A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,130

about an hour after Bella and the two men arrived.

It seemed the steward had been caught in a snare—so there was a poacher, after all. The accident hadn’t just mangled Heyworth’s foot, his pride was considerably damaged from leaving his mistress to fend for herself.

Simon wasn’t sure he could ever forgive the man for bringing Honey and their unborn child into such danger.

Unfortunately, his wife had read his expression correctly and had already threatened him with dire deeds if Simon sacked Heyworth.

Honey stood up from the arm of his chair and held out her hand. “Come to bed—you need sleep. You can trust your brother to Doctor Powell and the dowager.”

Simon had sent for their mother, knowing she would want to be by Wyndham’s bedside. She was a capable nurse and had cared for their father in his last years.

Honey was right; Wyndham was getting the best care possible.

He stood, but instead of following her to bed, he wrapped his arms around her, gazing down into her lovely gray eyes. “How did I ever get so lucky,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose.

She blushed and squirmed, shy at his praise.

“There is a tradition among soldiers; if you save somebody’s life, it then belongs to you.”

She cocked her head, the slightest of smiles on her lips. “Are you saying that you now belong to me?”

“Utterly and completely.”

“Hmmm. How interesting. What do you think I should do with you?”

Simon kissed her until they were both breathless. And then he said, “You’re my clever wife, I’m sure you’ll think of something fitting.”

Epilogue

Several Months Later …

Oh!” Honey said, pressing a hand against her stomach. “I think the baby just kicked me.”

Simon looked up from the letter in his hand. He was sitting across the breakfast table from her, his blue eyes twinkling behind the spectacles he used for reading. “I don’t believe it. No son of ours would be so rude.”

“No, but our daughter might be.”

They both smirked at their silly, private joke.

Honey had asked him once, early in her pregnancy, if he would be disappointed if their first child was not a son.

He’d given her the most serious look she’d ever seen on his handsome face. “All I want is for both of you to be healthy.”

She’d heard the anxiety beneath his words and had seen it in his intense gaze; he was worried for her.

Not that there seemed to be any reason to worry. Thus far Honey had enjoyed a very easy pregnancy. She’d not been ill or off her feed—as the dowager had apparently been with her children—and she’d only recently begun to get tired and require a short nap in the afternoons.

The only unhappy side effect of her pregnancy was her reaction to the smell of paints: the oily scent nauseated her.

The doctor had assured her it was temporary and that women often developed strong dislikes for tastes or smells. It had upset her, at first, but she’d decided to look at the months that remained as an enforced holiday from work.

Of course, she was still sketching—more than ever—but she’d also taken up tatting, which her mother-in-law had been overjoyed to teach her. She had never been accomplished at any needlecraft and could hardly wait to show Freddie—who’d mastered all such feminine arts—the first length of lace that she’d made.

Simon grunted and tossed his letter aside “So, Morrison has finally come up to snuff on Epiphany.”

Honey smiled. “I’m surprised you can part with him,” she teased. She’d half-believed that her husband wouldn’t be able to sell the magnificent hunter.

Simon muttered something beneath his breath and she saw a slight pinkness on his cheeks.

Honey knew he was embarrassed by his attachment to his animals.

He was only willing to sell them to people he liked and trusted. Honey thought his impulse spoke well of his character but knew that he lamented his sentimental approach to what was supposed to be a business.

She turned to her own letters, opening the one from Annis.

It was only a single page and was sparsely written—very unusual for her word-loving friend.

For a woman whose entire life revolved around languages, Annis’s penmanship had always been dreadful, but this letter was almost illegible.

Honey squinted down at the page, re-reading the third sentence once, twice, and then again. “Oh, goodness,” she said.

“Is your rude daughter kicking you again?” Simon asked with a snicker, frowning at something he was reading in the newspaper.

“No, it’s a letter from my friend Annis.”

Simon looked up. “The one who lives with her grandmother