A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,52

she whimpered when his hot, wet mouth closed over her nipple, the erotic shock sending a bolt of lightning to her sex.

What the devil do you think you are doing? the voice in her head demanded, louder this time.

Louder and oddly … male sounding.

Honey’s eyes flew open.

The Duke of Plimpton was standing behind the couch, hovering over them, his angry gray eyes burning into her.

Chapter Sixteen

Honey gawked up at the duke and screamed.

Simon pulled her protectively toward his chest while simultaneously twisting around to see what had made her yell. She felt his body jolt when he saw his brother.

“Goddammit, Wyndham, what the hell do you think you are doing?” he roared, holding Honey’s unresisting body against him while his hand fumbled between them to pull up the crushed, damp silk of her bodice.

“Gentleman, will you please excuse us.” The duke’s voice was as chilly as a hailstorm.

Honey could not see his face and did not want to. She burrowed into Simon’s shoulder like the coward she was.

The door closed with a snap and Simon spoke low into her ear. “I am going to release you, but only if I have done an adequate job of fixing your gown,” he hesitated. “Have I?”

Honey dragged a hand up over her bosom; she was covered. “Yes.”

He shifted her off his lap far more carefully than he’d put her there.

Honey stared up at him, her face scalding; he looked murderous.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his gentle tone showing the murder in his eyes was not for her.

Again, she nodded.

He flashed her a quick, hard smile and then turned to where his brother waited.

The duke was leaning against the front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on Honey rather than Simon. “I apologize for what my brother—”

“You never apologize for my actions!” Simon surged to his feet with balletic grace—no sign of his earlier intoxication evident in his motions. He was in front of the duke in half a heartbeat and his fist connected with the side of his brother’s face with a sharp crack even as the other man ducked.

Honey’s hands flew to her mouth. “Simon!” The word came out a strangled sob.

He lifted his hand to deliver a second blow.

Honey could see that the duke had recovered from the first, but instead of defending himself or attacking, he simply waited.

Simon’s fit froze in midair, inches from his brother’s face. “Fight me, you bastard.”

The duke didn’t so much as twitch.

Simon dropped his arm and made a sound thick with disgust. He spun around, fixing Honey with an incendiary glare. “You should go, Miss Keyes.”

The words were the verbal equivalent of a slap and Honey flinched. Before she could respond, the duke spoke.

“No, Miss Keyes. Please stay. This involves you as much as my brother.” He extracted a snowy white square from his impeccably cut coat and dabbed at the blood at the corner of his mouth.

Simon clenched his jaw and shook his head. “There is no this Wyndham.”

“Unfortunately, there is, Simon. Although you may have not noticed, Lord Renshaw, Albert Grayson, and four other gentlemen were with me a few moments ago. I foolishly thought to bring them back to my library,” he gestured to the shattered decanter, “and I stupidly thought I might enjoy a glass of my brandy with them.” Although he’d never raised his voice, he was more menacing than a cobra. “But what do I find? I find you. Dishonoring one of our guests.”

Honey swallowed and stood. “Your grace—”

He turned to look at her and the rest of her words died in her throat.

“You, Miss Keyes, are ruined.” His soft words hung in the air like a thick, unpleasant London fog.

“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “I am not a girl in her first Season. I do not need to protect my reputation to attract an offer of marriage.”

A look of pity flitted across his granite features and it made her blood run cold. “No, Miss Keyes, you need to do something even more delicate and difficult—you need to convince the aristocracy that you are the type of woman they can permit into their homes. The type of female they can trust their wild, young heirs with for private sittings. The type—”

“That is enough, Wyndham,” Simon said.

The duke merely looked at his younger brother.

Honey could not see Simon’s face, but she knew there was a battle going on between the men. Only the soft ticking of a clock disturbed the brittle