A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,66
himself to slip into the past and had worked himself into a state; he was not fit company for anyone—especially not his virginal wife.
“Nothing is wrong,” he lied, his voice gruff with anger—at himself. “I’m merely sore from jouncing in this bloody carriage.”
There was a heavy silence and then, “Do your injuries pain you?”
“No.” Yet another lie.
“Are you angry with me for declining your brother’s coach?”
He turned on her, cruelly pleased when she flinched away from him.
“You had better understand one thing about me, my dear, I don’t care enough to be angry with you.”
She flushed deeply at his ugly words but sat up straight, no longer cringing away from him. Good, Simon wanted her anger, her hate. At least it made him feel something.
“You behave like an immature child. Only a short while ago you said you wished to make something of this marriage. Now you are speaking to me as if I am lower than dirt. Make up your mind—if you still have one.”
Simon laughed, delighted by her fire. “You give as good as you get, don’t you, Honey?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not, it’s your name?”
“It is a name for people who love me, and whom I love.”
Her words were like nails dragging across his raw scars and he couldn’t believe how much pain they left in their wake.
“Am I permitted to call you Honoria.” It wasn’t a serious question.
She scowled across at him. “If you have to speak to me at all, I’d rather you address me as my lady.”
Simon laughed. It seemed he’d chosen a wife worthy of him. At least when it came to hating.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun had already set when they reached Grunstead.
Simon knew it was unusual to stop on the journey to Brighton but traveling in such confinement for too long was unbearable to him. Besides, there was no rush; they would be staying in a hotel in Brighton, they could just as well stay in one on the way there.
As the chaise rumbled toward the posting inn, something occurred to Simon.
“You don’t have a maid.”
He could barely see her face in the gloom of the carriage, but he could hear her snort. “You are only noticing that now?”
Simon ignored her question. “How will you see to yourself—change your clothing and whatnot?”
“The same way I have been doing all my life. You have no personal servant, either.”
That was true, and Simon would bloody well miss the man, he knew that, already. “My valet has a constitutional dislike of riding across country like a maniac and I needed to be in London quickly—as you well know. Peel will join us in Brighton. You will need to engage a maid in Brighton.”
“I will need to do no such thing.”
He clamped his teeth down on an annoyed retort.
Already his brother would be angry to learn that they were not using the ducal coach, they had no outriders, and they weren’t staying in the family house in Brighton.
The last thing they needed was more reasons for Wyndham to interfere in their business—or their marriage.
He should tell her that the duke would have conniptions if he learned Simon’s wife was traveling without a body servant.
Yes, that’s what he should do
But he was feeling miserable. And misery, it was said, loved some company.
“Time for lesson number two, my lady, this is a marriage of convenience. That means you’ll behave in a way I find convenient. So, you’ll engage a maid. Not only will you require such a person to see to your upkeep, but you will need her if you are to observe propriety.”
An ugly laugh came out of the darkness. “Since when have you been concerned with propriety?”
Simon wasn’t, he just felt like bossing her about for some unpleasant reason. He thought about telling her that, just to see her reaction. But he was too tired right now to enjoy a proper row. Perhaps later.
Quit being an arse, Simon. It’s not her fault—none of it.
He stifled an irritated snarl at the voice, which was, once again, correct.
He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. “I should not have spoken to you in such a manner,” he said, and then waited. When she said nothing, he continued. “My brother, as you have seen, is a stickler for propriety. It would be better if he didn’t learn you were traveling without a servant.”
“Better for whom?”
He gave a weary laugh. “Us.”
Before she could argue further, insult him, or accept his apology, the chaise rumbled to a halt.