Page 102 of A Portrait of Love

His brother, not surprisingly, exuded discipline; discipline and duty were what composed the ichor in his ice-cold veins.

He turned when Simon slammed the door. “I’d ask you if you wanted a drink, but I know you won’t be staying long.”

Wyndham ignored his rudeness. “I am pleased to see you getting on so well with your new wife.”

“I’ll wager you are.” Simon snorted, heading for the brandy decanter and pouring one for himself, perfectly aware of how boorish his actions were. “Well,” he said, turning with the tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “I wouldn’t go congratulating her, if I were you. She hates you.” A lot, he could have added, but he thought his brother got the picture.

“That is unfortunate,” Wyndham said coolly, turning his dead stare from the glass in Simon’s hands to Simon.

An emotion Simon couldn’t recognize flickered through his brother’s eyes, leaving him feeling uneasy. Any emotion on Wyndham’s face was worth noticing and generally cause for concern.

“I must admit I am both grateful and relieved to see you have given yourself over to your new life with such enthusiasm.”

Simon wished his brother would shut up but he knew telling him that would only prolong their encounter.

Instead, he gave him a stiff smile. “Thank you, brother. But you mustn’t speak of it as if I’ve made a big sacrifice. She is a beautiful, talented, intelligent, sensual woman.” He paused to enjoy the unusual sight of the duke’s razor-sharp cheekbones flushing. Poor Wyndham. His brother probably hadn’t been with a woman since his wife booted him from her bed. Too proud and rigid to bend his principles even though he would die without ever having another lover. A fool and a prude, in other words.

“How nice of you to come see that we are settling in,” Simon cocked his head. “Or have you come to supervise the consummation of our union?”

Wyndham’s cheeks went even darker at Simon’s vulgar words.

He smiled and tossed back half his glass. “I daresay my wife will not allow such a thing, no matter how much you might enjoy it.”

His brother’s jaws were so tight he could see the muscles flexing beneath the skin.

“So, with that out of the way. Was there anything else you wanted?” Simon poured the rest of the drink down his throat. When he looked up, he saw the duke giving him an odd stare.

“Did you read my letters—you never answered, but then I did not expect any response.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And yes, I received your letters, two per week.” He turned his glass in his hands, “And I threw each of them in the fire, not wishing to contaminate my bridal holiday with missives from you.”

The duke’s normally impassive face seemed to close in on itself, and Simon felt a twinge of remorse.

He’d told himself that he was going to move on from annoying his brother, that he was enjoying the marriage he’d been forced into—a great deal, in fact. That he would begin trying to forgive Wyndham and leave his corrosive rage behind.

What Wyndham had done to him and Bella had happened a long, long time ago. Yes, his brother had also manipulated and controlled Simon since he’d returned from the war, but his rage over that had already begun to drain away; after all, it was because of Wyndham’s manipulation that Simon was married to a woman he already cared a great deal for. Who knew, maybe love would come someday, or at least happiness and contentment, since he no longer believed in the calf love that had once sustained him.

Fortified by that thought, Simon set down his glass, took a step toward his only brother, and smiled, “Look here, Wyndham, I don’t want to keep—”

“Arabella MacLeish has returned to live at her father’s house.”

Nobody had said her name for so long that it took Simon a moment to absorb his brother’s words. And then there was the issue of the name—MacLeish. He had continued to think of her—on those occasions she stole into his well-guarded mind—as Bella Frampton.

Simon took his glass back to the console and sloshed more alcohol into it, so distracted was he that it almost overflowed. When he tried to pick it up, amber liquid sloshed over the rim onto his hand.

He put the glass down but did not turn. “She has come for a visit with her family?”

“She has come back here to live; she is a widow, Simon.”

Simon laughed—a frightening sound that should not have originated in his body. He was still laughing when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“How long?” Simon asked, not needing to explain what he meant.

“You are married now, Simon,” his brother said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Happily married and—”

Simon violently shrugged away the duke’s hand and spun. “How. Long.”

Wyndham’s jaw worked, but he didn’t speak.