Page 6 of A Portrait of Love

Fourteen Years Later

Simon, Marquess of Saybrook, had been to the St. George Inn several times in the weeks since he’d finally been able to leave his bed. It had been his cousin, Raymond, who’d first persuaded Simon to go out for a pint—or six.

“It’ll make you feel more yourself to visit some of your old haunts,” Raymond had cajoled when Simon had initially demurred.

It had taken only one night out with Raymond to convince Simon that his cousin was correct.

After that first evening, he’d gone to the cozy pub again and again, both with and without his cousin. It seemed the better he felt physically, the more he needed to drink.

He’d soon discovered that he liked the St. George far better than the chambers he kept at his brother’s sprawling monstrosity, Whitcomb.

He and Raymond had taken rooms that first night—when neither of them had been in any condition to make the half-hour ride back home—and Simon had stayed at the inn several more times since.

Tonight was one of those nights.

A hot, rough hand slid over his chest and a silky-smooth leg wrapped around one of his thighs, pulling him from his thoughts. “That was lovely, my lord.”

Simon snorted at the serving wench’s lie; he’d mounted her roughly and ridden her with all the finesse of a soldier on leave.

This was their first time together, but he’d seen her before—each time he drank at the George—and he’d ignored her overtures for weeks.

The reason he’d made no move to bed her until then was the sliver of decorum that had somehow lodged itself in his conscience. Whoring so close to home—so close to where his mother and niece lived—had seemed very wrong. What if word of his activities were to make its way to his brother’s house?

But tonight—after the set-to he’d had with Wyndham earlier—Simon had decided he’d be bloody pleased if word of his debauchery reached his sanctimonious brother’s ears. Perhaps Wyndham might even release him from the shackles he’d bound him with if Simon behaved revoltingly enough.

And so, when the barmaid had delivered his fifth—or was it sixth—drink, lowered her pert bottom onto his lap, and then slid her questing hand between his thighs, he’d spread them wider for her.

Soon afterward, he’d taken her up to his room, where he’d mounted her like a man who’d not had a woman in a long, long time. Because he hadn’t—not in almost two years.

Simon felt her stroke the scarred side of his torso and turned to face her.

She snatched away her hand, her eyes round. “I’m sorry, my lord, does that hurt?”

He took her hand and placed it between his thighs. “No, but these do.”

Her expression shifted from worried to wicked and she giggled, her skilled hand massaging his sensitive jewels.

Simon groaned and closed his eyes. “That feels bloody wonderful.”

She moved closer, positioning herself to have better access to his body. Her other hand stroked him from groin to chest, teasing his remaining nipple until it was hard and tight, and then moving to the other side, to the mass of scar tissue.

“What happened, my lord?” Her fingers were gentle and so tentative he could barely feel any pressure. The scars were thickest on his torso and very little sensation remained, although he ached like the devil after a day’s exertion.

Simon opened his eyes and blinked up at her through the gloom. She was younger than he’d thought, her harsh features softened by the bounteous brown hair that now framed her round face and hung down her back. He didn’t know her name but now seemed like the wrong time to ask. Instead he took a handful of hair and began to wind it around his fist, gradually pulling her lower.

“Exploding shrapnel,” he said, the two words a bit like shrapnel themselves. Her forehead wrinkled and Simon explained. “A cannon ball that breaks into many pieces in order to spray death and destruction more broadly.”

Her fingers traced the shot pattern down his side to his hip and he tightened his grip on her hair and tugged. She sucked in air through clenched teeth, her eyelids becoming heavy at his rough handling, the look of wanton lust on her face making his prick throb.

He took her hand from his chest and kissed her palm.

“The Frenchies are evil buggers,” she said, her voice husky.

Simon laughed—in between kissing the rough callouses on her hand and tonguing the sensitive skin between her fingers—but there was no humor in it.

“It was one of ours, love. It had some flaw and exploded; the entire side of the cannon came apart. A big section of the barrel hit my mount.” Poor Hector. He’d been a fine horse and had made it through seven years without a scratch. But the chunk of iron had taken his head off as cleanly as a cleaver. Simon knew it could have been his own head just as easily. People told him he was lucky.

“I was lucky,” he said out loud, just to see what the words tasted like—how they felt.