Page 117 of A Portrait of Love

“One from each of my friends—those who couldn’t attend our wedding sending their felicitations—and also two possible commissions.”

Simon paused, his oyster halfway to his mouth. “Commissions?” As soon as he spoke, he felt like a fool. Of course, she would continue painting—no matter where she lived.

“Yes, Freddie forwarded them.”

He swallowed his food before asking, “Who from?”

“One from a client of Freddie’s—a man named Thurston Lloyd—and one from Baron Stoke.”

“Yes, the shipping magnate,” he said, familiar with Lloyd’s name from the newspapers.

“The very same. It appears that he wants a portrait of his son and Baron Stoke wants one of himself.”

Simon ate another oyster, considering his reaction to the news that his wife would have two male subjects, men she would spend hours alone with.

Something dark and ugly churned in his belly.

Ah, jealousy. Yet another attractive emotion to add to your already impressive collection.

Simon scowled at the voice in his head. What kind of man wanted his wife to spend hours with other men? He knew Stoke—the man looked like a cross between a toad and a tree stump; so, no problem, there.

But Lloyd’s son? What if he were young and handsome and unscarred? What if—

“Simon?”

His head whipped up. Judging by his wife’s tone and concerned expression, this wasn’t the first time she’d spoken his name.

“I’m sorry, Honoria, what was that?”

“I said I would like to schedule both sittings back-to-back, which would mean a longer visit to London, but I think that is better than two separate trips. I daresay I wouldn’t need longer than three weeks.”

“When did you want to go? Perhaps I could go with you.”

“I thought I’d go at the end of the month.”

Simon frowned. “You wish to go during hunting season,” he asked, more than a little surprised.

“That’s probably just as well. I don’t care for hunting,” she said.

Simon gasped and clutched at his chest. “Lord save me. I’ve married a woman who doesn’t like hunting.” When her face tightened, he reached for her hand. “I’m teasing you, love. Of course, you needn’t hunt if you don’t wish to. My mother never cared for it, nor does Cecily. Becca is mad for it, so she can come along and make sure her doddering old uncle doesn’t fall off his hunter.”

She gave him an uncertain smile, making him realize how raw her emotions must be—thanks to his recent idiocy.

“The end of the month is probably a good time to go,” he said, releasing her hand and turning back to his meal. “Between the hunting and the construction, I’ll not be especially entertaining.” He lowered his eyelids. “I’d better make up for that starting tonight.” He was pleased when she blushed.

“So, tell me about these other friends of yours,” he said.

“Well, you’ve met Freddie and Miles, but there is also Portia—”

“She’s the one who married Broughton?”

“Yes, not long ago.”

“It seems like I heard something unusual about him?” Simon frowned as he tried to recall.

“The Earl of Broughton has albinism. Also, he only recently inherited the title.”

“Ah,” Simon nodded.