A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,26

on a strong wind.

Honey shook her head and lowered herself shakily onto one of the big boulders that were tumbled about as if a giant angry child had flung down a handful of pebbles.

That was what Simon Fairchild was like—an angry child. But in a man’s body.

Honey pulled out her sketchpad with a trembling hand. What was wrong with her? Was this all it took to discompose her famous cool and calm? One scarred angry man? She should be thrilled he’d turned out to be such a hateful beast. At least she no longer cherished the golden memory of him, which was fading more with each moment she spent in his presence.

She opened the book, flipping past drawings of Serena, Oliver, Freddie, and Miles in their garden. The first blank page she could find she began to fill with sketches. Not sketches of the magnificent scenery, but sketches of him.

Over and over and over she drew him. Scarred on one side, scarred on both sides, unscarred, Simon young, fresh, and unscathed by life; Simon as a scaly beast with claws, a long tail, a spiny frill of bone encircling his head like a mythical beast. And on and on.

Gradually her hands stopped shaking.

For over a decade she had idolized and worshipped a dream. Not a man, but a dream—a golden, childish fantasy. Honey shook her head in disbelief. Was everyone this stupid? Or only her? Did every woman develop enduring infatuations, even in the face of no encouragement?

Was she this way because she’d been raised by her father, no female influence in her life other than the relative strangers who had only tolerated her to get close to Daniel Keyes?

Honey had a sudden, burning desire to talk to Freddie. They’d known one another for years yet neither of them had ever spoken about their pasts and their experiences with men.

Not until that moment did Honey realize how strange such an omission was. Freddie was her closest friend—oh, she loved Serena, Miles, Portia, and the others, but Freddie was special to her—yet she’d never told her about the chamber of her heart where Simon Fairchild still resided.

“What have you got there?” A deep voice demanded right beside her ear.

Honey shrieked and flung up the sketchpad.

A hand shot out and grabbed it before it hit the ground.

She jumped up and spun around. “Give that back,” she demanded, trembling with fury.

But he wasn’t paying her any attention. Instead, he was staring down at the drawings, flicking through the half dozen pages she’d filled with his image.

“That is my property. Give. It. Back.” Never in her life had she felt such rage.

A tiny voice tried to be heard through the fury that enveloped her like a whirlwind: Why are you so angry? Let him look, you’ve always shared your sketches with your subjects.

That was true, she had. But none of that mattered right now.

“Lord Saybrook.”

He glanced up, but only briefly. “These are amazing.” He flipped a page, shaking his head. “You are a bloody genius.”

She flinched at his vulgar language and reached out, not caring what became of her sketches any longer, just not wanting him to take yet another piece of her without her permission. The ripping of paper filled the air, silencing the nearby birds.

“Bloody hell,” he yelled, suddenly giving her all the attention she wanted and more. “What the devil are you doing?” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve let go. Stop it—you’re destroying it.”

She was too furious to care and savagely crushed the sketchbook, her awkward, rough actions causing pieces of ripped paper to detach from the binding and swirl away on the breeze.

Simon grasped at two pieces that flickered quickly beyond his reach.

“Stop,” he repeated, his voice almost anguished. “You’re ruining them.”

Honoria marched back to her bag, not caring if he followed. But if he dared to touch her or her possessions she would—she would … kick him.

She yanked open her satchel and rammed the crumpled sketchbook inside, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t fasten the buckles.

A big hand landed gently on her shoulder and inexorably turned her around.

“Look at me,” he ordered. He took her chin between his calloused fingers and tilted her face until she couldn’t avoid his piercing blue gaze.

She jerked her head from his distracting grasp, blinking through tears, which only made her angrier. Why did he make her so emotional?

“Why are you so angry?” he asked.

“Because it is mine and you have no right to take my possessions,” she