Page 123 of A Portrait of Love

A construction site was not the place for the discussion he and Honey were conducting.

He nodded at the other man. “I’ve looked at the plans and agree with your assessment. Go ahead and double the number of beams.”

“Aye, my lord.” Murphy disappeared back into the corridor.

“Lady MacLeish expressed a desire to speak to you,” his wife said in clipped accents, and then spun on her heel.

Simon bit back a curse. Bloody Bella. What the devil could she want from him? “Hold a moment, Honoria, I’ll come with you.”

She paused and gave a jerky nod.

“I’m not exactly fit for the drawing room,” he said as they walked toward the house. “Should I go change?” he asked, hoping her answer would be no.

“I told them you were busy working,” she said, tightly.

Simon took her arm and stopped her. “You are angry. No,” he said when she opened her mouth to demur. “I might be insensitive and oblivious a good deal of the time, but I can see that you are unhappy with me. Is it because—”

“Lady MacLeish brought her daughter along with her.”

Simon frowned, confused. “And that upsets you? Er, is the chit ill-behaved?”

“No.” Her pinched expression was singular and Simon could not decipher what it meant. “Honey, what is it?”

She pulled away, heading toward the front door, which Hume was holding open

Simon followed his wife, a heavy feeling in his chest.

***

As she strode toward the sitting room Honey knew she was behaving badly, but never in her life had she been so furious: first at Lady MacLeish’s gall, second at herself for being consumed by anger and jealousy, and third—and not least—at Simon.

Why hadn’t he told her that he’d paid a call on the woman? She’d looked like a fool showing her surprise.

Probably because he knew you’d react like you’re reacting.

She gritted her teeth against the annoying, yet accurate, thought.

“Honey.” Simon’s hand landed on her arm.

She whirled around and glared up at him. “What?”

“What the hell is the matter?” he demanded.

Honey snorted and reached for the door to the sitting room before he could open it and hissed, “This, my lord.”

She didn’t take her eyes off him as he looked over the denizens of the room. A dozen emotions flickered across his face when his gaze landed on Lady MacLeish’s daughter.

“Thank you for allowing us to interrupt you, Simon,” Bella MacLeish said, her mesmerizing green eyes on Honey, rather than Simon as she spoke.

But Simon’s attention was all for the girl standing beside her.

“You remember my mother, of course,” the countess said. “And this is my daughter, Enola.”

Lady Frampton’s face was a mask of mortification.

Enola looked uncertainly from her mother to Simon—who still hadn’t spoken or moved—her unusual hydrangea-colored eyes wide as she dropped a coltish curtsey. “My lord.”

As if waking from a dream, Simon strode across the room, stopped in front of the girl and took her chin in fingers, raising her face to his. While the exotic tilt of Enola’s eyes was just like her mother’s, her patrician profile, complete with strong, aquiline nose, was a duplicate of Simon’s.