A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,9

child.”

So, the duchess had never had any more children after their only son died.

“The duke’s younger brother, the Marquess of Saybrook, is heir presumptive,” Freddie continued, unaware of the chaos the name caused in Honoria’s breast.

“Ah, yes,” Serena said in between bites of biscuit. “He was at Waterloo.” She paused and frowned. “Was there not something odd about his return?”

“Yes,” Freddie said, “he was not found until three days after the battle. I have not seen his name this past Season, so I daresay he is still mending.”

Honoria knew all of this. She’d followed the story of his return like a woman obsessed. She took a sip of tea; her hand was white from squeezing the cup’s handle and she forced herself to relax.

“I cannot imagine what he must have endured,” Freddie said, shaking her head.

“Do you think he lives with his brother?” Honey asked.

“That I do not know. Why do you ask? Oh, that’s right—” Freddie said before Honey could answer, “I recall now, your father painted his portrait.”

“What was he like?” Serena demanded, dipping a biscuit into her tea and then popping the soggy mess into her mouth, licking her fingers.

Honey bit back a smile at her friend’s free and easy ways. She could hardly imagine the scandal the voluptuous Frenchwoman must have caused during her brief sojourn among the ton.

“It’s been a long time since I last saw him, Serena.” Fourteen years, three weeks, and five days. Not that she was counting.

Serena gave one of her very gallic shrugs. “You must remember something about him?”

Honey sighed—why bother lying? “He was the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.”

Serena’s biscuit froze an inch from her open mouth and she frowned, her expression one of disbelief. “Surely he is not more handsome than Miles?”

Honey’s face heated, but she jerked a nod.

The Frenchwoman chuckled. “Hmmm, that must be a rare sight to see.”

Honey turned away from her knowing look and fussed with the handle of her teacup.

“I believe he stayed with his brother when he first returned,” Freddie said, mercifully changing the subject. “But he does have an estate of his own.”

“Yes, Everley.” Honoria’s voice was barely a whisper. She set down her cup and saucer with steady hands and then looked at her friends. Freddie’s beautiful, inscrutable face remained expressionless but Serena met her gaze with a bold, challenging stare.

“Well?” The irrepressible Frenchwoman broke the uncomfortable silence, her hazel eyes sparkling. “When will you leave?”

Chapter Three

Simon was flying.

Or the very next thing to it.

The sorrel stallion with its flaxen mane was not only beautiful, but he was also as enamored of speed as his master. Bacchus was his name but Simon would have done better to name him Mercury he was so fleet.

Simon gave Bacchus his head when they approached the end of the path that opened onto the long and somewhat hilly drive leading down to Whitcomb. Bacchus knew the road well and his powerful muscles exploded. The wind was so fierce Simon swore he could hear it whistling past the scarred remnants of his deaf ear.

His muscles bunched and stretched like that of his mount, the damaged skin of his face, throat, and torso burning. The pain was almost cathartic and it reminded him that he was alive, something he needed to tell himself at least a dozen times a day.

“I’m alive,” he whispered.

The wind ripped away his words but they pounded through his mind and body. He was alive.

Thundering hooves and blurring trees cocooned him.

Alive.

He crested the ridge—and almost collided with a post chaise that was ambling down the center of the road.

“Holy hell!” His voice was so loud it caused the big stallion between his thighs to startle.

Life shrank to a fraction of a second as Simon shifted his weight and flexed his legs, sending Bacchus charging toward the slight gap to the right of the carriage.

He was vaguely aware of the postilion using his entire body to wrench his team to the left. The carriage skittered sideways and the wheels rolled into the soft, damp soil beside the drive.

Simon thundered past without slowing, his heart pounding louder than the wind. He laughed, the sound mad to his own ears.

He was alive.

***

Honey looked out the window just in time to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

And then the chaise lurched to the side, throwing her, her book, and her cloak to the floor. Luckily, the cloak went before Honey did and softened her fall so she was more startled than hurt