A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,4
altogether so she served herself the smallest possible portion of everything from the sideboard.
“Just a bit of a headache, Papa.”
“Hmm.” He laid aside the newspaper he had been reading and gave her a piercing look, his eyes so similar to hers it was like looking in a mirror. “I know you’ve grown to like young Fairchild, my dear, but—although you do not act it—you are a girl of fifteen and he is a man of almost one-and-twenty. He is a good and kind gentleman so I’ve given you more latitude than a wise father probably would have.” He frowned. “I often regret not sending you to school and giving you an opportunity to mix with young girls your age. Perhaps—”
“Please, don’t Papa.” She laid down her fork and knife and met his worried gaze. “Don’t. I would be miserable if you sent me away. I would miss you and you know that painting is everything—”
“No, my dear, not everything. Don’t forget about life. About love. About experiencing joy—which is what you have been doing recently. Without experience in love, loss, pain, joy, and life one cannot make great art.”
Honey didn’t tell her father that after yesterday she now had far more familiarity with pain than she would have wished for.
***
Honey jerked her gaze from The Most Perfect Man in Britain and glanced at the clock: it was almost two-thirty. Soon it would all be over. Soon her father would lay down his brush for the last time and say—
“Well, my lord, it appears I have captured enough of you to satisfy even my exacting mistress.” Daniel Keyes laid down his brush.
Simon, who’d been telling them about his plans for the remainder of the summer, smiled at Honoria. “You mean your daughter, sir?”
Daniel laughed. “I meant my muse, Lord Simon, but you might have something there.” He looked over at Honey and raised his eyebrows. “Well, are you going to put poor Lord Simon out of his misery and show him his portrait?”
Before Honey could answer there was a sharp knock and the door opened to reveal their ancient butler, his face red with exertion.
“Good Lord,” her father paused in the act of wiping his hands on a turpsy rag to frown at his servant. “Have you been running, Dowdle?”
The old man was too busy gasping for breath to answer. Instead, he held up a rectangle of cream-colored paper.
“For me?” Daniel Keyes took a step toward him.
Dowdle shook his head. “A post chaise is waiting outside.” He handed Simon the letter. “For Lord Saybrook,”
Honey was surprised at their butler’s slip with Simon’s title; Dowdle was usually such a stickler for propriety.
Simon tore open the letter and Honey watched as every bit of color drained from his face. He swallowed hard enough to be heard all the way across the room and then looked up.
“You’ll have to excuse me, sir. It’s … well, It seems my … my nephew developed a chill and a cough and—” He waved his hand in a churning motion, as if he were stirring the very air around him in the hope it would stimulate the correct words.
His face was stiff and his eyes wide with horror. “My nephew, the young Marquess of Saybrook, has died. I must leave immediately for Whitcomb.”
Chapter Two
Village of Whitcomb
Fourteen Years Later
Simon, Marquess of Saybrook, had been to the St. George Inn several times in the weeks since he’d finally been able to leave his bed. It had been his cousin, Raymond, who’d first persuaded Simon to go out for a pint—or six.
“It’ll make you feel more yourself to visit some of your old haunts,” Raymond had cajoled when Simon had initially demurred.
It had taken only one night out with Raymond to convince Simon that his cousin was correct.
After that first evening, he’d gone to the cozy pub again and again, both with and without his cousin. It seemed the better he felt physically, the more he needed to drink.
He’d soon discovered that he liked the St. George far better than the chambers he kept at his brother’s sprawling monstrosity, Whitcomb.
He and Raymond had taken rooms that first night—when neither of them had been in any condition to make the half-hour ride back home—and Simon had stayed at the inn several more times since.
Tonight was one of those nights.
A hot, rough hand slid over his chest and a silky-smooth leg wrapped around one of his thighs, pulling him from his thoughts. “That was lovely, my lord.”