A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,70
door.
As it was, he took four wrong turns before finding himself in front of his door. And then he fumbled with his key and dropped it twice, knocking his head hard on the rough wood when he bent to pick it up.
“Christ,” he muttered, massaging his throbbing forehead as he rammed the key into the lock. The door yanked inward and he staggered along with it.
“My lord?” A sleepy-eyed housemaid peered up at him.
“Oh.” Simon had forgotten about her.
She dropped a hasty curtsy.
“Everything all right and tight here?” he asked, annoyed by the slur in his voice.
“Yes, my lord. I told her ladyship I was to stay in case she needed me, but she never did, sir.”
Simon fished a coin out of his coat and handed it to her, only realizing when her eyes all but bulged out of her head that it was gold. Oh well, somebody should be happy on his wedding night.
“Is that all you need, my lord?”
Simon looked into soft brown eyes that bravely held his gaze and avoided the mess on the left side of his face. She was a girl—not more than fifteen or sixteen, but he could see that she knew what she was offering. His groin showed signs of stirring and he scowled, horrified by his own body’s urges. “Get out,” he said hoarsely.
She fled.
He made his way unsteadily to a chair and dropped into it. Too hard, it appeared, since it gave way beneath him with a deafening crash.
His tailbone would have screamed if it had a mouth.
Simon did have a mouth and the connecting door flew open in response to his yell.
His wife stood in the open doorway, her eyes wide and terrified. “What happened?”
He closed his eyes and groaned, in too much pain to speak.
“Simon?”
He opened his eyes to find her leaning over him.
“I don’t like that cap. Take it off.” It wasn’t what he’d thought would come out of his mouth.
She pursed her lips, but, surprisingly, held out a hand. “Take my hand.”
She was stronger than she looked, but it still wasn’t enough to deadlift thirteen stone. He shook off her hand and rolled onto his hands and knees, pushing himself slowly and unsteadily to his feet.
Bloody hell! It felt as if he’d snapped his tailbone off.
Her shoulder slipped beneath his arm.
“What happened?” she asked as they hobbled toward his bed.
“The chair broke.”
“I see that. How?”
“I sat in it.”
She made an unfeminine snort and shoved him onto the bed before turning to go.
“Wait, my—Honoria,” he corrected when he recalled she’d given dispensation to use that name.
She turned around. “What?”
He waved toward his feet, all four of them. “I need some help.”
“Ring for the boots,” she snapped.
“They’ll be sleeping—it’s one o’clock in the morning.”
She crossed her arms and stayed where she was. “I know.”
Simon couldn’t argue; he was too damn tired. He fell back on the bed with a thump. He would sleep with his boots on, he’d done it dozens of times before.
Something—or someone—tugged on his leg. “Sit up, Simon. I cannot lift you; you’ll need to help.”
Simon opened his eyes and tried to push his torso off the bed. He couldn’t.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Slender but strong hands grabbed his arms and yanked him into a sitting position.
He smiled. “You’re strong.”
She grunted and grabbed one of his top boots, staring down at it, as if wondering what to do.
“Pull,” he offered.
She fixed him with an irritated look. “You don’t say?”
Simon laughed.
“I’m glad you are enjoying yourself, my lord. I would rather be sleeping.” Without waiting for a response, she yanked on his boot.
Simon wasn’t expecting it and slid right off the floor, landing again on his enflamed tailbone.
He yelled a few words one didn’t say in front of ladies.
The only lady within hearing dropped down beside him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you in pain? I didn’t mean to hurt you. Here,” she slid an arm under his neck, which was bent at an uncomfortable angle, and leaned closer. “Let me help—”
He pressed his mouth against hers, reveling in her softness for a long moment. When she didn’t pull away, he drew back. She was frozen, like a deer surprised in the woods, her big gray eyes dark.
“You taste sweet, like berries and cream.”
She squinted, as if he were mumbling and she couldn’t understand him.
“Or like peaches.” He shook his head, hoping that would stop his mouth. “Or—”
Whatever he’d been about to say was muffled by her soft mouth crushing his lips.