A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,77

she was eager to explore.

“Anything in particular you wish to see?” he asked, leading her past bowing, liveried servants and out of the hotel lobby.

“May we ramble for a bit?”

And so they were rambling.

The populace in Brighton appeared more genteel than that in London and Simon was amused by the way passing pedestrians studiously avoided staring at his injuries. His wife, however, felt otherwise.

She gave a huff of annoyance as two passing women almost ran into a streetlamp while pretending not to gawk. “Is it always this wretched? People staring and pretending not to stare?”

He drew her closer to his left side as they passed a trio of gaping, giggling girls. “You cannot blame them.”

“Yes, actually, I can.” She flicked an affronted glance up at him and Simon realized, not for the first time, that she honestly did not seem to be offended by the wreckage of his face.

“Doesn’t it bother you to be stared at?” she demanded.

“No.” It was true, it didn’t. Although it did become rather exhausting. “But I must say I’m not accustomed to so many people.”

Her hand tightened on his forearm. “I’m sorry—why did you not say crowds bothered you?”

Nothing bored Simon faster than speaking about things like scars and injuries and anything else to do with his past.

He stopped and pointed to a straw hat in the bow window of a shop. “Do you like that?”

She blinked and for a moment he thought she might not let loose of the topic, like a terrier with a bone. But she was too curious.

She stared at the ridiculous female confection. “It is pretty,” she rather grudgingly conceded.

“I want to see it on your head.” He pulled her toward the shop entrance.

“But I don’t need a hat.”

“We are not speaking of need. We are speaking of want. Like.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear as he opened the door, “Desire.” And then gave her a gentle push into the shop.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Honey had never been in a dress shop with a man before. Well, except her father when she’d been younger.

Truthfully, she hadn’t been in many dress shops, period. She usually sent her measurements to a woman who’d been making her dresses since she was a girl. She liked pretty clothes, but when you were almost six feet tall it felt foolish to stand in the middle of a shop and pretend that anything could possibly make you look feminine.

The shopkeeper, one of the smallest women she had ever seen, gazed up at them with sparkling green eyes, her own clothing so outrageous it was difficult to look away: a bright pink silk gown with yellow ribbons for trim, and tiny kid boots of apple green; she resembled a spring garden.

She folded her hands together and smiled, as if Honey were the answer to all her prayers. “Oh, I know why you’ve come in! The hat—the red hat.”

Simon chuckled. “I can see we’ve come to the right place.”

The next few hours were a whirlwind of delight. It turned out that her new husband was a more patient shopper than any of her friends except Freddie. Freddie adored shopping and could spend hours debating the merits of a single gown.

After the hat had been tried on and admired—even Honey had to admit the tiny straw brim with the crimson ribbon around the crown and towering, fluffy feather suited her better than any she’d ever worn—the clever shopkeeper somehow eased pattern books and fabric swatches into Simon’s hands and parked him in a comfortable wingchair.

“I can see you are a man of fashionable discernment,” Mrs. Fenton said, her eyes glinting as she studied Simon’s expensive but loose, not particularly well-fitting clothing. “Please peruse the latest plates from Paris while I show her ladyship a few of my premade garments.”

She whisked Honey into a back room while her assistant arrived with tea and biscuits.

The dressing room turned out to be almost as large as the shop front and just as luxurious. Yet two more assistants entered from behind a heavy silvery gray velvet curtain, bearing gowns. Honoria had to smile; she’d not even seen the diminutive woman communicate with another person except her and Simon.

“This,” Mrs. Fenton said, taking a gown of the most delicious crème lace over dull gold silk, “Is made for one such as you.”

It was one of the most beautiful garments she’d ever seen. But it was also far too short.

Before Honey could open her mouth, Mrs. Fenton laid the gown across her lap and flipped