Page 106 of A Portrait of Love

“Lady MacLeish is recently widowed,” the dowager added, plunging the knife a little deeper and twisting it.

Honey could not stop herself from asking the question, “How recently?”

“Six months.”

Six months?

Honey’s mind reeled; had there been some understanding between her and Simon? Had they been waiting for her mourning to be over to marry? Had the debacle in the library and Simon and Honey’s subsequent marriage wrecked their plans and—

Stop it, a cool voice in her head commanded. You are letting your imagination run wild. Why would news of Bella MacLeish drive your husband into a stupor? It’s not as if she was widowed three weeks ago, Simon would have known about her status. Whatever the duke told him—if anything—it wasn’t about this woman.

Honey sighed. Those were all excellent points.

She finished preparing the dowager’s tea and handed it to her.

“Thank you, my dear.” She took a sip and continued. “We were all surprised when she suddenly married MacLeish.” She flushed slightly and said, “I know it is unchristian of me, but I never did like Arabella Frampton, even when she was just a girl.” She clucked her tongue. “She was simply too beautiful for people to behave with any sense around her.”

Honey still recalled that sick churning in her belly on that long ago day outside Gunters, when Simon had introduced her to Bella, his face transformed by love.

Not for the first time did she burn with curiosity to know why the two had never married.

The duchess continued, looking blissfully unaware of the heartburn she’d unleashed in Honey, “She was the apple of her parents’ eye and it was plain they had great plans for her. I don’t hold that against her, of course.”

She paused, her vague stare sharpening when Honey gestured to a tray arrayed with a selection of cakes and biscuits.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, my dear.” But her eyes gleamed speculatively as they landed on a light and puffy pastry horn that oozed lemon curd and cream. Her small, plump hand pointed. “Well, perhaps just one.”

Honey smiled and scissored the delicacy onto a lace-edged plate using two forks, handing the dowager an ancient linen napkin along with it.

The older woman studied the linen. “These were mine.”

“They are lovely,” Honey said. The edges were trimmed in lace, tiny, perfect vines wending their way around the entire square.

“I made them for my wedding trunk.” The dowager looked up with a mischievous smile that made her appear younger. “Back in my day that was something a good girl did no matter whether she married a butcher or a duke”

Honey chuckled. “I’m afraid my needlework efforts would not be fit to grace anyone’s tea tray.”

The duchess lowered the napkin. “You bring something so much more wonderful to your marriage.”

Honey’s brow wrinkled.

“Your paintings, my dear,” the duchess said. “Wyndham says there will be a delay with them given your wedding. But Rebecca and I are simply longing to see them. She would have accompanied me today to see you—was in fact bouncing up and down to do so—but her governess had scheduled fittings for her and my son does not believe in discommoding others on a whim.”

Honey barely restrained a snort at the thought of the duke even recognizing anyone else was a genuine leaving, breathing, feeling human being. Honey briefly wondered if he expected to have her labor without pay—as they were now family. She realized her mother-in-law was waiting for a response of some kind.

“Please tell her she may ride over any time and be welcome. I started Rebecca’s portrait in London, before the wedding. It was delivered before we arrived at Everley and I’ve been working on it these past few days.”

The older woman nodded and sipped her tea, but Honey could see her mind was elsewhere; she wasn’t surprised when the duchess returned to the subject of Bella.

“I mentioned that it astonished me that Arabella met and wed the Earl MacLeish the way she did.” Her face puckered and she fiddled with the handle of her cup before she looked up. “It is an ugly thought I’ve had in my head for over a decade and will sound even uglier out loud. She married the earl only a few days before my grandson Edward’s death—it was a rushed affair in London, I believe. I think she did so because she’d decided that Simon would not inherit the title.”

The duchess’s pale, papery cheeks reddened and Honey suspected the other woman wished she could pull the words back.

Could what the duchess said really be true? It was beyond comprehension to her how any woman could trade Simon for a title or money or anything.

Her grace continued, “Edward had survived those first dangerous months of infancy and seemed to be a healthy baby—if not particularly strong. Simon had always been a sunny child, but he became even more light-hearted after Edward’s birth. He was so thrilled to have an heir between himself and the dukedom. And he was so eager to marry and settle into the life he’d always dreamed about.”

That was Simon that Honey had met all those years ago: lighthearted and sunny.