Page 12 of A Portrait of Love

Good God. I will see him again in only minutes.

“All right then?” the groom asked.

She mustered a smile and nodded. “Yes—yes of course. I am fine and ready to resume the journey.”

He closed the door and soon they were rolling.

Honey stared out the window and tried to sooth her jangled nerves, but the beautiful profile and flash of golden hair were stuck in her mind’s eye—a problem with artists. She would have known that classical profile—distinct enough to grace a coin—anywhere. Hatless with buckskin breeches, black clawhammer, and tall leather boots completed the brief picture. He’d looked vital, not damaged at all. He looked like a Corinthian—or at least that is what she imaged they looked like, those men who relished their own physicality: bruising riders, crack marksmen, determined pugilists, and other such overtly masculine foolishness.

Her stomach quivered at the image her mind would not relinquish. How could she endure the proximity of such a beautiful, vital, distracting man? It was simply too—

Calm yourself.

The cool voice was like a blast of frigid air waking her from a fevered dream.

Suddenly her anxiety was annoying rather than crippling; she was nine-and-twenty, not fifteen. So what if he was here? She wasn’t painting him, she was painting the duke’s wife and child. She was here to work, to build her reputation as a portraitist and a commission for a duke was a powerful thing—could be a powerful thing—if she concentrated and did her best.

You are a woman grown—no longer a tall, skinny, gangly fifteen-year-old, the logical, soothing voice in her head reminded her.

She snorted. No, she was now a tall, skinny, gangly twenty-nine-year-old. Good Lord. Hadn’t she learned anything in fourteen years?

The racing of her heart told her she’d not learned much—at least not when it came to Simon Fairchild.

The chaise crested the ridge and Honey gasped. “Oh my goodness.” Her eyes darted wildly as she tried to take it all in. Massive oaks flanked both sides of the drive at regular intervals, allowing glimpses of rolling parkland beyond. This was no house, not even a mansion—it seemed to stretch for miles and resemble a mediaeval township.

Honey had heard Whitcomb compared in size and character to Knole House and now understood why it was considered a national treasure. Her fingers itched to sketch it and she knew she would need to come back to this vantage point.

The sun was already low in the sky when the carriage rolled onto the cobble drive that curved in front of the massive entrance.

A blond man dressed in a dark coat and buff pantaloons waited at the foot of the shallow stone steps that led to arched doors at least fifteen feet at their peak, the heavy, weathered wood bound with intricate iron strapping.

Over the entrance the dragon and greyhound of Henry VIII supported the Royal Arms of England.

Even before the carriage had come to a full stop the man strode toward her, two liveried servants following in his wake. For a moment, Honey’s heart thundered in her ears: Simon?

Impossible, Simon had just passed her carriage.

The man’s resemblance to Simon became superficial the closer he came. While he was blond, his hair was not Simon’s striking gold. He was shorter—perhaps even shorter than Honey—his build stout rather than lithe and well formed. His eyes were blue, but sky-blue rather than hydrangea.

“Welcome to Whitcomb House, Miss Keyes. I am the duke’s cousin, Raymond Fairchild.” He helped Honey descended from the carriage. “The duke had wanted to greet you but, unfortunately, he’s indisposed. How was your journey?”

“It was lovely, thank you.”

“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it.” He looked so overjoyed that Honey actually believed him. “I daresay you would like a cup of tea and an hour to rest.” He gestured toward the house, not waiting for an answer. “His Grace will see you in the library before dinner. But come, I will show you to your rooms.”

Honoria followed the shorter, bustling man into a hall that was straight out of Shakespearean. Her jaw sagged as she gazed up at the four-centered-arch ceiling.

“This is the Great Hall and was built in the 1490s,” He said, not slowing. “The older parts of the house are not used as much as the South Wing, which was added in the 1740s and affords far more convenience and comfort. The family dines in the smaller dining room when not entertaining. His Grace has requested that you dine with the family.” His tone said the request was not really a request.

They ascended ancient flagstone steps that turned twice at ninety-degree angles and opened onto yet another long hall, this one heading back in the direction they just came.

“This may seem a rather odd way of reaching the South Wing,” he said in a confiding tone, as if reading her thoughts, “But it will make more sense shortly.”

They passed through a lengthy wood-paneled hall; the dark wood floor covered with an ancient carpet runner that muffled their steps. Heavy iron sconces lighted their way at intervals and a massive rose window at the far end added an almost religious air.

He turned down a hallway on the right before they came to the spectacular window, leading them down an almost identical corridor.

“Is it only the duke and duchess and their daughter who live here?” Honey asked as they ascended what felt like half a story, entering a much wider and airier hall illuminated by cathedral windows with intricate tracery.