Page 153 of A Portrait of Love

Simon muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Thank God for small favors.”

Honey smiled. “I wouldn’t have believed you were such a staunch defender of the aristocracy until I heard you brangling with Lorelei.”

“Ha! Your friend doesn’t want to just eliminate the peerage, she’d like to eliminate all peers. At least all male ones.”

“Poor Simon,” she teased. “Did Lorelei pin your ears back?” Honey knew her friend had talked Simon into a corner because she’d heard at least two of the arguments the pair had engaged in over the week they’d spend in Kent.

“More like tried to cut my bollocks off,” he groused in an under voice.

“Simon!”

“Well, it’s true. Having a conversation with her was akin to shoving a weasel down my breeches.”

Honey couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not going to ask how you would know such a thing.”

She’d have to pass that description of Lorelei’s debating skills along to her friend in her next letter; Lorie would love it.

“So, what does your friend Annis have to say?” Simon asked, clearly eager to leave the subject of Lorie and weasels behind.

“She is getting married and you’ll never believe to whom.”

“Lord, Honey—how would I know such a thing?”

“You’ll know because his name has been noised about in every paper for the last two months.”

Simon’s eyebrows shot up. “Good God—she’s marrying Whosy-Whatsit? Er, the one they’ve taken to calling the mysterious Earl of Rotherhithe?”

“Apparently so.” Honey was stunned. “My retiring, shy friend has somehow managed to land the catch of the decade.”

Simon sputtered. “But, darling—you told me that I was the catch of the decade.”

Honey looked up from the shocking letter and met the love of her life’s twinkling hydrangea gaze. “No, Simon—you’re the catch of a lifetime.”

His pupils flared and his cheeks—tanned by all the time he spent out of doors—flushed darkly. “Did I tell you today how much I love you?” he asked, his voice husky.

Honey adored the fact that it took only a few words or a well-placed look to have her intensely masculine husband eating out of the palm of her hand.

“Actually, I think you overlooked that this morning.”

That was a lie; Simon told her—and showed her—his love every single day.

But that didn’t mean Honey wouldn’t appreciate hearing it yet again.

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I love you, Lady Saybrook.”

“I love you, too, my lord.”

“A good way to show your love would be to paint my portrait—after you’ve delivered our son, of course.”

Honey laughed; there were already two of portraits of her husband hanging in their house: the one she’d painted all those years ago and the one she’d finished only a few months ago.

Honey had given him the older portrait as a wedding gift. Her masculine, rugged husband had been so touched when he’d seen the painting that she’d thought there might have been a tear or two welling in his glorious eyes.

“I think my next portrait should be of me astride Loki,” he mused, a smile pulling at his lips.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, my dear, I’d love to paint you, yet again, but I’m afraid I’m engaged for the coming year.”

“Ah, yes. Alvanley’s spaniel, is it?”