The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(4)

“Ah. Have you discovered an interest in ornithology, sir?”

The sound of her voice, teasing him in that unique, husky way, prickled over his skin. He didn’t intend the visceral response but found himself helpless to stop it. She’d teased him quite often over the months they’d spent together. She’d made him laugh, more than he’d ever thought possible, and it had not gone unnoticed when it had stopped.

Had she made the late Lord Hawkins laugh? And what of the other men in her past?

“That means birds,” she said, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “I asked if you are interested in birds.”

“More like ladybirds,” Quint muttered, and Lady Hawkins chuckled.

“Yes, I’m aware what ornithology is,” Simon answered. “While I do not claim to be an expert on birds, I find myself suddenly fascinated by them. And you, madam?”

She turned away in order to stare at some bric-a-brac in the glass case. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t know a partridge from a nuthatch, I’m afraid.”

“Have you been to any of the other recent art exhibitions?” Quint asked her.

Other exhibitions? Simon wondered over that. Quint had definitely failed to mention bumping into Lady Hawkins. Odd, since Quint knew the history between her and Simon. Not that Simon cared, of course. He most definitely did not.

“I haven’t had the time,” she was saying. “Did you purchase that painting you were admiring at the Waterfield exhibit?”

“No. I had no interest in buying it,” Quint admitted. “I was trying to deduce how the artist achieved that particular shade of yellow. I’ve not seen one so bright before.”

“It’s produced from a metal called cadmium. I’d only read about the technique before that exhibit.”

“Extraordinary. They must use an acid solution. . . .” Mumbling under his breath, Quint pulled a small notebook and lead pencil from his pocket, then began making furious notes as he strode directly out the door.

“Nice to see some things never change,” Lady Hawkins said. “It appears Lord Quint still becomes utterly absorbed in whatever he’s doing.”

“I had no idea you and Quint were so friendly.”

She searched his face. “Yes, well. Not everyone turned their back on me, I suppose.”

Murmured under her breath, the comment struck Simon as odd. She had made her choices all those years ago, deciding on Davenport, who was now Lord Cranford. That it hadn’t worked out with Cranford had been unfortunate for her, assuredly; her reputation had suffered a heavy blow. But she must have known the potential consequences when she’d risked it all to dally with Cranford. So how was any of what had happened a surprise?

“Would your lordship care for a receipt?”

Startled, Simon turned to Mrs. McGinnis, whose presence he’d completely forgotten. The older woman waited patiently for his answer, but then Lady Hawkins shifted, unintentionally gaining his attention as she drifted off to investigate a painting on the far wall. He shouldn’t want to stay, should take this opportunity to put as much distance as possible between the two of them . . . but he couldn’t do it. He needed to trail after her, talk to her. To what end? he berated himself. To make polite chitchat? God, he was an imbecile. “Yes, I would,” he heard himself tell the shopkeeper.

Mrs. McGinnis hurried to the back of the store, and Simon strolled to Lady Hawkins’s side. “You seem to know a bit about art.”

“A bit. I’ve studied here and there over the last few years.” She shrugged and then gave him a bold appraisal, the pale green flicker raking him from head to toe. “You seem well. Not that I would have expected otherwise.”

Something in her tone had him frowning. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it has been a long time and you appear more . . . I don’t know, more earlish than I recollect.”

“Earlish?” Despite himself, he chuckled. “I am the earl, Lady Hawkins. I was also the earl back when—”

He couldn’t finish it, the words sticking in his throat. Had she known? Had she any notion of what he’d felt for her? Hell, there was a time when just a glimpse of the curve of her neck would give him fits.

He had dreamt of seducing her but intended to wait until they could be married. The more fool he, believing she felt the same.

“How is your mother? I have such fond memories of her,” Lady Hawkins asked.

Simon shifted on his feet, restlessness nearly overcoming him. He wanted both to bolt and never move in equal measure. “She is quite well, thank you. And yours?”

“Her health is rather poor, I regret to say. But we’re managing.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie.” The familiar name slipped out before he could take it back.

She swallowed, but her expression gave nothing away, her gaze still trained on the paintings. “No apologies necessary, Simon,” she said, returning the familiarity. “One thing I’ve learned about myself in all these years is that I’m very good at managing.”

“Yes, that’s what I hear.”

Her head swung to face him. “Do you?”

“You are all anyone talks about.”

Her brow lifted. “And here all I find is constant commentary on your feats in Parliament, Lord Winejester.”