Page 125 of A Portrait of Love

She gasped at his crude words.

Simon’s lips curled into an unpleasant smile, the likes of which she’d not seen since her first week at Whitcomb. “And believe me, my dear, I doubt that any man would ever forget fucking a woman like that—no matter how badly his brain had been damaged.”

He turned and strode from the room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the tea tray.

Even after he’d gone his vicious taunt echoed in the empty room, pitting her soul the way the hot shrapnel had once pierced his skin.

***

Not surprisingly, dinner was a frosty and brief affair.

Simon knew he should apologize for his vulgar words and cruel baiting, but he couldn’t believe she thought him capable of treating her so shabbily. Shouldn’t she be the one to apologize.

Very mature thinking, Simon. It’s too bad you’re not nine years of age and this isn’t a schoolyard.

He growled as Peel shaved him, glaring at his own foolish face in the glass.

Fine. He would apologize when he went to her chambers.

He’d considered not going to her bed at all, but to hell with that. The last thing he wanted was for their marriage to settle into cold, prolonged hostilities. He’d been at war too goddamned long to want to wage another one under his own roof.

No, he would go to her and they would spend a pleasurable night together.

Somehow, I don’t think it will be so simple …

He would make it that simple.

Once Peel finished, Simon went to the connecting door, half expecting to find it locked. But the handle turned and he entered her room.

She was in bed, reading. Her cool look told him that she’d not expected him to come to her.

“I don’t wish for there to be strife between us,” he said, as she grudgingly put a marker in her book, set it on the nightstand, and crossed her arms.

“You are correct that the girl’s eye color is similar to mine. It is a trait in my father’s side of the family. My grandfather had the same eyes as does one of my aunts. There are portraits in the galleries of other Fairchilds with the same eyes.” He sighed. “There is also a portrait at Frampton Park of some ancestor of mine—I daresay my mother or Wyndham would recall which one—who married an ancestor of Bella’s. It’s several generations back, but you will recognize the distinctive eye color.” He hesitated. “I’ll admit I was … surprised by the family resemblance today, but the child is not mine, Honoria. That would be impossible.” He paused to make sure his words sank in. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” he continued. “It was inexcusable.”

Simon waited—both for her to accept his apology and make one of her own.

He was beginning to think he’d grossly miscalculated when she sighed.

“I apologize for accusing you of something you didn’t do.” The words were an apology, but they were grudgingly spoken.

Simon decided that he didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he said.

He pulled the sash on his robe, shrugged out if it, and tossed it over the foot of the bed.

Her gaze dropped to his erection, bounced back up, and she swallowed.

Simon adored the hunger in her angry gray eyes. She was still mad at him, but she wanted him, all the same. Good.

“Did it make you jealous to think of me putting a baby inside her, Honey? Did you think of me doing the things to her body that I now do to yours?”

Her eyes grew so round he was honestly surprised they didn’t roll out of her head. Despite her shock—and wrath—her pupils flared, until only a thin silver ring surrounded the black.

It didn’t matter how she answered his questions, her eyes gave her away.

Ah, I’ve got you, my love.