A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,6

released her hair and hand and grabbed her hips, lifting her off the bed. She squealed and wiggled and the skin up and down his left side burned like fire as he held her aloft. He wanted her again; he’d redeem himself and do better by her this time.

“Now it’s your turn to get lucky,” he said, as she spread her legs and reached between them to take his length in her hand. Simon lowered her body slowly onto his stand and thrust into her at the same time, the savage, deep penetration causing both of them to gasp with pleasure.

“Oh, my lord.”

He groaned at the need in her voice and closed his eyes and began to move, pleased to discover that alcohol wasn’t the only way of escaping his thoughts.

***

Meanwhile, in London . . .

“Hello? Are you there, Honey?”

Honey startled at the sound of her name and turned.

Her friend and housemate Serena Lombard stood in the open doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. “Is anything amiss, my dear?”

Honey realized she was standing in the middle of the room staring at the letter. She held up the ivory paper with the black wax seal.

“What is it?”

“A letter from the Duke of Plimpton.”

Serena’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm, Plimpton—didn’t your father once paint him? Wait, that was his brother, the Marquess of Saybrook, wasn’t it?”

Honey’s pulse pounded in her ears at the sound of his name: the first time she’d heard it spoken aloud in years.

Serena’s forehead creased with concern. “You are feeling ill, aren’t you? You are as pale as a ghost. What is it?”

Honey turned away and folded the letter with jerky, clumsy hands.

“Honey?” Serena’s fingers landed on her shoulder.

“I’m fine. Just a bit light-headed. I-I’m afraid I missed breakfast this morning,” she lied. It took three swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat and she forced her face into some semblance of self-possession before turning to her friend.

“Shall I ring for tea?” Serena asked in her slightly accented voice.

“Tea sounds perfect. And perhaps some of Una’s butter biscuits. After all, one does not receive a piece of mail from a duke every day. I shall meet you in the parlor in ten minutes and tell you all about it,” Honey promised, giving her friend what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I’ll round up everyone and send for tea.”

The door shut behind her and Honoria’s brain spun like the colorful wooden whirligig Serena’s young son had made for their back garden. The Duke of Plimpton—after all these years? She had not thought about the duke for a long time. But his brother Simon was a different matter. He still managed to escape from the Newgate-like prison she’d constructed in her mind just for him. It didn’t matter how thick she made the walls or how small the gap between the bars, Simon’s shade always found a way to escape and come find her.

Honey’s feet took her in the direction of her private storage cupboard, which she kept locked at all times. She stood on her tiptoes and felt for the key on top of the smallish wardrobe. It had been some time since she’d unlocked the door.

There wasn’t much inside, in fact the cupboard wasn’t anywhere close to full. Four canvases leaned against each other, protected by old sheets.

The first was a painting of her mother.

Although Honey had no memory of the woman on the canvas it was her father’s work and his love for the subject was evident in every stroke. It was his finest work, in her opinion. She knew it was wrong to keep it hidden in the dark but it was her only reminder of both her parents and that somehow made it intensely private.

The second portrait made her smile. It was the first painting she’d ever done. She could not have been older than five. It was, of course, a portrait of the person she loved most in the world: her father. It bore a striking resemblance to Daniel Keyes and it brought to mind his reaction the day she’d painted it. Joy and love and pride had shone brightly from his handsome face, so strongly that even now the memory warmed her like a comforting blanket.

The third was a portrait of her. Her father had done many of her over the years—over a dozen, several of which still hung on the walls of their house. But this one? Well, this was special. He’d painted it not long after finishing Lord Simon’s