A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,95

mentioned that it astonished me that Arabella met and wed the Earl MacLeish the way she did.” Her face puckered and she fiddled with the handle of her cup before she looked up. “It is an ugly thought I’ve had in my head for over a decade and will sound even uglier out loud. She married the earl only a few days before my grandson Edward’s death—it was a rushed affair in London, I believe. I think she did so because she’d decided that Simon would not inherit the title.”

The duchess’s pale, papery cheeks reddened and Honey suspected the other woman wished she could pull the words back.

Could what the duchess said really be true? It was beyond comprehension to her how any woman could trade Simon for a title or money or anything.

Her grace continued, “Edward had survived those first dangerous months of infancy and seemed to be a healthy baby—if not particularly strong. Simon had always been a sunny child, but he became even more light-hearted after Edward’s birth. He was so thrilled to have an heir between himself and the dukedom. And he was so eager to marry and settle into the life he’d always dreamed about.”

That was Simon that Honey had met all those years ago: lighthearted and sunny.

“Wyndham was—” the duchess looked at Honey through glassy eyes and then bit her lip, her gaze imploring. “Wyndham was almost afraid to be happy. You see, the two children between Rebecca and Edward had not survived an hour and my son took their deaths very hard. I know the duke must seem cold to you, but he shoulders many burdens and has weathered great pain and disappointment. He continues to do so in many ways.”

Honey could only assume she meant the duke’s strange, distant marriage.

The duchess’s smile was tremulous. “But he was deeply pleased to hear that you and Simon married. Deeply pleased.”

It took a great deal of self-restraint to smile back at the fragile old lady. She was a mother who loved her son—both of her sons—and had suffered a lifetime of not being able to help them. If Simon’s father had been anything like the current duke, then the dowager—sweet, gentle, and retiring—would have been trapped between three strong, willful men.

Her grace cleared her throat, setting her tea aside, her impeccably straight spine seeming to straighten even more. “I don’t know why I even raised such an ancient topic,” she said, turning brisk. “You and my son are married and we must have a celebration.”

Honoria opened her mouth to protest.

But the duchess was not finished. “Not now, of course. We will give Simon time to get through this dreadful headache.” She shook her head. “They last for days, I understand.”

“Oh, he has not had one at Whitcomb?

“Not since before Belgium—or so his valet told us. Peel has been with him since he was a young man—well before the War. He is a great comfort to Simon.”

So, her husband had been without a migraine until his brother closeted him in his office on their return. The connection seemed too direct to ignore; whatever the duke told Simon on his arrival sent him from relative contentment to bedridden.

The older woman’s face puckered with concern. “I do hope I haven’t said anything upsetting or—”

Honey smiled. “You have not upset me, ma’am. Indeed, I am grateful to know about any potential for, er, awkwardness.”

The duchess was visibly relieved.

Honey knew her mother-in-law had meant to warn—not hurt—her by disgorging the information that Simon’s former betrothed had returned to the area.

Although Honey didn’t want Simon to suffer pain—especially not the debilitating sort he was apparently enduring—neither did she like to think that his current condition was somehow linked to Bella MacLeish. She really wished she knew what his brother had said.

“Well, it is time for me to be getting home.” The dowager rose.

Honey escorted her to her waiting carriage, promising to consider a possible date for a dinner party. She watched the ducal coach, complete with four outriders, trundle down the drive, staring even after it had disappeared.

She returned to her sitting room; her mind oddly blank. She was still staring at nothing a short time later when a gentle knock made her look up.

Hume stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, my lady, but there is a gentleman here who has asked to see you.”

“Who is it, Hume?”

“A Mister Heyworth, he was scheduled to meet with the marquess about a steward position. He has come all the way