The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(16)

A vivid image flashed through his mind—one of Maggie on her back, skirts hiked up to her waist, legs spread invitingly—and lust swept through his groin. He had to force the arousing picture from his mind. “You believe I’ve come to try and fuck you.” He was deliberately crude.

She didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do. Why else would you visit? Or perhaps you wanted to see if I decorated my house with nude frescos. Or if I keep young men tethered in my chambers to have my wicked way with them whenever I want. You would not be the first to ask if the rumors were true.”

Astonishment rocked him back on his heels. Hard to say which he found more distasteful: that she’d said it, or that she thought so little of him in the first place. “And yet you seem determined to feed those rumors. With extravagant parties and dancing in pools, is it any wonder they talk about you?”

“If I give them something to talk about, at least they cannot fabricate stories out of sheer boredom. But really, this is all beside the point. Perhaps you should arrive at the purpose for your visit.”

Hostility and bitterness did not suit her. If anyone had cause for those emotions, it was Simon. “What has happened to you? What has given you cause for such venom?”

“Life happened to me, Simon. Everything you likely hoped for and worse.”

“Me? Hoped for?” He blinked. “I never wished you harm.”

“Did you not?” she asked, calmly.

“Maggie, you are not making sense. It’s as if you are blaming me for the affair with Cranford. And the others.”

“Others?” She gave a dry chuckle. “Of course. The others. How could I possibly forget them? Men, women, livestock . . . with so many, it has been difficult to keep them all straight.”

Simon clenched his jaw. She’d damn near broken his heart and that was cause for jests? “Do you think to make light of it?”

“The truth is rarely as humorous as fiction,” she answered, standing taller.

This conversation had gotten away from him. He rubbed at the tension settling at the nape of his neck.

“I think it best if you go.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and moved toward the bell pull behind him.

Surprising even himself, Simon’s hand darted out to catch her wrist. “Wait.” He glanced down at her small, gloved hand. For an insane moment, he wanted to feel the softness of her bare skin, to have her delicate fingers touch and stroke him in return. Once, she’d removed her gloves to trace the edges of a painting at an exhibit all those years ago and it had nearly driven his twenty-three-year-old body mad with desire.

Now why had that insignificant memory resurfaced ?

He dropped her arm. “Wait. I need your help.”

She took a step back and one black eyebrow shot up. “I am fairly certain you have a mistress for that.”

Annoyance rippled through him. Why did she assume everything had to do with fornication? “As it happens,” he ground out, “this is an entirely innocent request.”

She put more distance between them but did not reach for the bell pull. He folded his arms across his chest to keep from touching her again and got to his purpose. “Do you recall the cartoon in the print shop window, the Winejester fellow?”

“Yes,” she said after a beat.

“They were all drawn by the same artist, this Lemarc. I would like you to assist me in finding him.”





Chapter Five


A very good thing they were not sharing tea because Maggie surely would have choked. As it was, she could hardly breathe. Did he say . . . find Lemarc?

Good heavens.

He awaited her response, those cerulean eyes trained on her, when all she wanted to do was laugh at the absurdity of it all. Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .

Through sheer perseverance, she hid her shock behind a mask of cool indifference. “You wish to find Lemarc? Whatever for?”

Simon shifted on his feet. “I find these Winejester drawings to be bothersome. For a number of reasons, I should like to see them stop.”

“And you believe you can convince Lemarc to stop producing them?”

“Yes.”

The arrogance in that one word astounded her. Did Simon think Lemarc would bow to an earl’s whims merely because of his station? It was well known that artists were temperamental creatures, herself included. The idea that he could dictate to Lemarc what she could and could not draw was ludicrous. And irritating.

“Why should he cease to draw such a popular character? Winejester is one of the reasons Lemarc has been discussed so often over the last year.”

“I plan to convince him.”

She swallowed a snort. God save her from male vanity. “I do not doubt it, but no one knows the identity of Lemarc. It’s a well-guarded secret. What makes you believe I would be able to help find him?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “A suspicion, really. Your knowledge of art and techniques may lead to a discovery. I have a number of Lemarc’s paintings at my disposal. Perhaps you could look at them and see if something strikes a chord. A tidbit you’ve heard at a lecture or seen at an exhibit. It’s likely a waste of your time, but I would be grateful for your assistance.”

Waste of time, indeed. No one could unearth Lemarc by merely looking at some bird paintings, especially not that particular series. They had been painted four or five years ago near the shore and contained only birds and water—no people or buildings. If there were distinguishing marks in her paintings, she would’ve been found out long before now.