Page 83 of A Portrait of Love

But it spoke the truth: she had liked it. Or at least her body had.

As she’d stood there and spied on him the same tight, hot feeling as the night before, when he’d made her—she shuddered at the memory—scream, had begun to build deep within her womb.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—the same feeling had not come at the end of all her panting and clenching, which was just as well. He would have noticed her for certain if she’d yelled as she had twice—actually three times—the night before.

Honey wouldn’t be surprised if her face was permanently stained red. She’d seen the truth in the eyes of every stranger she’d encountered that morning: The entire inn had heard her screaming last night and they all knew why.

It didn’t matter that they were newlyweds, which she’d heard Simon tell the innkeeper, and that such behavior was expected. She was mortified to the bone.

Right from that first awkward ride to see the view at Whitcomb Simon Fairchild had caused her to behave in ways that were not normal or regular for her.

Honey didn’t know who she was when she was with him.

And God help her: all she wanted was to be that woman again. And again.

“You look as if you are in pain, my lady.”

Her eyes flew open and met his.

“You’re awake,” she said stupidly.

He nodded gravely. “I am awake.”

Why did she feel as if there was more to those words than their face value?

He stretched and tried to rearrange himself in the cramped carriage, grimacing as he shifted on the seat.

“I’m sorry.”

He glanced up. “For what?”

“For refusing to ride in the duke’s traveling coach when you suggested it. I daresay it is far more luxurious than this.”

“It is.”

They rode in silence—awkward on her side, at least, although he looked contented enough to gaze out the window.

Honey kept seeing him as he’d been on the bed. His body slicked with sweat; his taut belly ridged with muscle. Even the scars he bore—and there were many—seemed to make him more attractive, more … dangerous.

But then she recalled how sweet he’d been last night, how slow and patient with her. It was obvious he had not experienced sexual release last night or he would not have needed to do such a thing this morning. Would he?

Honey had been insensitive to his needs last night, too immersed in her own pleasure to think about him.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, a trace of a smile on his lips.

“Doing what?” she asked, although she knew exactly what he meant.

His smile grew a few degrees warmer. “When is the last time you went to Brighton?”

Although she resented the way he’d ignored her question, she couldn’t help being grateful to talk about something less anxiety-provoking than what she’d been thinking about.

“My father took us there for three summers starting when I was seventeen.”

“For any particular purpose?”

“At first it was because of a woman who lived there most of the year.”

Perdita Davis had been a beautiful widow who’d hidden her dislike of Honey from her usually astute father for all but the last few weeks of their association.