A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,25

Sometimes he felt like he was digging for buried treasure, although that was gifting what he usually discovered with too much value. For the most part, the memories he found were fragmented and pale, and often not worth the effort.

He didn’t know why his memories hid themselves—and for the most part he didn’t care—but he would have liked to remember that particular summer—the summer of 1803—in better detail.

He had been a golden child, his life spread out before him like a sumptuous buffet prepared solely for him.

Simon scowled. What did it matter what he remembered? The past was long dead and gone.

The road forked and the trail became steeper.

Honoria Keyes twisted slightly in her saddle to look at him. “My lord, where are we going?”

“I told you, it is a surprise.”

“Is it much further? I have an appointment with her grace at three o’clock and I do not wish to miss it.”

That made Simon laugh.

“You may think that is amusing, my lord, but it just so happens to be the reason I am here.” She twisted a little more when he didn’t answer.

“Turn around and watch the trail, Miss Keyes,” he advised.

She made a huffing noise but did as he bade.

“I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing because you don’t have to worry about missing an appointment with my sister-in-law. Cecily is there, in her quarters, all day, every day—like a spider in her web. I doubt she remembers either what day or time your appointment is; if you show up at midnight it wouldn’t matter to her. It is likely she will not receive you if it does not suit her. The duke is the one who wishes for this portrait, not Cecily.”

“That may be so, my lord, but it matters to me.”

“I’ll have you back well before three o’clock.”

She had nothing to say to that.

They rode in silence for five more minutes, until the narrow path opened into a small grassy glade.

“Pull up right here, Miss Keyes.”

Simon swung down off Bacchus and approached Saturn and his rider. Miss Keyes was staring in open-mouthed shock at the vista before her.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, her tone one of awe.

“I told you it was the best spot.”

She looked down at him, her eyes still wide with wonder.

Simon reached up and took her by the waist. She was slender, but he felt curves in the right places. He lowered her to the ground without touching any other part of her and she looked away, her face flushed and the vein in her temple pulsing. Was that from excitement or disgust? He knew he wasn’t pretty to look at anymore and could no longer assume women would appreciate his attention or touch.

He watched her walk away, the breeze causing the feather in her hat to dance. He turned to unstrap her satchel from the saddle and bring it to her.

“Thank you,” she said absently taking the bag without looking at him, her attention on the view before them.

Simon knew he should have felt insulted at her sudden dismissal of him, but he was amused. After all, how could a scarred, bitter stranger compete with the spectacular view from the hill known as The Wrekin?

He followed her gaze and looked out over the plain below; it felt like looking out from the top of the world, even though they were only half-way up the hill.

You couldn’t see Whitcomb or Everley from here, but there was Charles Frampton’s estate. Only Frampton and his wife lived there now. Bella was married and gone, with a family of her own. Bella, a woman he’d loved so much he’d wanted to die when he learned she had married another—at least what he could remember of that time—and all thanks to the bloody Wyndham. He remembered his brother’s interference in that part of his life well enough.

Simon turned his back on the view and his bitter memories.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder and not bothering to look back.

Chapter Seven

Honoria let out a sigh of relief as she watched Simon’s broad back and golden head disappear into the scrubby trees that surrounded the small clearing. The tension slowly drained from her shoulders and back.

Being in his vicinity was like standing too close to a raging inferno. Worse, actually. A fire wouldn’t mock you, argue with you and follow you.

And mesmerize you.

Why was she standing there right now? She should have asserted herself. Instead she had let herself be borne along like a leaf