Page 138 of A Portrait of Love

“Shh,” he said. “I’ve been an idiot.” He pulled her down, claiming her mouth in a deep, dizzying kiss.

Far too quickly she pulled away, breathing heavily. “Did you mean it?”

Simon considered teasing her and asking her what she meant, but the look in her eyes—vulnerable and uncertain—told him now would be a bad time. “I love you, Honoria Elizabeth Fairchild. You are mine and there is no escaping,” he added.

Her eyes glazed and a tear slid down one cheek.

Simon groaned. “Oh, no—”

“Hush!” she chided, smiling through her tears. “I love you, too.”

“You don’t have to say that because—”

“You dunce—I’ve loved you for almost fourteen years.”

Simon blinked. “You—”

She nodded violently, the tears flowing faster than ever. “Yes. I loved you then—how could I not?”

“I could understand then,” he admitted without shame, “But now, when I look like this and am—” his lips twisted, “well, I’m not only battered and damaged externally, but less than a bargain when it comes to my broken brain and savage personality.”

She laughed and it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “I love you even more now.”

He raised an eyebrow, hoping to hide the riot of emotions currently threatening to make him sob like a two-year-old. “Hmm, sounds like maybe all isn’t normal in your brain box, either.”

She just laughed and cried harder, wrapping her arms around his body and squeezing him until he couldn’t breathe. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, darling—more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.”

Simon squeezed his eyes shut, but not quickly enough to stop a tear or two from leaking out.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Honey opened her eyes and stretched.

“Good morning, slug-a-bed.”

She yelped and pushed herself up.

Simon was sitting in front of her fireplace, looking relaxed in one of her armchairs, a book in his lap.

“You didn’t go for a morning ride?” she asked, glancing at the clock; it was not quite seven.

He closed his book, smiling. “I wanted to wait for you.”

Was it possible to die from too much happiness?

He cocked his head when she merely gazed at him. “You don’t have to go, darling. If you’d rather sleep, I’ll just—”

“No, I want to,” she said, shoving back the blankets, trying not to break into song as she recalled last night. And now this morning.

“Ah, that’s good,” he said, sounding pleased. “I took the liberty of ordering up a pot of chocolate. If you’d not woken soon, I was going to waft it beneath your nose until you—” he broke off at a light knock on the door.

Nora entered, bearing a tray. “Good morning, my lady.” She blushed, making Honey recall her state of dishabille

“I’ll serve her ladyship,” Simon said. He frowned and picked something off the tray. “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s a letter that Mr. Hume sent up, sir. He said it was on the salver this morning.”