The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(27)
When the door opened, Simon found the same servant he’d encountered on previous visits staring back at him. He presented his card and requested an audience with Lady Hawkins. The woman eyed him critically before allowing him entry. She held out her hands to take his things, so he rested the paintings on a small table and began removing his greatcoat.
A card on the table caught his eye. The name on it, easily read even from his height, caused him to gnash his teeth. “Has Lord Markham departed?”
“No, my lord. Her ladyship is still engaged. Perhaps your lordship would care to wait in the salon?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He gave her his coat and snatched up the paintings. “I am acquainted with them both. Lady Hawkins will not mind if I intrude.” A bold lie, if he’d ever heard it—not that he cared.
Having been here a few days prior, he knew precisely where to go. The servant followed closely behind. “My lord,” she called, but he walked quickly, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest providing him additional speed.
Seconds later, he threw open the drawing room door, stepped in. Maggie’s head shot up and she gaped, while Markham rose and saluted Simon with his teacup. “Welcome, Winchester. Care to join us?”
Of all the wretchedly inconvenient timing.
Maggie watched with dismayed interest as Simon strode farther into the room, a stack of small canvases in his hands. She’d barely begun discrediting Simon’s upcoming proposal to Lord Markham when the earl himself strolled in. Surely Simon wouldn’t stay, would he?
She observed him from under her lashes. Long legs wrapped in tight buckskin breeches, tall, black boots, wide shoulders framed in a sapphire-blue topcoat. He was every bit as breathtaking and imposing as ever. And just as it had done at eighteen, her silly heart stuttered at the sight of him. She forced her eyes elsewhere.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he said smoothly.
“Nonsense,” Lord Markham returned and lowered into his chair. “You might well be interested in this conversation.”
Simon wasted no time in joining, the lout. After placing the canvases on a table, he made himself comfortable. “Is that so?” He lifted an eyebrow and shot Maggie a look dripping in sarcasm. “By all means, continue. I am trembling with anticipation.”
Did he think she was wooing Markham—or allowing Markham to woo her? Likely yes, since he believed her bedchamber to be filled by a never-ending stable of able-bodied lovers. She straightened and did not attempt to hide her displeasure. “Would you care for tea, Lord Winchester? Since you intend to stay, that is.”
“No, thank you, Lady Hawkins. Though your offer is most generous.” His tone implied entirely the opposite, and she longed to pick up a saucer and toss it at his head.
“The lady was just explaining—” Lord Markham started.
“My lord,” Maggie interrupted. “I am certain Lord Winchester has more interesting topics of conversation in mind than our boring matter.”
“Indeed,” Simon drawled, “I am certain I do not. Pray continue, Markham.”
Markham’s gaze darted between her and Simon, and then he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the lady was telling me about your—”
“Estate. We’ve just been discussing your estate,” she blurted.
Markham blinked rapidly but did not contradict her, thankfully. “Why, yes. That’s so. Quite.” Maggie relaxed, relieved Markham hadn’t given her up. Simon would be furious to learn she was actively working to thwart his idiotic proposal.
“My . . . estate.” Simon stripped off his gloves and began drumming his fingers on the edge of the chair, his expression cool and disbelieving. “Truthfully, I am impressed. To be clear, which of the four estates in my care were you discussing?”
Four? Her mind scrambled for a name. “Winchester Towers. But let us move on to other matters. I dislike carrying on serious discussions in a crowd.”
“Surprising, since you certainly prefer crowds for everything else.”
Her breath caught. Then Winchester’s comment from last evening—I only play games when there aren’t quite so many players. I don’t care to be one of many—came back, and anger heated her blood, boiled inside her like a rising tide. His insults were unjustified and tiresome. She wanted to lash out, to hurt him as he’d hurt her. A petty and childish wish, to be sure, but it was very, very real. Only sheer force of will—and Markham’s stupefied presence—kept her from giving Simon the tongue lashing he so sorely deserved.
His proposal would fail. She would see to it. Tethering a woman to a man who had abused her, even for financial gain, was wrong. She’d seen women who had suffered cruelty at the hands of men, and most of them wanted to forget the entire experience. An annual stipend would only reopen old wounds again and again. Perhaps another Winejester cartoon was in order, one in which the character rose to even greater heights of buffoonery. Yes, he may think he’d bested her . . . but Maggie would not lose in the end.
“I like crowds,” Markham put in to fill the silence.
“I do as well,” Maggie echoed, grateful for the distraction.
More drumming, busy digits registering annoyance. “I have matters to discuss with the lady, Markham. Perhaps your visit has concluded?”
Markham gaped. Simon outranked him, and arguing would be fruitless. Maggie, on the other hand, did not care for anyone coming into her home and making a guest uncomfortable. “You overstep, sir. Lord Markham is welcome to stay as my guest.”