A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,87

earthy enthusiasm that was nothing like what Freddie had warned her about.

“I want to do everything with you, Honey,” he’d whispered one night, after he’d finished loving her a second time.

“There are other things?” she’d gasped, her body soaked with sweat from the vigor of their actions.

That had made him laugh. “So many other things. But we will take it slowly. Perhaps one new thing a week. What do you say to that?”

She could only laugh foolishly.

“I shall take that for a yes,” he’d murmured, his mouth already moving toward her sex even though they had hardly finished their last bout. “I love to give you orgasms; it is an excellent pastime for a country gentleman.”

That was another thing she adored about him: their love-making was not only passionate, it was filled with silliness, smiles, and so much laughter.

He had taught her more new words in the past three weeks than she’d learned in years. And the words were all forbidden and fascinating and private: words they used only with each other.

Simon rode every morning, renting a hack from the hotel stable. He’d wanted Honey to join him, and she’d gone once or twice, but she knew she held him back, even though he denied it.

She could spend time in the saddle when they moved to Everley. It would be easier to become more comfortable without the confusion of the city to distract her.

During the days they roamed the city. Twice Simon paid a man for the use of his sailboat and took Honey out on beautiful, sunny days.

After their first visit to the local assembly room, they did not return.

“I shall go if you like it, Honey. But not to please anyone else,” he’d told her.

It was when he said words like that Honey knew she was in danger of falling back into love with her husband. He was not the man of his youth, he was something far more interesting, subtle, and complex than the fairy tale prince she’d loved as a girl.

Honey believed that the aloofness she often sensed in him was yet another scar from the war. His reserve was a constant in the background, waiting to drop like a barrier between them, but she learned to avoid the two topics that brought down the iron curtain: the war and his brother.

She was not offended; everyone had subjects they held close to their breast. Perhaps one day he might open to her, but if he did not? Well, the close, sensual friendship they shared, which strengthened with each day, was more than she’d ever hoped for.

During the day he was an entertaining, curious, and thoughtful companion.

And at night …

Her cheeks burned when she thought of what they did in the bed they shared all night, every night.

Simon not only made love with her, he slept with her, holding and stroking and cuddling her, as if he could not get enough of being near her.

He was earthy, open, and joyous. He saw no shame in the pleasure they gave and took—no matter how shocking society would have found the things they did—and would have been happy to remain naked with her all day and night.

Honey knew that he’d not been a monk. She’d heard the rumors at Whitcomb, seen the way the female servants eyed him. He was scarred and battered, but his wounds—some of them quite severe—seemed to add to his allure.

Women liked to nurse and heal the sick and wounded. Not that Simon presented himself as either. Certainly not when they were in bed. But there was something deep inside him that was broken, and she had to warn herself against the compulsion to fix him. He had not asked for fixing and it was nobody’s place—not even a wife’s—to impose such help.

The Duke of Plimpton sent messages at least twice a week.

And, at least twice a week, Simon tossed them into the fire.

“I don’t wish to think about my brother,” he told her when she protested that perhaps something bad had happened. “And I particularly do not wish to know if there has been some disaster that I most likely could do nothing to fix. No doubt he’s missing me, with only poor, downtrodden Raymond there to do his bidding.” His eyes had hardened then, and she had quickly backed away from the encroaching bleakness, too much of a coward to press the matter.

And so the days had passed in a happy, sensual blur.

Until it was their last day, which they decided to spend