” she bit out.
Hume’s jaw sagged.
So did Honey’s. “Please excuse us, Hume.”
She could see the man didn’t want to leave, but thirty-odd years of service made him nod and retreat.