Page 36 of A Portrait of Love

“What of it?” She threw the words out with as much carelessness as she could muster. As if she hadn’t been hoarding the image of him like other people hoarded gold or jewels.

“I’d like to see it.”

Honoria was glad she was seated. “Well, you can’t.”

His brows snapped into a line. “Why not?”

“Because I no longer have it.”

That surprised the odious, conceited wretch.

“What did you do with it?”

She shrugged. “Painted over it, I daresay. Not that I can recall.”

“You painted over it?” His voice was higher than normal and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from smiling.

“Yes, it was just like I said at dinner last night.”

“What did you say at dinner?”

She gave him a look of mock surprise. “Weren’t you at dinner last night?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Clearly I missed something important.”

“And why would that be I wonder?” She tapped her chin with her forefinger and rolled her eyes skyward, as if searching her memory.

He sighed heavily. “Likely because I wasn’t paying attention. Now, tell me what you said.”

“That artists frequently paint over pictures that do not please them or are not right somehow. After all, why discard a perfectly fine canvas?”

“Ah, that’s right. I recall now.” He chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment before saying, “So, which was it?”

“Which was what?”

He cast his eyes skyward in a mocking echo of her recent look. “Did it not please you or was something not right?”

Honoria gave a careless wave of one hand. “That was a long time ago, my lord. I hardly remember.”

He gave a low, dangerous chuckle while slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Oh Miss Keyes, what a fibber you are.”

Her heart bolted like a horse that had been roughly spurred. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to paint me.”

“So you already said. However, as I said, I am engaged after I complete these two portraits.”

“What? Alvanley’s dog?” He gave a bark of laughter. “That’s very droll.”

She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.

“If you do sittings of me while you are here you can paint me after you’ve finished with Cecily and Rebecca. It would be very economical for you.”

She snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why can’t I?”

“You already have a portrait.” And it was glorious. Honey had seen it hanging in the newer of the two galleries after she’d left the breakfast room. Her father had done an inspired job of capturing Simon’s younger self. Physical beauty and a zest for life had blazed out of eyes that were surely the color of heaven. It wasn’t her father’s masterpiece—that was the portrait of Honey’s mother—but it was close.