Page 132 of A Portrait of Love

She reluctantly pulled her mind from her erotic musings. “Yes, Nora?”

The younger woman was blushing, too—almost like she’d seen the scandalous contents of Honey’s head.

“It’s about your courses, my lady?”

“Goodness, is it time?”

“It’s past time, my lady—two weeks past.”

“Are you sure?”

“If what you said when you engaged me is correct, then I’m sure.”

Honey blinked at this news. “A baby?” she asked stupidly.

“Aye, milady, if what you said about bein’ regular-like was the case.”

Honey stared at her reflection as her hands dropped to her flat midriff, a foolish grin blooming on her face. She might be preg—

Simon’s face rose up in her mind’s eye, his words from six weeks ago replaying in her ears: I mean, no children. Ever.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Nora frowned. “I’m sorry, milady? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Honey met the woman’s rather curious gaze and forced a smile. “Please keep this just between us for the time being.”

Nora bristled. “Why of course, my lady. I’d never speak of such a thing.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” Honey soothed, swallowing down her incipient hysteria. “Now, I believe I’ll wear the turquoise gown this evening.”

***

The last time Honey had felt so humiliated had been in the Duke of Plimpton’s library the night of her imbroglio with Simon.

She supposed it was only fitting that this occasion centered around her husband, as well.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Honoria,” the duchess said, offering up her powdered cheek for a kiss.

“Thank you for coming, Mama.” The word did not yet feel comfortable on her tongue, but she could see it pleased the older woman.

Raymond was next, and he caught her in a one-armed embrace that startled her. “I had a smashing time. Tell Simon that you were more than enough—we didn’t even miss him.” He released her and held her at arm’s length for a long moment, his gaze far too probing—and knowing.

“Thank you for inviting me, Honey,” Becca said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and a hug. “I’m sure Uncle Simon is fine,” she whispered in Honey’s ear, so that when Honey turned, finally, to Plimpton, her face was likely flaming.

His stern mouth twitched into a faint smile, “Dinner was delightful,” the duke said in the cool monotone that suited his bland features so well.

Honey had been shocked by his appearance when he’d arrived for dinner. He looked a decade older than he had a month ago. His pale skin was even paler and the skin beneath his eyes was bruised almost purple.

She’d had no idea that he’d been so sick. Doubtless it was the duke’s persistent illness that was behind Simon’s recent desire for rapprochement with his brother.

“Thank you also for allowing me to peek at the portraits,” the duke said. “I’d promised myself that I could wait until the unveiling, but it was simply too tempting.”

Honey felt a rush of warmth at his confession. It flattered her that such an aloof, powerful man would be so excited to see her work.

“They are spectacular,” he added, bowing over her hand.

Before she could think up a suitable response, he’d gone, handing his mother into the ducal coach that was waiting.