A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,34
paper. One of her pieces of paper.
She picked it up and turned it over, and then over again, as if it might tell her something. In its way, it did: somebody was playing tricks on her.
She crumpled it up and added it to the others in the pocket of her skirt. When she got to the next turn there was a piece of paper in the middle of the left path. She snorted and went in that direction.
At each intersection there was a piece of paper. She followed the trail until it opened out into a surprisingly big clearing with a giant fountain in the middle.
And Simon Fairchild lounging on a bench, squinting against the sun, a blade of grass between his smiling lips.
“You.” It was all she could manage but it was probably more dignified than hurling her bag at his head.
His smile grew into a boyish grin and he held out his arms, as if to present her with a prize. “Me.”
Honoria stood frozen in place. It was the first time he had looked anything close to human since her arrival.
The fatuous thought infuriated her. So what if he was smiling?
She reminded herself of what she must look like—damp hair loose, messy, and spiraling, her face red and sweaty. All thanks to him.
Simon patted the bench beside him. “Come and have a well-deserved rest.”
“Ha!” As if sitting that close to him would do anything other than maker her redder—sweatier.
Honey ignored him and walked—no, flounced—to the bench on the opposite side of the magnificent fountain. She dropped her bag on the ground and gazed up at the water-spouting centerpiece in wonder.
“Perseus and Andromeda.”
She glared across the distance at him. “Is that right, Lord Saybrook? And here I thought it might be some other man on a winged horse rescuing a woman chained to a rock.”
He laughed as he came to stand beside the huge fountain, leaning a hip against the marble trough where Andromeda was lashed to a chunk of marble.
“How do you like our maze?” he asked, tossing the blade of grass he’d been chewing onto the perfectly manicured lawn.
Honey spread her cloak on the stone bench and sat, taking her time before answering. She made her mouth into a prim, disapproving line and then looked up. “I would have enjoyed it a lot more if somebody hadn’t stolen my markers.”
“But that’s cheating—leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.”
“Cheating?” She had to raise a hand to shield her eyes from the sun before cutting him a look of scorn. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there were rules about navigating a maze.” Her voice faltered as he came toward her, stopping directly in front of her, his broad back and shoulders blocking the glare from blazing into her eyes, the placket of his worn leather breeches mere inches from her face.
“There,” he said, looking down at her from his six plus feet. “Better?”
She dropped her hand. “How long have you been waiting here?”
The undamaged side of his mouth curled into a smile. “Not long before you—I followed you here.”
“Don’t you have better things to occupy your time than stalk me?”
“No.”
It was not what she had been expecting him to say and her body exhibited a mixed bag of reactions: joy, terror, curiosity, anxiety, yearning. She picked curiosity. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Well. One could not really argue with that, could one?
They stared at one another in silence for what felt like a very long time. The maze held them in its quiet embrace, nothing but the gentle hum of insects and the very distant chirp of a bird or two.
“You painted a picture of me,” he said.
Truly, the man was an expert at throwing her off balance. Not that she’d been feeling particularly balanced since finding him waiting for her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“While your father painted his portrait of me, you painted yours. I’ve only just recalled that.”
“What of it?” She threw the words out with as much carelessness as she could muster. As if she hadn’t been hoarding the image of him like other people hoarded gold or jewels.
“I’d like to see it.”
Honoria was glad she was seated. “Well, you can’t.”
His brows snapped into a line. “Why not?”
“Because I no longer have it.”
That surprised the odious, conceited wretch.
“What did you do with it?”
She shrugged. “Painted over it, I daresay. Not that I can recall.”
“You painted over it?” His voice was higher than normal and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from smiling.