Page 46 of A Portrait of Love

Wyndham’s machinations were the reason that Simon had gone to war in the first place.

It was because of Wyndham that he was a broken, damaged wreck of a man.

Simon let fourteen years’ worth of fury ooze into his sneer. “You haven’t a clue what is in my mind, and I have no intention of ever sharing my private thoughts or plans with you.”

Wyndham’s eyes shuttered at Simon’s animosity, the little glimpse of himself that he’d so briefly displayed was gone without a trace.

A chill settled deep in Simon’s bones. Wyndham was not a man to cross, and yet Simon had done so again and again and again. And now—

The duke stood and pulled on his gloves, the snug brown leather tightening over his knuckles as he flexed them, as if for a fight. “I have paid your shot here through tonight but the innkeeper knows it is the last money he will see from me. I daresay you could remain here indefinitely and he will not dun you. You can soak up his food and drink, occupy his best room without pay,” he hesitated, “or fuck his employees, and he will allow it—even if it ruins him.”

Simon felt dizzy and breathless as he realized how inexorably his brother’s web had closed around him.

“You’re inhuman.” The words were barely a whisper.

Wyndham nodded. “I am. Don’t fight me, Simon, you cannot win. Come home by tomorrow. I will expect you at dinner, which will be a bit of a send-off for Miss Keyes. As you’ve not been home for some weeks you might not be aware that she has completed her work here and will be going home to commence the portraits.”

Oh, Simon had been aware. Very aware. Staying away from Miss Keyes—and thereby avoiding ruining her life—had been his chief reason for relocating to the St. George.

He’d removed himself from temptation the morning after that disastrous day in the maze—the day he’d discovered that he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her if he remained.

Wyndham cleared his throat. “I have also invited guests to stay at Whitcomb for the next fortnight and I will expect you to do your duty and help entertain them.” He plucked his hat from the table where he’d tossed it and turned on his heel, leaving without another word.

The door shut with all the finality of a judge’s gavel sentencing a doomed man to hang.

Chapter Thirteen

Honey dressed with extra care for her last dinner. She was flattered the duke had organized something of a party for her final meal, although she knew the house guests had come to stay a full two weeks, not only for this dinner.

“I will of course compensate you for the time it takes to accompany the portraits back to Whitcomb when they are completed,” he’d said when he called her to his study to tell her his plans.

Honey would take the duke’s portraits wherever he wanted, no matter how horrible his brother was.

You mean no matter how absent Simon is …

When Honey didn’t immediately respond the duke had looked up from a ledger on his desk, his eyes hidden behind glinting, gold-rimmed spectacles.

Honey smiled through gritted teeth. “Yes, of course, your grace.”

“I would like to organize a larger celebration around their unveiling, perhaps a ball. I would be honored if you would attend.”

Honey had never attended a ball in her life so the invitation sounded magical. And if part of her regretted the duke’s obnoxious brother would probably not attend, well, that was all for the best.

Besides, she’d become accustomed to his absence in her life over the last few weeks; accustomed to the fact Simon Fairchild didn’t care if she lived or died—if he even recalled her existence.

Which is a good thing, she reminded her frowning reflection, a very good thing.

Honey reached into the small jewel case she’d brought with her and took out the exquisite strand of pearls that her father had bought for her eighteenth birthday. She clasped them around her neck and it was as if someone had lighted a dozen candles in the room. The pearls managed to endow both her dress and her person with a lustrous sheen.

Her gown, the nicest thing she owned—purchased for one of her father’s exhibits just before he died—was out of date but suited her to perfection. It was an unusual antique gold that made her hair glow and her skin appeared burnished rather than freckled. She screwed in the small pearl studs that matched and then stood, smoothing the rich silk over her hips to examine her reflection.

She was still close to six feet tall—no gown or jewelry would ever diminish that—but she looked her best. She was girded—just on the off-chance Simon Fairchild made an appearance. If he did, she would show him that neither his absence, nor what they’d done in the maze, mattered even a ha’penny.

Of course the fact that he was the only thing on her mind right now told her that was patently untrue.

She picked up her gold beaded reticule and scowled at her face in the mirror. “Well, the habits of a lifetime are unlikely to be erased in a month,” she told herself.

The words should have eased her mind and made her feel stronger. Instead, they just made her feel sad. After all, what kind of person would be happy about the death of a dream?