Page 40 of A Portrait of Love

Lord, she was lovely when she was angry.

Simon doubted that she’d appreciate that observation just now so he dropped his hand. “As you wish, Miss Keyes. If you aren’t out in an hour, I shall send help.”

His words didn’t elicit so much as a twitch of a smile.

“The only help I want from you, my lord, is to stay away from me for the duration of my time at Whitcomb.” She turned, took several steps, stopped, and spun around. “In fact, don’t come near me ever again.” And with several long strides, she disappeared into the maze.

Simon couldn’t argue with her; the best thing she could do with a man like him was turn her back and walk away.

Chapter Eleven

After the debacle in the maze, Simon headed directly to Wyndham’s chambers.

His brother was just dismissing his valet when Simon entered his room.

Simon frowned as he took in Wyndham’s haggard appearance. “Wasn’t the doctor just here? Why aren’t you in bed? You look like hell.”

“Yes, he was. Because I am feeling better. And thank you for your kind words,” Wyndham said, a gleam of humor in his slate-gray eyes.

Simon huffed out a breath as he followed his brother into the adjacent study. “I’m not speaking in jest, Wynd. What the devil is wrong with you?’

Wyndham sat at the small secretary desk and took a sheet of paper out of the drawer. “The doctor said I have a chronic stomach ailment,” he said, taking a quill from the standish and beginning to write.

“What does that mean? Will it just go away? Or is there something you can eat or drink to make it better?” Simon shoved his hands through his hair, annoyed by his brother’s calm, aloof attitude. “Is this serious, Wynd?” he finally asked, his face heating at the fear and tinge of hysteria he heard in his own voice.

Wyndham glanced up at him and gave him a slight, weary smile. “Doctor Morton assures me that it will go away on its own, given time,” he said, turning back to his letter. “It is not life-threatening,” he added softly.

Relief rolled over him at his brother’s words. “Well, thank God for that. I have no interest in stepping into your boots at any point—and certainly not now.” He strode over to the cluster of decanters on the glass table beside the fireplace. “These are empty,” he said, lifting one decanter and then another.

“Daley must have been interrupted before he could refill them. Take a fresh bottle from the cabinet,” Wyndham said, sanding his letter.

Simon took out a bottle of brandy. “Do you want one?” he asked, pouring three fingers into one of the cut crystal glasses.

Wyndham hesitated, and then pulled a face. “No, I’d better not. The doctor recommends a bland diet that does not include alcohol. Besides, he just cupped me so enthusiastically I’d probably swoon from even one sip.” He sanded his letter and then took off his signet ring.

“Ah, probably wise,” Simon agreed, lifting his glass and drinking enough for both of them. “So,” he said, watching as his brother melted wax and sealed the letter he’d just written, “what did you want to talk to me about?”

Wyndham removed his spectacles and set them aside before tossing the letter onto the salver, along with several others. “I’m going to have a house party in two weeks.”

All the good will Simon had been feeling toward his brother began to dissipate.

“Tell me this isn’t going to be the sort of house party that is peopled with eighteen-year-old chits, Wyndham.”

“I am inviting several eligible females, along with their parents,” Wyndham continued, as if Simon had never spoken.

“Unless you’re inviting them for you, Wynd, you might as well not bother.” Simon slammed his unfinished drink down on the end table, stood, and strode toward the door, yanking it open.

“I understand you went riding with Miss Keyes.”

Simon spun around on his heel. “What of it?”

“She is not to be toyed with, Simon.”

“I’m not toying with her, Wyndham.”

Oh, you lying villain, Simon’s conscience chided.

Simon grimaced, infuriated that the bloody voice was right this time.