A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,22

as she passed under the grand archway into the courtyard. Male voices and the sound of horse hooves came from a gap in the three buildings and she followed the sounds to a large, enclosed arena, coming up behind a half-dozen men who were either leaning or sitting on the fence that surrounded the arena.

They were watching as a man dressed in top boots, shirtsleeves, and buckskins guided a magnificent horse through its paces.

The man’s back was to her but she would have recognized Simon Fairchild’s broad shoulders and guinea gold hair—no matter that it was closely cropped—anywhere.

The horse he was training was stunning—an inky black stallion whose body was so powerful he would have resembled a draught horse if not for the proud, arched neck and finely boned head. Honey had never seen an animal with such muscular hindquarters and forequarters that moved so fluidly. She could see by the horse’s flared, quivering nostrils and the iron tension in its enormous frame that it was not yet fully broken.

Simon’s fine muslin shirt adhered to his muscular body as he worked both himself and the animal. Honoria had never watched the training of a horse before and found his patience with the stallion both impressive and at odds with his behavior toward humans.

She recalled his dreams from all those years ago: to live in the country and breed horses. What had happened to that dream? Why had he gone to war and then stayed in the military for all that time? As the heir to a dukedom it was unusual that he’d fought, at all.

Honoria felt movement beside her and had to look down a good six inches to find a wiry, grizzled man touching his cap and smiling up at her.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. I’m Wilkins, the duke’s stable master. I’ll wager yer looking for a horse and are wondering if ye came to the wrong place.” His voice rose as he got to the end of his sentence and it worked like the crack of a whip on the loitering men.

It also drew the attention of Simon, who brought the lathered horse to a graceful halt.

“That’s a good fellow,” he said, reaching out a gloved hand to stroke the glossy black neck. The horse stiffened at his touch but did not pull away. Simon scratched the stallion’s mane until the beast was pushing against him like a dog, asking for more. He chuckled and spoke softly into the horse’s twitching ears.

Honey could not pull her eyes away from the sight of the two big, magnificent animals. “The horse is beautiful but appears rather wild,” she said to Wilkins, who was still beside her.

“Aye, Master Simon be breakin’ him slow-like. Horses love ‘im. He’s gentle and sparin’ with the whip and gets quick results.”

The marquess summoned one of the stable lads who vaulted over the fence and cautiously approached the stallion. Simon spoke a few words to the boy, who led the horse toward the stables.

Once horse and boy were gone, he looked over at Honey, the expression on his ravaged face unreadable. “Good afternoon, Miss Keyes,” he said, striding toward her with his odd, slightly uneven gait, “Have you come to inspect the stables?”

She frowned at his taunting tone, as if she’d stepped over some line by coming there. “Inspection is not one of my duties, my lord. Your brother gave me permission to borrow a horse whenever I pleased.”

He smiled at her acerbic response, the smooth, undamaged side of his face pulling up while the other half only twitched.

Even scarred and limping he oozed a potent masculinity that made her feel restless and it was a struggle to remain cool beneath his hard, blue gaze. “That is a lovely horse, my lord. I do not recognize the breed.”

He began to pull off his battered black gloves, finger by finger, never taking his eyes from her. “Loki is a cross between a Friesian and Andalusian.”

“The trickster,” she said stupidly, struggling for something else to say—some way to hold his attention, just as she had all those years ago.

His smile grew, as if he could read her as easily as one of his horses. “Saddle up Bacchus and Saturn for us, Wilkins,” he said without looking at the stable master.

Wilkins dipped his head. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and turned away, leaving her alone with Simon.

Honey did not dare glance directly at the open neck of his shirt even though every particle of her being urged her to take