Page 23 of A Portrait of Love

Honey could not pull her eyes away from the sight of the two big, magnificent animals. “The horse is beautiful but appears rather wild,” she said to Wilkins, who was still beside her.

“Aye, Master Simon be breakin’ him slow-like. Horses love ‘im. He’s gentle and sparin’ with the whip and gets quick results.”

The marquess summoned one of the stable lads who vaulted over the fence and cautiously approached the stallion. Simon spoke a few words to the boy, who led the horse toward the stables.

Once horse and boy were gone, he looked over at Honey, the expression on his ravaged face unreadable. “Good afternoon, Miss Keyes,” he said, striding toward her with his odd, slightly uneven gait, “Have you come to inspect the stables?”

She frowned at his taunting tone, as if she’d stepped over some line by coming there. “Inspection is not one of my duties, my lord. Your brother gave me permission to borrow a horse whenever I pleased.”

He smiled at her acerbic response, the smooth, undamaged side of his face pulling up while the other half only twitched.

Even scarred and limping he oozed a potent masculinity that made her feel restless and it was a struggle to remain cool beneath his hard, blue gaze. “That is a lovely horse, my lord. I do not recognize the breed.”

He began to pull off his battered black gloves, finger by finger, never taking his eyes from her. “Loki is a cross between a Friesian and Andalusian.”

“The trickster,” she said stupidly, struggling for something else to say—some way to hold his attention, just as she had all those years ago.

His smile grew, as if he could read her as easily as one of his horses. “Saddle up Bacchus and Saturn for us, Wilkins,” he said without looking at the stable master.

Wilkins dipped his head. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and turned away, leaving her alone with Simon.

Honey did not dare glance directly at the open neck of his shirt even though every particle of her being urged her to take another—more leisurely—look at the V of hard chest and the sweat-sheened cords of his tanned neck and the—

Take hold of yourself! The voice was like a lash and startled her from her mesmerized state. She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes, which glinted with uncomfortable emotions.

“Are you going for a ride, my lord?” She hated how wobbly her voice sounded, but she hated the pregnant silence more.

“I am.” He smacked his palm with his gloves, the ropey, powerful muscles of his exposed forearms flexing. “With you.”

Honey blinked and shook her head before she could stop herself.

“Why not?” he asked, sounding amused rather than annoyed at her immediate rejection. He tucked his gloves into the waist of his buckskins, rolled down his sleeves, and then plucked his waistcoat off a nearby post and shrugged into it, not bothering to button it.

“I shan’t be going to ride,” she lied, lifting her satchel as proof. “I’m going to sketch.”

He deftly swung his tall body over the arena fence, landing with a soft thump in front of her, so close she could smell horse, leather, and his sweaty, sun-warmed skin. She took a step back.

He took a step toward her. “I’ll come along to help you carry your things.”

She lifted her satchel again, like a talisman to ward him off. “But this is all I have; I don’t need any help.”

“I’ll help you find the best spot.” He took another step.

Honey frowned and took another step back—the last one she was taking, she told herself. She tilted her chin and stared up at him. What a novelty; there were not many men taller than her five feet eleven inches. Simon’s eyes were a good three inches above hers.

“The best spot for what?” she asked in a breathy, annoying voice.

“For whatever you want.” He took a step, and—curse her!—so did she. Her shoulder hit something hard and unyielding, the doorframe—reminding her of how he had stalked her this same way yesterday.

Impotent anger flamed in her breast as he closed the small bit of space between them and she did nothing to stop him.

His eyelids lowered and his smile disappeared. “Nowhere left to run, Honey.” His breath was hot on her temple.

She shook her head and the navy-blue feather in her hat brushed at his forehead.

“I wasn’t running,” she said, her voice cracking. She tried not to let her eyes wander from his burning blue gaze, tried not to stare at the ruin that was his face, but her eyes kept sliding to the left.

He laughed softly and turned his scared, pitted side toward her. “Difficult to look away, isn’t it?”