A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,42
bed and bunched the pillows behind him before lounging back and clasping his hands behind his head. He stared across his naked body at his brother.
Wyndham sighed—the equivalent of another man yelling. “I have seen you naked, Simon, more than I care to recall. Believe me, you are not shocking me or making me uncomfortable.”
His cool, weary words caused a flush to surge up Simon’s chest and neck.
Yes, his brother had seen him naked. And helped him piss and shit when he’d been too sick to do either of those activities unaided. He’d done things for Simon that no human being should ever have to do for another—no matter their age, gender, or relationship.
Wyndham had come to Belgium to find him upon reading Simon’s name among a list of the missing.
And, because the Duke of Plimpton never failed at anything he set out to do, he’d found Simon in a filthy, cramped hospital in the chaotic aftermath of the battle. He’d been naked under a pile of other naked men for three days after the cannon exploded and knocked him unconscious. Scavengers had taken every stitch of his clothing and belongings, which he couldn’t imagine were in such good condition given his condition.
The only difference between Simon and the other naked men had been that he was still alive. Barely. Somebody—he never discovered who—had found him and brought him back to the hospital. None of his wounds had been life-threatening, which had been the only reason he’d survived for three whole days and nights.
However, by the time he received medical care, his injuries were badly infected.
Wyndham must have thrown enough money around to buy a small village because the next time Simon woke up, he was in a humble room, but one that was clean, quiet, and private.
Wyndham had hired a woman to help him care for Simon, but even wealth and power only went so far in the days after the Battle of Waterloo and the duke and Simon’s man, Peel, had done the lion’s share of the nursing.
His brother had cared for him for six weeks, until Simon’s infection was brought under control and he was well enough to travel.
So, that was yet another thing Wyndham held that over his head, along with Simon’s inheritance: saving his bloody life.
“What do you want, Wyndham?” he asked, not having to feign the exhaustion in his voice.
“How is your arm?” his brother countered, looking at the ugly, raw mark on his right shoulder.
“It’s fine.” He paused and studied his brother; the duke looked in the pink of health. “You are looking far better, yourself.”
“I feel much better,” Wyndham admitted.
“Tell me, did Raymond ever find the fool who shot me?” he demanded, not with much hope.
“Whoever it is has also poached hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds’ worth of game. Raymond only returned from Lindthorpe this morning, but whoever the man is, he’s elusive.” His brother sounded peeved, which mean he was actually infuriated.
Simon pitied the poacher when Wyndham finally got hold of him.
He'd been shot just as he and Raymond were leaving Lindthorpe after their brief sojourn. The trip would have been a relaxing one if not for the bloody poacher, who’d not only hit Simon, but nicked Raymond’s mare, who’d then thrown his cousin.
Poor Raymond had been injured worse than Simon; so bruised and battered from his fall that he looked as if he’d gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson himself.
Simon had been surprised by how much he’d enjoyed that time with his cousin. They had done some hunting, a bit of fishing, explored the big estate, and had stayed up each night reminiscing.
He’d been reminded, for the first time in years, how pleasant Raymond could be when he wasn’t trying to curry favor with Wyndham.
His cousin could not seem to understand that Wyndham would never give him the sack—no matter how ineptly he might sometimes manage his brother’s many properties.
While it was true that Raymond served as a sort of steward, he was family first and always. Wyndham was loyal to a fault when it came to supporting his relatives. Of course, he also expected their loyalty and obedience, in return.
“When are you coming home.” The duke crossed an impeccably booted foot over one knee and eyed him like a surgeon wondering how much rot he would need to cut away and whether the patient would survive the procedure.
“Home? You mean to Whitcomb?”
Irritation flickered across his brother’s impassive features. “Yes, Simon. When are you returning to Whitcomb?”