Page 26 of A Portrait of Love

Simon knew he should have felt insulted at her sudden dismissal of him, but he was amused. After all, how could a scarred, bitter stranger compete with the spectacular view from the hill known as The Wrekin?

He followed her gaze and looked out over the plain below; it felt like looking out from the top of the world, even though they were only half-way up the hill.

You couldn’t see Whitcomb or Everley from here, but there was Charles Frampton’s estate. Only Frampton and his wife lived there now. Bella was married and gone, with a family of her own. Bella, a woman he’d loved so much he’d wanted to die when he learned she had married another—at least what he could remember of that time—and all thanks to the bloody Wyndham. He remembered his brother’s interference in that part of his life well enough.

Simon turned his back on the view and his bitter memories.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder and not bothering to look back.

Chapter Seven

Honoria let out a sigh of relief as she watched Simon’s broad back and golden head disappear into the scrubby trees that surrounded the small clearing. The tension slowly drained from her shoulders and back.

Being in his vicinity was like standing too close to a raging inferno. Worse, actually. A fire wouldn’t mock you, argue with you and follow you.

And mesmerize you.

Why was she standing there right now? She should have asserted herself. Instead she had let herself be borne along like a leaf on a strong wind.

Honey shook her head and lowered herself shakily onto one of the big boulders that were tumbled about as if a giant angry child had flung down a handful of pebbles.

That was what Simon Fairchild was like—an angry child. But in a man’s body.

Honey pulled out her sketchpad with a trembling hand. What was wrong with her? Was this all it took to discompose her famous cool and calm? One scarred angry man? She should be thrilled he’d turned out to be such a hateful beast. At least she no longer cherished the golden memory of him, which was fading more with each moment she spent in his presence.

She opened the book, flipping past drawings of Serena, Oliver, Freddie, and Miles in their garden. The first blank page she could find she began to fill with sketches. Not sketches of the magnificent scenery, but sketches of him.

Over and over and over she drew him. Scarred on one side, scarred on both sides, unscarred, Simon young, fresh, and unscathed by life; Simon as a scaly beast with claws, a long tail, a spiny frill of bone encircling his head like a mythical beast. And on and on.

Gradually her hands stopped shaking.

For over a decade she had idolized and worshipped a dream. Not a man, but a dream—a golden, childish fantasy. Honey shook her head in disbelief. Was everyone this stupid? Or only her? Did every woman develop enduring infatuations, even in the face of no encouragement?

Was she this way because she’d been raised by her father, no female influence in her life other than the relative strangers who had only tolerated her to get close to Daniel Keyes?

Honey had a sudden, burning desire to talk to Freddie. They’d known one another for years yet neither of them had ever spoken about their pasts and their experiences with men.

Not until that moment did Honey realize how strange such an omission was. Freddie was her closest friend—oh, she loved Serena, Miles, Portia, and the others, but Freddie was special to her—yet she’d never told her about the chamber of her heart where Simon Fairchild still resided.

“What have you got there?” A deep voice demanded right beside her ear.

Honey shrieked and flung up the sketchpad.

A hand shot out and grabbed it before it hit the ground.

She jumped up and spun around. “Give that back,” she demanded, trembling with fury.

But he wasn’t paying her any attention. Instead, he was staring down at the drawings, flicking through the half dozen pages she’d filled with his image.

“That is my property. Give. It. Back.” Never in her life had she felt such rage.

A tiny voice tried to be heard through the fury that enveloped her like a whirlwind: Why are you so angry? Let him look, you’ve always shared your sketches with your subjects.

That was true, she had. But none of that mattered right now.

“Lord Saybrook.”

He glanced up, but only briefly. “These are amazing.” He flipped a page, shaking his head. “You are a bloody genius.”