A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,15
of this,” he’d said to her once, waving one ring-encrusted hand to encompass his unconventionally garbed person. “Is showmanship, Honey. A person does not need to be ostentatious to be a real artist. And you, my love, are not only a real artist, but you also possess a very rare quality in that your company is soothing and rejuvenating.”
Honey supposed she could have chosen to be insulted by his words. After all, it was a commonly held belief that a woman had to be passionate in order to inspire passion. But, instead, she’d found his assessment of her to be comforting.
One of her father’s lovers had once had the poor judgement to chide Honoria during a dinner at their house. “You are far too mild to ever be a truly successful artist, my dear. You must not appear so sedate. Try to cultivate an air of mystery, even if you do not feel mysterious.” Honey recalled how the woman’s cool eyes had flickered over her person, unaware of Daniel Keyes’s gathering wrath at the end of the table.
The woman’s full lips had folded with distaste at the conclusion of her inspection. “Lord knows your person is too … unusual to hide, so you might as well make the best of what you have and dress with more flair.”
She’d found the woman’s advice amusing rather than insulting but her father had responded with all the anger and emotion that Honey could have desired in a champion, banishing his erstwhile lover from their lives before dinner had even ended.
Honey had not, even for an instant, considered taking the woman’s ridiculous counseling. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy brighter colors and more interesting styles—like the avant-guarde clothing her friend Serena wore—but such garments never looked quite right on her.
She had long ago accommodated herself to the fact that she looked like a governess rather than a famous artist. The same went for her behavior and bearing; she was calm to the point of phlegmatic, but that was the way she was made and no amount of artificial emoting would change that.
Thinking about emoting turned her thoughts to Simon Fairchild. And thinking about Simon Fairchild stripped away everything she’d believed herself to be—cool and collected—and left her raw, furious, and hurt.
So, it seems there is something—or someone—that can change your torpid bearing, Honey.
She snorted at the taunting thought but she couldn’t deny the truth of it.
What stung even more was that Honey had kept Simon Fairchild on a pedestal for fourteen years and he’d not even remembered who she was.
***
Simon slammed the door to his chambers with unnecessary force and stalked into his dressing room.
His valet was fussing with clothing but put his work aside and turned to help Simon, who waved him away.
“I’ll undress myself, Peel.” Simon yanked off his cravat and tossed it to the older man, who’d been with him before he’d joined the calvary and then served as his batman through the grueling years on the Continent. Peel knew him better than any other person on earth, the poor bastard.
To Peel’s enduring displeasure, Simon often joked their relationship was very much like a marriage, but without the bedding. Peel was a bloody prude when it came to such humor.
“Ring for a bath,” he ordered.
“Right away, my lord.”
He left Simon alone without anyone to growl at. That was just as well; Simon was in such a vile mood he wouldn’t bear his own company if he could find some way around it.
He was behaving badly and shaming himself and yet he could not seem to stop arguing and fighting and yelling with Wyndham at every opportunity. He needed to get away, but his brother kept him on such a tight leash it chaffed.
He snatched a decanter off the highboy dresser and poured a stiff shot of brandy. Drink was the only way he’d found to escape himself—at least with his clothing on—even if it was only for a little while and even if the price of escape was high.
And even if his brother would always be waiting for him at the end of what little bit of escape he could snatch for himself.
Bloody, damned Wyndham. Why could he not leave Simon be? Why must they have the same argument time and again? Why was the man so relentless? Where did he get such strength? Why couldn’t he just accept that Simon was not cut from the same cloth as he was and would be a disaster as duke?