A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,17

sex with someone other than his own hand?

It was exactly two weeks ago, the voice provided helpfully.

That was true. Not since the night he’d bedded Lily Bancroft, the serving wench at the St. George.

His intention of fucking his way out from under his brother’s thumb had dissipated the following day when he’d realized he’d be using an innocent bystander in his war against Wyndham. Not that Lily was either innocent or reluctant to be used—those being her own words.

“When will I see you again, my lord,” she’d asked as she’d gathered up her scattered clothing.

Simon’s head had been pounding, his conscience no longer numbed by ale. “I’m not sure that is wise.”

“Why? Do you fear for my reputation? It’s too late for that.”

Simon had winced at her justly mocking tone.

“I’m a grown woman, my lord,” she’d said standing before him naked to prove her point. “My Tommy died in Spain so I’m my own mistress now.”

He’d felt doubly appalled by the knowledge that he’d just bedded a serving wench who was also a war widow.

Like a coward, Simon had slunk away and not gone back, since— even though his cousin nagged him nightly to join him on his carouses.

Simon flexed his left arm; the taut, scarred skin tingled, but was not painful. At least not much. He was better every day and even the worst of his wounds was well on the road to healing.

Peel appeared in the open doorway. “Will you have a shave before dinner, my lord?”

Simon looked up from his red, rough forearm. Dinner?

He stared at the fragrant, golden liquid in his other hand, suddenly recalling the tall, skinny wench he’d found lurking outside Wyndham’s study. Who the bloody hell was she? She’d looked familiar but he couldn’t recall ever meeting a woman so tall. Her wide, gray eyes hovered in his mind—surprised and outraged. He smirked at the memory. Well, that’s what you get for listening at keyholes, missy.

He took another drink and realized Peel was still waiting. “Dinner, eh?” He’d been eating in his room more often than not these days, but he couldn’t help but admit to some curiosity about the woman he’d just met. Perhaps she would be dining with the family?

Well, what the hell else did he have to do? He snorted and then quaffed the contents of the glass. “Yes, a shave before dinner, Peel.”

Chapter Five

Simon Fairchild didn’t appear in the dining room until the middle of the second course.

He was far more formally dressed than he’d been earlier, but also far less sober. Even before he opened his mouth, she knew he’d been drinking. She could smell him when he dropped into the seat beside her, his damaged side facing her.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to nobody in particular and not with any conviction. His glazed eyes flickered over Honoria, the duke, his cousin, and the dowager duchess before landing on his niece. His sarcastic smirk shifted into a smile that looked genuine.

“Well, look at you, Becks—you’re prettier than a princess. What’s the occasion?”

Lady Rebecca was undoubtedly the duke’s daughter. She’d inherited his somewhat nondescript hair color and her neat, even features were in no way extraordinary. She was far from robust looking for her age and appeared younger than her sixteen years.

“I’m going to an assembly.” Lady Rebecca smiled and flushed a rosy shade that made her average features pretty; Honey knew that was the expression she wanted to capture in her portrait.

Lord Saybrook paused in the act of lifting the glass of wine the footman had just filled

“Ahh, an assembly. A bit of practice before you tackle the Season proper?”

“Lady Partridge says there is no harm in such an entertainment even though we are not yet out. Sarah and Lilian will be with me.”

The marquess took a gulp of wine that drained half the glass. “Well, I daresay you’ll have all the young cockerels squaring up to dance with you. I suppose we should expect lovelorn swains playing flutes and violins and reciting bad poetry below your window from now until whenever?”

Only his cousin Raymond laughed.

“Simon,” the duchess scolded, but her expression was indulgent as she chastised her younger son.

Lord Simon gave his mother a tolerant smile and the tension that had accompanied him into the room dissipated a little.

The dowager duchess shared her pale gray eye color and mousy brown hair with her eldest son and granddaughter. Honey wondered if Simon’s father was the source of the unusual hydrangea eyes and antique gold hair. Simon looked more