A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,85
sensed the same thing in her few conversations with the duchess.
Simon resumed his soothing petting. “Everley is far, far less grand than Whitcomb, of course. It has been the abode of younger sons for generations. The only reason it stood vacant in my father’s time is because he was an only child. Well, the only one who survived to adulthood—he actually had five brothers and sisters.”
Honey shivered at the thought of so much death.
“You are right to shiver. Childbirth is a cruel process. My grandmother died in the childbed, as did my grandfather’s second wife. He did not take a third.”
Honey wanted to ask if that was part of his refusal to have children, but she didn’t want to raise such a topic when he seemed so willing to confide.
“Like Whitcomb, the house is Tudor. But unlike Whitcomb it was not added to endlessly. You might find it small and dark or you might find it snug and cozy—people either love it or hate it.”
“I have always enjoyed Tudor architecture.”
“I hope you continue to feel that way.” There was a warmth in his voice that made her wish she could see his face. “The house is in excellent condition but the stables are barely adequate and that will be my first project.”
She turned onto her side, to face him, even though she could not see him. “Do you have plans drawn up?”
“I have had plans for at least fifteen years. I will take Wilkins with me.”
“Your brother’s stable master?”
“Not for much longer. We’ve been plotting and planning this for ages. He grew up in one of the cottages on the estate and was as horse-mad as I was.” The enthusiasm in his voice warmed her.
“Will you breed horses like Loki?”
Once the floodgates opened, she no longer needed to pry each answer from him. He spoke about the studs and mares he either possessed or would soon purchase. He explained the stable improvements and the general structure of a breeding operation.
The more he talked, the more he sounded like himself—like the Simon of old. Honey’s heart felt lighter. Perhaps—just perhaps—some distance from the duke’s manipulations and machinations would do both Simon and their marriage some good.
“Listen to me! Boring on about horses when I have a lovely, naked woman beside me.”
“I like listening to you, and you weren’t boring on.”
He kissed her squarely on the mouth, proving his boast about excellent vision. “What a perfect wife you are turning out to be. Listening to my yammering and then flattering me.” Before she could protest, he went on. “There is a room at Everley that would be perfect for painting. In fact, I can’t help but think it was used for such a purpose in the past—some long dead ancestor who dabbled.” His hand slid from her throat to one of her breasts. “Is there something in particular one looks for in a studio?”
“Good lighting, a fair amount of space, a—” his finger settled on an already taut nipple and gave it a gentle tweak. “Urgh.”
“What was that last thing, Honoria? I’m afraid I missed it.”
“I said—”
He pinched her again and she sucked in a noisy breath and clamped her teeth shut, determined not to whimper this time.
“Am I distracting you?” His voice was rough, and his hand moved to her other nipple, stroking, pulling, and pinching her, the combination of pleasure and pain sending whorls of delight through her body, until the sensations all pooled low in her belly.
Suddenly he was straddling her, working her nipples with two hands instead of one. He pinched one nipple especially hard and she gasped.
“Does that hurt?” he asked, sounding amused rather than concerned.
It did hurt, but it also felt strangely delicious. She shook her head back and forth, vigorously, unable to speak.
He pinched the other, and she groaned. “Am I being too rough?”
Again she shook her head.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you?”
“No! Not … too … rough.” The words came out in between rough tweaks.
He cupped her breasts, his big hands dwarfing them. “Mmm,” he groaned, lowering his hot wet mouth over one tormented peak and sucked.
“Mmmm.” He alternated breasts, the ache between her thighs intensifying with each kiss and caress.
“Or perhaps you like rough?” he whispered, giving her a sharp nip.
“Simon!” Honey bucked, her sex clenching around nothing, making her feel empty and needy.
Simon chuckled evilly, his mouth—one again gentle—kissing, laving, sucking, and then a nip.