Page 38 of A Portrait of Love

She lowered her eyelids in what she hoped exhibited ennui or sang-froid or one of those emotions only the French seemed to have names for. “And what of you, my lord? You’re so eager to point the finger at me and my shortcomings, I recall you said you were going to retire to your house in the country and breed horses.” Honey paused, willing herself not to say what she was about to say. “And weren’t you betrothed? Bella something-or-other? Did you get lost on your way to the altar and end up on the Continent?”

A cloud moved across his eyes, much as one had just dimmed the sun, and a muscle ticked beneath the scarring of his damaged jaw. Honey felt like she was at Astley’s and had just tied a pork chop around her neck and then flung open the door to the lion’s cage.

She opened her mouth to take back her taunting words, but he was faster.

“What a good little listener you were, Miss Keyes, and what an excellent memory for details you have,” he purred, his gaze burning through her and into his past.

The seconds ticked away and Honey thought that perhaps she had been lucky and that was the end of the conversation. But then his eyes sharpened and fixed on her again and his mouth curved unpleasantly.

“And what of you, Honey?” His face pressed close to hers, as quickly as an asp. “Why are you not married with a few brats in the nursery? Or are you a martyr to your art—no room for anything but your passion for painting?”

His eyes were hard and his mouth unsmiling. Why was he so hateful? What had happened to that beautiful, kind, thoughtful young god she had worshipped?

Foolishly, she leaned closer, until their noses almost touched. “I have not given you permission to use my name, my lord.”

Honey must have wanted what happened next. Why else would she have gotten so close to a man who bore more than a little resemblance to a smoking volcano?

He slid a warm hand around her neck, his broad palm and long fingers wrapping around her throat in a way that made her feel fragile and small.

“I wonder what you taste like, Honey.” And then he lowered his mouth over hers.

A soft grunt broke from her chest and she sagged against him, her body as insubstantial as a cobweb in a breeze.

His lips were … well, there wasn’t a word for the heat and texture of his mouth. Who could have imagined such tantalizing softness could coexist with such brutal, hard words?

His other hand joined the first, two fingers on each hand sliding up beneath her jaw while his thumbs tilted her chin, positioning her for his pleasure as his lips pressed against hers and opened.

His tongue, warm and slick, flickered along her lower lip and darted inside, making her gasp with surprise.

“Shhhh,” he murmured, stroking into her again, deeper this time, and then again and again.

Her body was shaking with suppressed, confused emotions and her hands clenched at her sides, clutching at air.

“Put your hands on me, Honoria,” he whispered into her ear, before trailing hot kisses and licks down her throat, nuzzling beneath her chin to get to the hollow at the base of her neck.

Honey closed her eyes and reached for him.

Chapter Ten

The tiny, shrill voice of reason that Simon had last heard sometime early in the War shrieked at him to stop. The woman was obviously a virgin—perhaps even when it came to kisses, which she accepted with adorable awkwardness, but hadn’t yet returned.

Simon had not meant to touch her, but when she’d leaned toward him, bad thoughts—or good ideas, depending on which way one looked at it—had ricocheted around inside his head.

His recent amorous activities over at The George had opened a door that had been closed since that fateful day in June. Hell, for a good long while before Waterloo.

Kissing her was the least of what he’d been thinking about. He told himself that he was behaving quite well in comparison to what he really wanted to do to her.

But that other voice in his head—his conscience? —was not convinced by the argument and harangued him.

Somehow that chiding voice found the strength and volume to be heard: She’s an innocent, not a lusty bar wench intent on adding another notch to her belt by sleeping with the local lord’s feckless brother.

Simon was temporarily distracted by the observation, but he couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t want to, so he shrugged the voice away, easily dislodging his weaker, better angel from its perch.

Good God, she was sweeter than anything he’d tasted in a long, long time.

He plunged into her mouth while holding her steady, her willowy body pliable, soft, and hot in his hands, her tongue clumsy but enthusiastic to return his attentions. She was a tall woman but her bones felt as fine as those of a bird.

Her hands were awkward on his torso but her touches were eager enough to make him hot and hard with desire.