The Harlot Countess

by Joanna Shupe

  She’d memorized every word before tossing the paper into the fire.

  “Well?” Lucien prompted.

  “Merely a statue.” Maggie pretended to peer through her opera glasses, if only so Lucien wouldn’t notice her discomfort.

  “If merely a statue, then why have you turned red?”

  She lowered the glasses. “I do not know what I am supposed to do,” she admitted. “Does he plan on sending me something each day until I . . . what? I have no idea what the rules are.”

  “Ah.” Lucien sat back and crossed his legs. “I see. You have never been pursued and the idea makes you uncomfortable. Can you not just enjoy it, ma chère? In a dress as beautiful as that, you deserve to have the men of Paris slavering at your feet.”

  Maggie smoothed her low-cut silver and white opera dress while she considered Lucien’s words. No man had ever tried to win her. During her debut she’d received a few bouquets, but no suitor had ever seriously courted her—not even Simon. Her husband had given her a perfunctory gift on each birthday, no doubt picked out by his secretary. She could not even recall them.

  This kindness from Simon unnerved her. When the two of them were at odds, she could easily find her footing. Gifts and adoring words, however, were harder to navigate. Discounting them made her a shrew, but did he honestly believe a few tokens would heal wounds long scarred over? And what did he hope to accomplish?

  She fervently wished their conversation the other night had not taken place. Without that infernal headache, she never would have revealed the fact he’d broken her heart. Silly female notion anyway, a broken heart. No doubt he thought the revelation ridiculous.

  “I could enjoy the attention if I knew what he hoped to gain,” she told Lucien.

  “It is obvious, non? Your earl intends to lure you back to his bed.”

  The performance began, leaving Maggie to contemplate Lucien’s statement. Could it be as simple as that? If he merely wanted to bed her again, would he go to so much trouble? It wasn’t as if she were a maiden, for heaven’s sake. Not that it mattered. She could not allow her resolve to weaken. Any association between the two of them must be avoided. His political career would certainly suffer from her reputation, and she had no plans to curtail either her behavior or her career as Lemarc. No one would take away the freedom she’d worked so hard to achieve.

  The first act had been bloody torturous. Maggie’s box was not far and Simon had hardly taken his eyes off her, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. She looked devastatingly beautiful. The silver and white opera dress showed off the creamy, rounded tops of her breasts. Her long, black hair was fashioned into rings of curls held away from her face with a silver band, exposing the long column of her throat. He wanted to nibble on that soft pale skin.

  When they reached the first break, Simon turned to his companions. “Lady Sophia, Lady Ardington, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”

  Lady Sophia stood, her brown eyes shrewd and knowing. “I shall come with you.”

  Simon blinked. Sophia was the Duchess of Colton’s closest friend, which meant she enjoyed trouble every bit as much as Julia—only Sophia had no husband to keep her in line. Under normal circumstances, Simon avoided her, but she’d requested his escort to the Opéra-Comique this evening. Since he’d already planned to attend, there had been no reason to turn Sophia and her stepmother down.

  Of course, he hadn’t counted on Sophia dogging his every step tonight. He needed to have a private conversation with Maggie, one no unmarried lady should overhear. Impatient to leave, he frowned at Sophia. “No.”

  Sophia waved her hand dismissively, then said, “Stepmama, Lord Winchester and I will return shortly.” She grabbed Simon’s arm and began tugging him out of the box. “Come on. I am dying to meet her.”

  Once in the corridor, he placed her hand on his sleeve. They started in the direction of Maggie’s box. “How do you know where I’m going?”

  “Please. You have been staring at her all night and I read the broadsheets. Everyone talks about her. I was desperate to go to her masquerade, but my stepmother wouldn’t dare let me. Were you there?”

  “Yes.” He recalled Nero fondling Boudica’s buttocks. “And the marchioness was right not to let you attend.”

  “Et tu, Brute?”

  He laughed. “I pity your future husband.”

  “Me as well. Papa is growing more irritated every Season. I fear he may put his foot down this year.”

  “So just pick one and be done with it. Marriage might not be as bad as you think.”

  “Or it may be much, much worse—and I’d hardly take your word for it. You’ve certainly been in no rush to take a countess.”

  “Julia and Colton are very happy,” he pointed out.

  “Disgustingly so,” she agreed. “But she’s stuck with him so why not make the best of it? No, I think I’ll wait a little longer. What is going on between you and Lady Hawkins?”

  “As if I’d tell you. The marquess would have my head on a stick.”

  “You’re wrong. Papa likes you. Says there’s talk you may replace Liverpool one day.”

  Simon drew back the curtain on Maggie’s box, held it open for Sophia. “I think that talk is vastly premature.” Especially if anyone ever discovered Lemarc’s true identity.

  They stepped inside and found Maggie conversing with a man, their bodies in close proximity, her hand placed familiarly on his arm. Simon recognized him as Don Quixote from her masquerade, the one who had led her out to the terrace. His gut clenched, the jealousy swift and fierce. He’d expected to find her with Barreau, not one of her admirers. Forcing a smile, he continued on. “Lady Hawkins.”

  Her head shot up, emerald-green gaze locking on him. Surprise flickered across her features before she schooled them, and she gave him a polite nod. “Lord Winchester.”

  Introductions were made all around, during which it became clear that this artist, Jean-Louis, and Maggie were lovers. She was uncharacteristically skittish and talkative, and color stained her cheeks. The Frenchman kept his hand atop hers, where it lay firmly on his arm. Simon barely restrained himself from hauling Maggie over against his side.

  Lady Sophia held up the conversation. “Lady Hawkins, the Duchess of Colton is one of my dearest friends and she insisted we meet. How fortunate you attended the premiere tonight.”

  This resulted in a long exchange about Paris and shopping, the sort of discussion a man could safely tune out. It was then Simon noticed that Maggie made several subtle attempts to pull her hand off Jean-Louis’s arm but the Frenchman held fast. Had Simon misread the situation, or was she merely trying to employ discretion? The idea nearly made him laugh. Maggie, discreet?

  Nevertheless, who was this man? How had she come to know him? Even after all that had happened between them, he still didn’t know much about her. Well, he was of a mind to change that, starting tonight.

  He waited for a break in the conversation. “Lady Hawkins,” he interjected, “might I have a word in private?”

  Awkwardness descended until Sophia said, “Indeed, I must be getting back to my box. My stepmother will be looking for me. Jean-Louis, would you mind escorting me back? I would love to hear more about the type of paintings you create.”

  They said their good-byes and Sophia fairly dragged the Frenchman away, much to Simon’s relief. Now alone in the box with Maggie, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

  “Very much. Henri is marvelous. And you?”

  “Yes, though truthfully I haven’t seen much of it.”

  “Did you arrive late?”

  “Seconds after the curtain rose. The mob outside was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was referring to something else entirely, however.”

  “Oh, the lovely Lady Sophia. I suppose she could be quite dis—”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “You know very well she is not the reason I am here tonight. I came for you.”

  She b
it her lip, the soft, plump flesh disappearing between her front teeth. Simon remembered her mouth and the extraordinary sensation when she’d used it on him. Heat flared in his groin.

  “Simon, these arguments are exhausting, and I cannot see why we should continue. You have my gratitude for the presents, but you needn’t send any others.”

  The words she’d flung at him the other night flickered in his mind. You broke my heart once. I shall not give you the chance to do it again. Julia had alluded to it in London, but hearing Maggie admit it changed everything. No longer would he wait. He meant to break down the walls she kept up between them. If she’d cared for him once, she could do so again. He merely needed to wage a clever, careful campaign.

  So for the moment, he chose to avoid disagreeing with her. Instead he would employ strategy, much as he did when trying to win votes. “Have you seen Notre Dame?”

  She blinked. “Of course. Many times. Why?”

  “Will you accompany me there? Tomorrow?” Confusion wrinkled her brow and he fought the urge to grin.

  “Tomorrow?” She frowned. “Positively not. I cannot go traipsing about Paris with you tomorrow. I am too far behind in my work.”

  He reached for a silken black curl gracing her cheek, gently tucked it behind her ear. “Bring your work along. I promise to find you a quiet spot and leave you alone.”

  “But why would you—?”

  Before she could finish, the performers returned to the stage. Without waiting for permission, Simon took her hand and led her to her seat. Once she sat, he brushed his lips over her gloved fingertips. He noticed the color that stole over her cheeks. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured and then strode out of the box, enjoying his small victory.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maggie winced as the carriage bounced into another rut in the road. Simon rested across from her, his long legs stretched out as far as space would allow. As promised, he’d arrived early this morning to collect her for this mysterious journey. She had tried to refuse and send him away, but even Tilda seemed to be on his side, marching Maggie out the door like a side of beef off to auction.

  They’d been traveling for nearly an hour, having left the city proper some time ago. Obviously Simon had fabricated the story of visiting Notre Dame. She should have known he would pull a trick on her. At the very least, she wished she’d packed more of her painting and drawing supplies before agreeing to this kidnapping. The devil only knew where he planned to take her and how long they would be gone. She supposed she should be worried, demanding to know what he was about. But it was too late to turn back, so what was the point? At least the warming bricks kept the temperature cozy despite the cold outside.

  She gazed out the small window, admiring the French countryside with its quiet wheat fields awaiting spring. The sky held no color, a blanket of mottled shades of gray, and she enjoyed the bracing fresh air outside the city walls. Wide open spaces with their dormant trees and shrubs always relaxed her, and it had been much too long since she’d allowed herself this small indulgence.

  Even so, why in God’s name had she agreed to accompany him today?

  “How did you meet Barreau?”

  Simon’s question startled her, both the interruption of the silence and the topic. She shifted to face him. “I came to Paris with my sister and her husband. Every morning, I used to walk down a certain section of the Rue de Rivoli and I noticed an artist there each day. He painted the crowd, lost in his work, but now and then I’d see him sketching a portrait for a customer. I began watching him and noticed he never took money for the sketches. And his work . . . oh, it was extraordinary. Truly extraordinary. So vivid and realistic. So one day, I approached and asked him why he never accepted payment for his sketches.” Her mouth turned up in amusement. “That sparked a long and passionate diatribe about how art belongs to the people and it is an artist’s duty to share that gift with everyone gratis.”

  “Ah, a Jacobin.”

  “No doubt, had he been born earlier. So I complimented him on his work and we discussed art. He handed me his charcoal and some paper and instructed me to sketch him. Testing me, of course. When I produced the sketch, he nearly fell out of his chair.” She chuckled. “He asked what artist I had apprenticed under. For weeks, I could not convince him I was self-taught. He suspected me of lying until my ineptitude about business matters became apparent. Lucien may be jaded to the ways of the world, but he is not ignorant. He’s taught me a great deal over the years.”

  “What did he do with your sketch of him?”

  Heat suffused her face. “He framed it. It hangs in his apartments in Montmartre.”

  “And that embarrasses you? I should think you would be filled with pride over impressing him.”

  She waved her hand. “I’ve offered many times to redo it. Lucien won’t hear of it.”

  “I cannot say I blame him. Sometimes the memory means more. Will you sketch me one day?”

  She bit her lip, trying not to giggle. He sighed, reading her perfectly. “I meant a true sketch. Not Winejester. I’ve had the obligatory portrait done when I took over the title. Hangs at Winchester Towers and I can hardly stand to look at the thing. I should like to see what you see.”

  Her first instinct was to refuse. Drawing could be quite personal, an intimate connection between artist and subject. She made a study of her model, noticed every hair, every shadow, to create the most true representation possible. With Simon, however, there would be no need to study; she had every inch of him committed to memory. “Perhaps,” she finally answered.

  “How did you first start drawing, or notice you had a passion for it?”

  She grinned at the memories. “Rebecca. She noticed my propensity for sketching during the lessons with our governess. Instead of learning my figures or practicing my penmanship, I was nearly always drawing. She encouraged me, along with my father.”

  “The poet, correct?”

  “Yes. He pushed me to express myself through paints and sketches. Even tried to convince my mother to let me travel abroad instead of coming out. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She was determined to see me molded into a proper English lady.” And look at how well that turned out.

  “You never mentioned your hobby all those years ago.”

  She shrugged. “Mother warned me not to reveal my unusual interests. She wanted me to appear just as demure and dim-witted as the rest of the girls debuting that year.”

  He chuckled and silence descended for a long moment. Since they were asking questions, she had a few of her own. “Why politics?” she asked. “You never gave a fig about Parliament all those years ago.”

  “It’s what is expected of me. The role of the Earl of Winchester.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “And I am adept at it.”

  “So I have heard many times over. But do you love it? Feel any passion for it?”

  His brows drew together. “One does not need to romanticize a task in order to do it well.”

  “But if it does not make you happy, why do it?”

  “Because I like to win.” His mouth kicked up. “Have you not learned that yet?”

  The carriage began to slow. Simon leaned to see out the tiny window. “Ah, we must be arriving at our first stop. We can stretch our legs while they deal with the cattle.”

  Minutes later, Simon helped her out of the carriage. The hanging sign read L’ANNEAU D’OR, or The Golden Ring. It was a modest, provincial structure, constructed of white stone and faded wood. The courtyard stood empty, save their carriage, and the two of them hurried inside.

  Simon procured a table while Maggie took care of personal needs. When she found him in the common dining area, he had settled at a table near a small window, his gaze trained on the yard. The soft, gray light cast shadows on the familiar planes of his face, a play of chiaroscuro that fascinated her. He was annoyingly beautiful for a man.

  Soon they were fortified with tea and ale, which they drank in companionable silence. A thought struck her and she had to
stifle a giggle.

  A tawny eyebrow quirked. “You find something amusing?”

  “It just occurred to me, this is the longest amount of time we have spent in each other’s presence without arguing.”

  “Not quite,” he murmured, leaning forward. His eyes grew sleepy and dark. “There was another time as well. When you spent the ni—”

  “Simon!”

  He grinned. “Do not tell me I’ve embarrassed you. Not the woman who flaunts convention with every breath she takes.”

  It had nothing to do with propriety. She did not need another reminder of that night; the frequent dreams were enough.

  “How is Cora?” she asked instead.

  “Much improved when I left. My housekeeper will keep a sharp eye on her. The girl expressed some interest in the kitchens, so she’ll be trained below stairs when she’s ready. If we cannot use her, she’ll be sent to any number of households nearby.”

  “You sound as if you’ve done this before.”

  “Many times,” he answered after a swig of ale. “Barrett House is generally full to overflowing with housemaids and kitchen maids. If we cannot house any more, Mrs. Timmons sends them to Colton or Quint.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you mean, ah?”

  “That is why Julia sent for you, is it not? And why Madame Hartley turned the girl over to you.”

  “Yes.”

  She sipped her tea and tried to fit this newfound knowledge into the image she’d established of him in her mind. Any way she turned it over, she could not understand a reason for his generosity. She had a hundred questions—did he truly hire any girl who presented herself? How did his staff manage it all?—but the one that emerged was, “Why do you do it?”

  He twisted the tankard in his hand, making small circles on the scarred tabletop. “Because I can.”

  “So could any number of wealthy households, mine included. Yet it never occurred to me. Why did you begin?”

  “Several years ago, a girl presented herself at the back door, bruises covering her face and desperate to escape an unpleasant home. My housekeeper came to me with the situation and we decided to hire her. Word traveled amongst our staff, and friends and relatives began appearing regularly to request employment.” He shrugged. “My housekeeper has a soft heart.”