A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,64

tell she wasn’t sleeping even though he couldn’t see her eyes. She’d tilted back her head and exposed the long, elegant expanse of her throat. His groin stirred as he recalled the last time he’d seen her head thrown back like that.

Part of the reason that he’d agreed to his brother’s plan to marry Miss Keyes was the memory of that night in the study.

Simon liked his new wife in a variety of ways—her responsive body being only one of them. She was a fascinating blend of the girl she used to be and the woman she had become. She did not trust him, and he could not blame her. Simon did not—could not—trust himself. Not with so much of his mind a mystery to him.

Recently, however, memories of her had begun to pop up in his raddled mind like plants pushing through long-dormant soil.

Simon now recalled that she had worshipped him all those years ago. He had been flattered back then. What man did not like female attention—especially young men and especially such naked adoration?

But he had also been dismissive of her hero worship. After all, a great many young ladies had looked at him with similar admiration in their eyes. It was lucky for Honey that he’d been an honorable sprout and had handled her with kid gloves.

Honey’s father had taken additional steps to ensure Simon’s good behavior.

“My daughter has no experience with either boys her own age or handsome young men, my lord.” Daniel Keyes had been an imposing man, far more masculine than Simon had envisioned a painter would be.

“I understand, sir,” young Simon had said with the respect he’d shown his elders back in those days.

“Do you?” Danger had glinted in Keyes’s eyes.

“Should I stop taking her for ices and such things? I’ve made sure she has her governess or a footman or—”

“No, I do not wish you to stop. It would break her heart—which will happen soon enough when you leave. I just wanted to make sure you understood the power you have over her.”

Simon pulled his eyes from the vulnerable architecture of his wife’s neck and turned his gaze to the carriage window.

But his thoughts were not so easily pulled from the past.

Memories, it seemed, were like weeds. Once he’d begun unearthing them, he could not stop others from thrusting their way into the light of day.

One of the memories he would have preferred to stay buried was the day that he’d learned of his nephew’s death.

Simon had gone directly to Whitcomb after leaving Daniel Keyes’s studio, riding through the night, reckless and terrified and ill with fear—for his brother. He truly did not think Wyndham could weather such a loss. Not again.

He’d returned home to find the transformation had already taken place: his brother was nothing but an animated shell; hard, impervious, and unyielding.

The days before the funeral had been agonizing and Simon had yearned for even a glimpse of Bella, whom he’d not been alone with for almost two months. But he’d learned that Bella and her mother and sister had decided to extend their stay in London.

He’d swallowed his disappointment; there would be time for Bella after they had put his nephew beside his siblings in the family crypt.

The ceremony had taken place in the small chapel at Whitcomb and the only attendants were Wyndham, Simon, and their mother. Not even Cecily had attended.

The duke had called Simon to his study directly afterward, poured them both drinks, and bade him to sit.

“I have news for you.”

Simon could still recall that moment—the last time he’d been truly happy. Oh, it wasn’t as if he’d been happy that day, of course. He’d mourned his nephew’s passing and his family’s pain. But always with the knowledge that Bella waited for him; at the end of it all, she would be there.

“Arabella Frampton has married.”

For one moment, he foolishly marveled that there could be two women in England with the exact same name.

Surely, he must have misheard?

But no, his brother had demolished that hope. “She married a Scottish earl, some acquaintance of her father’s—MacLeish.”

The glass Simon had been holding, a ruby crystal shot through with clear chevrons—glasses that had allegedly served Henry VIII when he’d stayed at Whitcomb—shattered. Cool liquid had seeped through the black satin funeral clothing he still wore.

Wyndham’s gaze had flickered over the shards of glass and rapidly disappearing brandy but he had not moved.

“When?” Simon demanded.

“Yesterday, in Scotland. I believe they made a brief stop at her parents’ house after