Page 115 of A Portrait of Love

“If I behave stiffly and fuel the already existing mystery around her it will only make our past a bigger subject for gossip. If I treat her like anyone else, the dust will quickly settle.”

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

He chuckled at her dubious frown. “Tell Wyndham what I said, Mother. Let’s put all this behind us.”

“Perhaps you might tell him?”

“I will say something when I see him again,” he promised, not bothering to mention that he had no plans to see his brother any time soon.

What he did need to do soon was go see Bella and make sure that days like yesterday didn’t happen again.

Chapter Thirty-Four

At dinner that night it was just the two of them.

Honey had spent the day with her housekeeper, Mrs. Lowell, taking pains to avoid her husband.

Avoiding Simon wasn’t difficult as he’d saddled up Loki and disappeared almost immediately after speaking to his mother.

By the time she went upstairs to bathe and dress for dinner and he still hadn’t returned, Honey’s nerves were stretched taut. Would he come to dine? Or would he drink himself into a stupor again, letting a half hour of port stretch to four hours?

But, no, there he was—freshly groomed and looking sinful in his blacks—when she entered the dining room at eight o’clock. His blue eyes widened as he took in her gown—the golden lace confection he’d bought for her in Brighton.

He came toward her, his expression … adoring.

Honey’s pulse thudded deafeningly at the way he consumed her with his eyes.

“You look divine, Honoria.” He took both her hands and held them out, his hot gaze roaming lazily over her body, sending the predictable spirals of lust to her belly and causing a distracting aching between her thighs.

It infuriated her how was he able to disarm her with so little effort.

You love it.

Yes, she did. But that didn’t mean it didn’t infuriate her, too.

Once Hume and the footman left to fetch the first course Simon took her hand.

Honey swallowed as she stared down at his long fingers; they were work-roughened but still elegant, and easily twice as thick as hers.

He reached for her chin with his other hand and tilted her face up, until she couldn’t avoid his consuming stare. “Are you still angry with me? You have every right to be,” he said before she could answer, his smile wry.

Honey hesitated. She considered just accepting his apology and moving on.

That is a bad habit, Honey. Begin as you would go on.

“What happened last night?”

He released her chin but not her hand. “Heyworth asked several sticky questions about the improvements during dinner and I got caught up in those.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m a bit, er, well, obsessed with the project and I simply lost track of time.”

Honey nodded slowly; she swore he was not telling her the truth. At least not all of it.

She certainly believed the part about being obsessed, but she wasn’t convinced it was the stables that had kept him occupied last night.

He squeezed her hand. “I will guard against it happening again—whether we have guests, or not.” He hesitated, and then said, “I would be obliged if you came to me if it were ever to occur again. I dislike blaming my injuries, but the truth is that I’m not always aware of the passage of time. And I do tend to forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”

That, at least, sounded honest. “I can do that,” she said.

Before he could reply the door opened and the first course arrived.