A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,23

another—more leisurely—look at the V of hard chest and the sweat-sheened cords of his tanned neck and the—

Take hold of yourself! The voice was like a lash and startled her from her mesmerized state. She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes, which glinted with uncomfortable emotions.

“Are you going for a ride, my lord?” She hated how wobbly her voice sounded, but she hated the pregnant silence more.

“I am.” He smacked his palm with his gloves, the ropey, powerful muscles of his exposed forearms flexing. “With you.”

Honey blinked and shook her head before she could stop herself.

“Why not?” he asked, sounding amused rather than annoyed at her immediate rejection. He tucked his gloves into the waist of his buckskins, rolled down his sleeves, and then plucked his waistcoat off a nearby post and shrugged into it, not bothering to button it.

“I shan’t be going to ride,” she lied, lifting her satchel as proof. “I’m going to sketch.”

He deftly swung his tall body over the arena fence, landing with a soft thump in front of her, so close she could smell horse, leather, and his sweaty, sun-warmed skin. She took a step back.

He took a step toward her. “I’ll come along to help you carry your things.”

She lifted her satchel again, like a talisman to ward him off. “But this is all I have; I don’t need any help.”

“I’ll help you find the best spot.” He took another step.

Honey frowned and took another step back—the last one she was taking, she told herself. She tilted her chin and stared up at him. What a novelty; there were not many men taller than her five feet eleven inches. Simon’s eyes were a good three inches above hers.

“The best spot for what?” she asked in a breathy, annoying voice.

“For whatever you want.” He took a step, and—curse her!—so did she. Her shoulder hit something hard and unyielding, the doorframe—reminding her of how he had stalked her this same way yesterday.

Impotent anger flamed in her breast as he closed the small bit of space between them and she did nothing to stop him.

His eyelids lowered and his smile disappeared. “Nowhere left to run, Honey.” His breath was hot on her temple.

She shook her head and the navy-blue feather in her hat brushed at his forehead.

“I wasn’t running,” she said, her voice cracking. She tried not to let her eyes wander from his burning blue gaze, tried not to stare at the ruin that was his face, but her eyes kept sliding to the left.

He laughed softly and turned his scared, pitted side toward her. “Difficult to look away, isn’t it?”

She could only stare.

He turned to give her his undamaged side. “Such beauty and horror, all in the same package.” His white teeth flashed in his face and his hand shot up. For a moment she though he was going to touch her but he reached higher and pulled down a strip of white—his cravat—from the post above her head. He dropped it around his neck and turned away, disappearing into the stables.

***

Simon had no idea why he was taunting her. Boredom? Perhaps.

Raymond had joined him at the St. George last night, the first time in two weeks. His cousin had spent about forty-five minutes chiding him—loudly—for arguing with Wyndham—making something of a scene himself in the tiny public room—until Simon had finally told him to bugger off if he didn’t have anything else to talk about.

Once Raymond left—in a huff—Lily sat her delightfully plumb bottom on his lap and kept him company through several pints. She’d wanted him to come upstairs, but he’d begged off and ridden home more than a little worse for wear.

Miss Honey Keyes had been on his mind for a good part of the night and again when he had woken at dawn, hard and wanting, and tossed one off.

After that he’d taken out Loki. He had hoped his vigorous ride would have work the restlessness from his system, but here he was, still as twitchy as a cat with two tails.

Simon stared at Miss Keyes’s shoulders as she rode up the narrow path ahead of him. She was stiff in the saddle, her body telling him she didn’t like riding, or at least she didn’t like riding in front of him. Or maybe she just didn’t like him.

The right side of his mouth kicked up at that thought. Well, she didn’t need to like him; she was nothing more than a distraction and it was just her bad luck