A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,38

could feel the rapid palpitations of her heart beneath his palm and it reminded him of a hummingbird. A trapped, powerless hummingbird.

Christ.

She was breathing so hard and fast Simon thought she might lose consciousness.

He drew in every ounce of will he possessed and was just about to pull back, to release her, when her hands tightened on his torso, her fingernails grazing his nipple.

He almost screamed at the jolt of pleasure that ripped through him. The leash he’d kept on his desire snapped and he claimed her mouth again, harder and deeper this time, both his thumbs teasing and circling her small, thrusting nipples.

“Open my breeches,” he murmured in a voice that was thick and hoarse, licking and sucking the hot, damp skin of her throat hard enough to mark her.

She stiffened as if somebody had inserted a rod up her spine and snatched her hands from his body.

Simon closed his eyes and exhaled noisily. Part of him—the hard part—wanted to howl in sexual frustration. But the rest of him congratulated himself on avoiding the despicable, and ultimately unwise, action of deflowering a virgin.

Simon brushed her delicate jaw with the back of his fingers. “It was the right decision, Miss Keyes. I have nothing to give you that is worth having,” he whispered, leaning in to deposit a light peck on the cheek.

He stood and began tucking his shirt into his buckskins. Her eyes dropped to his distended breeches and the thick, hard ridge that was the only thing he had to give her.

Her lips were swollen and slick from what was—he wagered—if not her first kiss, then certainly not far behind. Her sharp, jerky motions as she put herself back together told him that she was not just embarrassed, she was angry—at both Simon and herself.

Later, when she was alone with her thoughts, he knew that she would start hating him for exposing her to such mortification.

Simon felt a pang that she would hate him, but that was just as well; he had nothing to give her and everything to take.

He held out a hand. “Come,” he said, more brusquely than he felt, “I will assist you out of the maze.”

Simon wasn’t surprised when she ignored his hand and stood without his assistance, her eyes like daggers made of gray ice.

“I can find my own way.” She snatched up her satchel, her delicate nostrils flaring with suppressed fury, pink slashes of color high on her cheeks.

Lord, she was lovely when she was angry.

Simon doubted that she’d appreciate that observation just now so he dropped his hand. “As you wish, Miss Keyes. If you aren’t out in an hour, I shall send help.”

His words didn’t elicit so much as a twitch of a smile.

“The only help I want from you, my lord, is to stay away from me for the duration of my time at Whitcomb.” She turned, took several steps, stopped, and spun around. “In fact, don’t come near me ever again.” And with several long strides, she disappeared into the maze.

Simon couldn’t argue with her; the best thing she could do with a man like him was turn her back and walk away.

Chapter Eleven

After the debacle in the maze, Simon headed directly to Wyndham’s chambers.

His brother was just dismissing his valet when Simon entered his room.

Simon frowned as he took in Wyndham’s haggard appearance. “Wasn’t the doctor just here? Why aren’t you in bed? You look like hell.”

“Yes, he was. Because I am feeling better. And thank you for your kind words,” Wyndham said, a gleam of humor in his slate-gray eyes.

Simon huffed out a breath as he followed his brother into the adjacent study. “I’m not speaking in jest, Wynd. What the devil is wrong with you?’

Wyndham sat at the small secretary desk and took a sheet of paper out of the drawer. “The doctor said I have a chronic stomach ailment,” he said, taking a quill from the standish and beginning to write.

“What does that mean? Will it just go away? Or is there something you can eat or drink to make it better?” Simon shoved his hands through his hair, annoyed by his brother’s calm, aloof attitude. “Is this serious, Wynd?” he finally asked, his face heating at the fear and tinge of hysteria he heard in his own voice.

Wyndham glanced up at him and gave him a slight, weary smile. “Doctor Morton assures me that it will go away on its own, given time,” he said, turning back to his letter. “It is not