Page 22 of A Portrait of Love

“A lovely name. What was it that Simon called you last night?” he asked, taking the seat across from her.

“Honey is the name my father called me. That is likely where Lord Saybrook heard it,” she said.

“Ah, so it is a family name for your intimates.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “You’ll have to forgive Simon,” he said, and then began to methodically demolish the contents of his plate.

“What do you mean?” Honey asked.

Raymond took his time chewing before taking a sip of coffee. “Oh, just that he tends to be a bit, er, uncouth at times. I’m afraid his animosity toward the duke seems to be getting worse. Sometimes I fear that Simon might—” He paused and pulled a face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking so frankly.”

Honey didn’t think so, either. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to know what he’d left unsaid. Did he think Simon might do his brother harm? He’d certainly behaved hatefully enough toward him yesterday.

They ate in silence for a moment, her conscience telling her to leave the matter be, her curiosity spurring her to speak.

Curiosity won. “I actually heard the tail end of a, er, disagreement yesterday,” she said.

Raymond’s eyebrows shot up and he nodded; his cheeks stuffed full, giving him more than a passing resemblance to a chipmunk. He gulped down his food and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I’m afraid it is a daily occurrence,” he admitted. “As the duchess cannot have any more children the duke is understandably eager for Simon to marry and have a child. Simon, on the other hand, has no intention of marrying to please his brother.”

Honey was ashamed by the surge of joy she experienced at that information.

The door opened and a footman entered, his presence putting a halt to any more enlightening comments. Honey couldn’t help thinking that Raymond looked a bit relieved—as if he’d already said more than he should.

He finished his meal quickly—obviously eager to get about his errand. “I shall see you tonight at dinner,” he said.

Once she was alone, Honey allowed her thoughts to wander back to Simon Fairchild, a subject which had been uppermost in her mind first thing this morning.

His behavior—both times yesterday—had been appalling. He was nothing like the man she’d once known. He was like a keg of powder that was rolling too close to flames. She wondered if the duke, a man who appeared to be carved from ice, understood just how raw and on edge his brother was.

She also wondered what time the marquess came down to breakfast.

Put Simon Fairchild out of your mind and enjoy this unexpected afternoon of freedom, the cool voice of reason in her head ordered.

Honey sighed and spread marmalade on a slice of toast, took a sip of delicious, dark coffee, and then munched while gazing out at the lovely scene beyond the French doors, her mind still on the man who’d taken up far too much space in her head these past fourteen years.

Well, the habit of a lifetime was hardly likely to be broken in just one day, was it? But Simon had certainly done an excellent job of demolishing the shrine she’d worshipped at all these years. It would be up to Honey herself to complete its destruction.

***

After breakfast Honey changed into her serviceable navy habit, caught up her satchel, and headed in the direction of the stables.

There was nobody visible as she passed under the grand archway into the courtyard. Male voices and the sound of horse hooves came from a gap in the three buildings and she followed the sounds to a large, enclosed arena, coming up behind a half-dozen men who were either leaning or sitting on the fence that surrounded the arena.

They were watching as a man dressed in top boots, shirtsleeves, and buckskins guided a magnificent horse through its paces.

The man’s back was to her but she would have recognized Simon Fairchild’s broad shoulders and guinea gold hair—no matter that it was closely cropped—anywhere.

The horse he was training was stunning—an inky black stallion whose body was so powerful he would have resembled a draught horse if not for the proud, arched neck and finely boned head. Honey had never seen an animal with such muscular hindquarters and forequarters that moved so fluidly. She could see by the horse’s flared, quivering nostrils and the iron tension in its enormous frame that it was not yet fully broken.

Simon’s fine muslin shirt adhered to his muscular body as he worked both himself and the animal. Honoria had never watched the training of a horse before and found his patience with the stallion both impressive and at odds with his behavior toward humans.

She recalled his dreams from all those years ago: to live in the country and breed horses. What had happened to that dream? Why had he gone to war and then stayed in the military for all that time? As the heir to a dukedom it was unusual that he’d fought, at all.

Honoria felt movement beside her and had to look down a good six inches to find a wiry, grizzled man touching his cap and smiling up at her.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. I’m Wilkins, the duke’s stable master. I’ll wager yer looking for a horse and are wondering if ye came to the wrong place.” His voice rose as he got to the end of his sentence and it worked like the crack of a whip on the loitering men.

It also drew the attention of Simon, who brought the lathered horse to a graceful halt.

“That’s a good fellow,” he said, reaching out a gloved hand to stroke the glossy black neck. The horse stiffened at his touch but did not pull away. Simon scratched the stallion’s mane until the beast was pushing against him like a dog, asking for more. He chuckled and spoke softly into the horse’s twitching ears.