Page 139 of A Portrait of Love

“Thank you,” he said, absently, relieving her of the tray.

Honey hopped out of bed and quickly wrapped her robe around herself while Simon turned the letter in his hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know—there’s no direction on it and no sender name.” He slid his finger beneath the fold and pulled it open.

Honey poured herself a cup of chocolate, watching her husband’s face as he read.

His expression went from confused to shocked to even more shocked to enraged. And then, surprisingly, to pained.

“Simon?”

He tore his gaze from the page and handed it to her, without speaking.

“What is it?” she asked, afraid to look at what he’d given her.

Simon only shook his head.

She turned to the letter. Letter wasn’t really the right word, there was only one sentence:

“Bella MacLeish’s child is also the duke’s.”

Honey had to read the sentence multiple times, and still her mind couldn’t seem to absorb the meaning. When she finally looked up, Simon was staring at her with an expression she’d not seen since her first week at Whitcomb: deadness.

“I can’t believe this is true,” she said. “Who would send something like this? And why? It’s just—”

“I’m going to talk to Wyndham.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Simon!”

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, shoulders so rigid they looked like they would shatter if she touched him.

But she had to touch him.

She laid a hand on his back and he shuddered. “Wait a bit, Simon. If you go now—”

He turned on her. “You think I will forgive him an hour from now?” he demanded.

She flinched back from his rage, but he just took a step toward her, gripping both her upper arms, hurting her. “I want you to know this is not about Bella,” he spat the word.

“I know that, Simon.” Honey had no siblings, but she had an imagination and what she was imagining right now was pain and betrayal.

“How could he do this to me?” Simon asked. “Not just then—but all these years making me believe—” he broke off, his gaze dropping to his hands. He immediately released her. “Oh hell, Honey! I hurt you—”

“Shhh.” She wrapped her arms around his body and laid her head over his heart; it was pounding almost out of his chest.

He stood as still and rigid as a statue. For a moment she thought he would push her away, but then his arms slid around her, crushing her.

“God, Honey,” he whispered into her hair. “I used to love and admire Wyndham so bloody much. This is just—”

“I know.” She felt the tautness—the need for action—and released him. “I know,” she said again. “Just—well, just be careful, Simon. Don’t let your anger guide your tongue.”

He hesitated a moment and she thought her words might overcome his need for haste. But then his eyes shuttered and he nodded. He kissed her on the forehead and was gone.

***

Honey’s brush hovered over the painting of Simon.