Page 77 of A Portrait of Love

“The chair broke.”

“I see that. How?”

“I sat in it.”

She made an unfeminine snort and shoved him onto the bed before turning to go.

“Wait, my—Honoria,” he corrected when he recalled she’d given dispensation to use that name.

She turned around. “What?”

He waved toward his feet, all four of them. “I need some help.”

“Ring for the boots,” she snapped.

“They’ll be sleeping—it’s one o’clock in the morning.”

She crossed her arms and stayed where she was. “I know.”

Simon couldn’t argue; he was too damn tired. He fell back on the bed with a thump. He would sleep with his boots on, he’d done it dozens of times before.

Something—or someone—tugged on his leg. “Sit up, Simon. I cannot lift you; you’ll need to help.”

Simon opened his eyes and tried to push his torso off the bed. He couldn’t.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Slender but strong hands grabbed his arms and yanked him into a sitting position.

He smiled. “You’re strong.”

She grunted and grabbed one of his top boots, staring down at it, as if wondering what to do.

“Pull,” he offered.

She fixed him with an irritated look. “You don’t say?”

Simon laughed.

“I’m glad you are enjoying yourself, my lord. I would rather be sleeping.” Without waiting for a response, she yanked on his boot.

Simon wasn’t expecting it and slid right off the floor, landing again on his enflamed tailbone.

He yelled a few words one didn’t say in front of ladies.

The only lady within hearing dropped down beside him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you in pain? I didn’t mean to hurt you. Here,” she slid an arm under his neck, which was bent at an uncomfortable angle, and leaned closer. “Let me help—”

He pressed his mouth against hers, reveling in her softness for a long moment. When she didn’t pull away, he drew back. She was frozen, like a deer surprised in the woods, her big gray eyes dark.

“You taste sweet, like berries and cream.”

She squinted, as if he were mumbling and she couldn’t understand him.

“Or like peaches.” He shook his head, hoping that would stop his mouth. “Or—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was muffled by her soft mouth crushing his lips.

***

He tasted like brandy and smoke, which Honey discovered tasted better than an ice from Gunters. Or anything else she’d ever sampled in her entire life.