Page 49 of A Portrait of Love

“Yes, not yet ten-and-seven.” She shook her head. “You would not have recognized the boy he was—so happy and boisterous.” She saw Honey’s look of amazement. “Oh, yes. He was a sweet child. Not that he is not a good man now, of course. But so much death and disappointment has taken the light from him. From both my children.” Her voice wobbled and she shook her head. “Forgive me, my dear. You should not have been here these past weeks. The family is not fit for company and it must have been uncomfortable.”

It had been uncomfortable, but Honey could hardly say that. “I have greatly enjoyed my time here.”

The duchess patted her hand. “And I know that Rebecca has enjoyed having another young person around.”

Honey was amused at being called young. “I have enjoyed her, too.” And she had. Her sittings with the younger woman had been more like sessions between friends. It pained her to leave the obviously lonely girl in this house of swirling emotions.

A portrait hung not far from the next door and Honey paused.

“It is my husband,” the duchess said, stopping beside her. “This was the earliest of his portraits,” she explained. “The others hang in the gallery.”

Honey had seen them; they were both magnificent. But they were of an older man, his expression stern and uncompromising. This picture, on the other hand—

“Dominic was only twenty in this picture,” the duchess said, her voice wistful.

“He was very handsome.” The former duke might have been mistaken for Simon in the right light. The clothing and hairstyle were of another age, but the mesmerizing hydrangea eyes and sharp, achingly handsome features were almost identical.

“I was so flattered when he noticed me,” the dowager said. “He was eight years older and that was my first Season.” She cut Honey a shy, twinkling look, “I was not homely, but neither was I a diamond of the first water.” She sighed. “But Dominic—” she broke off and shook her head, as if at a loss for words. “Every woman adored him and yearned for him. But he chose me.”

Honey could not read her expression. There was pride, and maybe some love, but also regret.

“I recall your grandfather, Miss Keyes,” she said, her pale cheeks reddening. “He was so—”

“Wild?” Honey suggested. At least those were the few stories she’d heard about her mother’s father, the infamous Baron Yancy.

“Oh, indeed. He was very wicked. Of course, we all adored him.”

Honey saw the truth beneath her tremulous smile. So, the duchess had loved Honey’s grandfather, but had married a duke?

Her heart ached for the sweet older woman, who’d probably been made to give up the feckless, impoverished baron in favor of a powerful, wealthy duke.

But if she hadn’t, Honey wouldn’t be standing there right now.

The duchess resumed walking and a few feet away she stopped in front of a massive crème and gilt door. “Here we are, at last.” She smiled up at Honey. “Thank you for your kindness, my dear. You are a good girl.”

Honey dipped a courtesy. “Sleep well, your grace.” She waited until the door closed before turning back, stopping to examine the various pieces on the walls more closely.

The previous duke had exquisite taste and it was difficult to pull herself away. Still, she hardly wanted to be caught here when the duke eventually returned to his chambers, which were in this wing.

Honey decided she would take the long route back to her rooms and pay one last visit to the new gallery.

She was passing the duke’s study when the sound of glass breaking stopped her. Something else shattered, followed by a loud, pained grunt. Honoria stood frozen outside the massive oak door and listened.

There was nothing … and then a groan.

She bit her lip and raised her hand to knock, and then froze again. What was she doing? What if the duke was in there? Or what if—

The door swung inward and she jumped back, an undignified squeak escaping before she could stop it.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Honey Keyes.” Simon leaned his forearm against the doorframe and smirked down at her. “Eavesdropping again, are you?”

Chapter Fourteen

Honey was speechless, not from being mocked, but by Simon’s haggard appearance: he seemed to have aged ten years since dinner—at which he had not looked particularly healthy, either.

Blood was dripping from his hand and dropping in soft pats on the carpet.

“You’ve hurt yourself.”