A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,49
Her eyes went to the big leather sofa across from the fire and she saw the glitter of broken glass beside the end table and a throw rug in a pile on the floor.
Honey couldn’t have painted a more illuminating scene: he’d been drinking and had lost consciousness.
She snatched the proffered handkerchief from him. “Sit.”
She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed but went to the collection of decanters that sat on a long rectangular table against the wall. There was a metal bucket with half-melted ice and an empty bottle; she removed the bottle and took the bucket.
Simon was sitting on the couch beside the wreckage when she returned, seemingly unaware of the glass at his feet.
Honey set the bucket on the floor and sat down on the settee as far from him as possible yet still close enough to reach his hand.
She opened the reticule that dangled at her wrist and took out her own, smaller, square of cotton. It bore her initials, neatly embroidered in one corner, courtesy of Freddie, who did the most exquisite needlework Honey had ever seen.
She grimaced, it was a shame to use such a beautiful item, but it was all she had, and calling servants to witness the drunk, scarred man’s humiliation did not seem wise. Even though he deserved every bit of pain and humiliation he received. But his mother did not, and servants loved to talk—and Simon Fairchild had already provided them with plenty.
“Give me your hand.”
She didn’t look at his face, instead concentrating on the cut, which was across his palm, just above the fleshy heel. It was a good-sized slash but it was not terribly deep and the bleeding had already begun to slow. She dipped his cloth in the icy water and began to clean away the blood.
“How did this happen?” she asked without looking up.
She felt him give one of his characteristic shrugs. “I don’t know.”
She glanced up.
His beautiful, empty eyes were steady on hers, his voice unslurred. For all that he’d been swaying, he certainly sounded frighteningly sober.
Once she’d cleaned the cut, she took her own handkerchief and folded it diagonally, which made it barely big enough to tie around his palm. He had large hands with long fingers, the nails well-kept but the skin hatched with scars and the pads of his fingers rough.
She recalled that his hands had once been elegant and soft; now work-swollen knuckles disturbed their clean, long lines. He was not idle, for all that he seemed to spend a great deal of time drinking or drunk.
“There,” she said, releasing him once she’d snugged the knot. She looked up.
He was staring at his hand, which he raised and then gingerly flexed, grimacing slightly.
“Yes, I’m sure it smarts,” she said, although he’d not spoken.
He raised his hand to his face and examined her work, turning his fist to and fro. “You’ve ruined a very nice handkerchief on me.”
“Yes, I have.”
He looked up and then grinned, his boyish amusement making her heart lurch. “Not much of a bedside manner, Miss Keyes.”
Honey gave him a frosty scowl and then began to stand.
His hand—the one without the bandage, landed on her forearm. “Stay a moment.”
She hesitated, half-standing, half-sitting.
“Please.”
She heaved an exaggerated sigh to hide the leaping sensation taking place in her chest. “Fine. But only a moment.” She pulled her arm out from under his hand and sat, scooting as unobtrusively as possible in the opposite direction.
“You are leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“So soon?”
She couldn’t help it, she snorted. “Soon? I’ve been here for weeks—almost a month.”
“It doesn’t seem that long.”
Anger flared in her chest. “How would you know? You haven’t been here.”
That made him smile. “Oh, did you notice my absence? Did you miss me?”
“No,” she snapped.
He laughed softly, the sound dangerous. “Don’t lie to me, Honey.”
She shot to her feet. “Good night, my lord.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. “Please, don’t leave angry. I won’t misbehave. I promise, Miss Keyes.” He put his hands behind his back, as if to demonstrate his harmlessness.
She stared down into eyes that brought back memories that had been cherished and wrapped in gold tissue for fourteen years. This was the Simon she knew: gentle and sweet and honest. He was still in there, somewhere. Perhaps if she stayed with him, she might—
Leave. Leave now.
The voice was so sharp and loud she would have sworn it came from somewhere inside the library.
But apparently not, because Simon did not seem to hear it.
Instead, he waited—his stunning blue eyes curious as he