Page 50 of A Portrait of Love

He swayed slightly and she realized he was very, very drunk.

“Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked.

When he didn’t answer, she looked up from his bleeding hand. His full lips were pulled down at the corners and his nostrils were pinched and white, as if he were angry at something—or someone.

Her?

Honey shook her head at the foolish thought. He was drunk; it didn’t matter what irrational thoughts were running around his drink-sodden brain.

She pushed him in the chest, harder than she’d intended, and he staggered back inside the room.

Honey shut the door behind her and held out her hand. “Give me your handkerchief.”

His expression was now dazed rather than hostile, but he complied without arguing. Honey took the opportunity to study him while he clumsily fished a crisp white square from the pocket of his coat.

His cravat was half-untied and wrinkled and there was wine or port stains on it. Both his coat and waistcoat were unbuttoned and the black superfine coat looked creased, as if he’d been sleeping in it. Her eyes went to the big leather sofa across from the fire and she saw the glitter of broken glass beside the end table and a throw rug in a pile on the floor.

Honey couldn’t have painted a more illuminating scene: he’d been drinking and had lost consciousness.

She snatched the proffered handkerchief from him. “Sit.”

She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed but went to the collection of decanters that sat on a long rectangular table against the wall. There was a metal bucket with half-melted ice and an empty bottle; she removed the bottle and took the bucket.

Simon was sitting on the couch beside the wreckage when she returned, seemingly unaware of the glass at his feet.

Honey set the bucket on the floor and sat down on the settee as far from him as possible yet still close enough to reach his hand.

She opened the reticule that dangled at her wrist and took out her own, smaller, square of cotton. It bore her initials, neatly embroidered in one corner, courtesy of Freddie, who did the most exquisite needlework Honey had ever seen.

She grimaced, it was a shame to use such a beautiful item, but it was all she had, and calling servants to witness the drunk, scarred man’s humiliation did not seem wise. Even though he deserved every bit of pain and humiliation he received. But his mother did not, and servants loved to talk—and Simon Fairchild had already provided them with plenty.

“Give me your hand.”

She didn’t look at his face, instead concentrating on the cut, which was across his palm, just above the fleshy heel. It was a good-sized slash but it was not terribly deep and the bleeding had already begun to slow. She dipped his cloth in the icy water and began to clean away the blood.

“How did this happen?” she asked without looking up.

She felt him give one of his characteristic shrugs. “I don’t know.”

She glanced up.

His beautiful, empty eyes were steady on hers, his voice unslurred. For all that he’d been swaying, he certainly sounded frighteningly sober.

Once she’d cleaned the cut, she took her own handkerchief and folded it diagonally, which made it barely big enough to tie around his palm. He had large hands with long fingers, the nails well-kept but the skin hatched with scars and the pads of his fingers rough.

She recalled that his hands had once been elegant and soft; now work-swollen knuckles disturbed their clean, long lines. He was not idle, for all that he seemed to spend a great deal of time drinking or drunk.

“There,” she said, releasing him once she’d snugged the knot. She looked up.

He was staring at his hand, which he raised and then gingerly flexed, grimacing slightly.

“Yes, I’m sure it smarts,” she said, although he’d not spoken.

He raised his hand to his face and examined her work, turning his fist to and fro. “You’ve ruined a very nice handkerchief on me.”

“Yes, I have.”

He looked up and then grinned, his boyish amusement making her heart lurch. “Not much of a bedside manner, Miss Keyes.”