Page 70 of A Portrait of Love

“I’m not supposed to be here. Father would kill me.” Mary h ad thrust a wrinkled rectangle of paper at him. “It’s from Bella—I have had it for months, but you were away.”

The paper had smelled of roses—Bella’s scent.

Simon had torn open the letter with shaking hands.

“My Beloved,” both her looping, girlish hand and endearment had made his legs so weak that he’d left his horse grazing and gone to sit under a tree before continuing.

“By the time you receive this I will be gone—beyond your reach in every sense of the word. My father is forcing me to marry an acquaintance of his from Scotland and—”

Simon had cursed so loudly that his startled horse had cantered beyond his view.

Forced? But why? Mr. Frampton had always liked Simon.

Why?

Then he’d read the rest.

“MacLeish is my father’s age. A giant, cruel man who smells of port and unclean skin. He looks at me as if I were a chop of lamb and I shiver at what he will do to me when we are wed and I am in his power.”

Simon had closed his eyes, too disgusted, furious, jealous to even see straight.

He’d forced himself to read on.

“My father says His Grace of Plimpton came to see him the day after his son’s death.”

Simon could still recall the sickness that had unfurled in his belly at his brother’s name.

“You are his heir and he cannot have you marrying a mere baronet’s daughter. He told my father to arrange this marriage and he offered more money than my father could turn away for my bride’s dowry.

I have only ever loved you, my dearest, sweetest, most gentle Simon. I will give my body to another man, but my heart will always belong to you.

Forever,

Your Bella”

“My lord?”

Simon’s head jerked up; his wife was staring at him.

“What is it?” she asked, her forehead furrowed with concern. “You look almost murderous.” She glanced out the window, as if to see what might have angered him.

Simon had allowed himself to slip into the past and had worked himself into a state; he was not fit company for anyone—especially not his virginal wife.

“Nothing is wrong,” he lied, his voice gruff with anger—at himself. “I’m merely sore from jouncing in this bloody carriage.”

There was a heavy silence and then, “Do your injuries pain you?”

“No.” Yet another lie.

“Are you angry with me for declining your brother’s coach?”

He turned on her, cruelly pleased when she flinched away from him.

“You had better understand one thing about me, my dear, I don’t care enough to be angry with you.”

She flushed deeply at his ugly words but sat up straight, no longer cringing away from him. Good, Simon wanted her anger, her hate. At least it made him feel something.

“You behave like an immature child. Only a short while ago you said you wished to make something of this marriage. Now you are speaking to me as if I am lower than dirt. Make up your mind—if you still have one.”