The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(48)
With her entire being, she had longed to stay in the warm cocoon of his bed, their bare legs brushing one another in relaxed, postcoital doze. But it wasn’t real. The contentment was an illusion. He knew nothing about her, not really. In fact, he continued to believe all the untrue, hurtful things said about her. And no matter how tender, how loving he’d been last night, the pain of what had happened during her debut could not be undone.
So she forced herself out of his embrace, to rise and return home. Better that way. Safer. She could not allow herself to feel tenderness or affection for him, not now. Not ever.
Too late, a voice inside her whispered. With her heart a shade too full of feelings this morning, she feared it was true.
Determined to forget, she turned back to her work, the one true solace from the melee of her life. No matter what chaotic mess tumbled down around her, there would always be the art. Her way of bringing joy and beauty into such a harsh, violent, and oftentimes cruel world.
The morning light had just begun to shift overhead when a knock interrupted.
“Yes?” She stretched her fingers to relieve the stiffness.
Tilda appeared. “Milady, that earl is back again, asking to see you.”
“Now?” Oh, dear. She had not expected him so soon. Had he come to update her on Cora? Or did he want to discuss last night? A strong sense of foreboding settled at the top of her spine. “Please show him in, Tilda. I’ll be down directly.”
The maid nodded and withdrew. Maggie spent a few minutes making herself presentable. Washed her hands. Removed her apron and hung it up. Smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks. Then she found a pair of pristine white gloves from a table drawer and slid them on to hide the stains on her fingers. This routine calmed her, as it was something to focus on rather than the nervousness churning in her belly. She had no regrets about last night, far from it, but she did not wish to see him so soon.
In the sitting room, she found him at the window, his arms clasped behind his back. The very sight of sandy hair and those broad shoulders caused her heart to stutter. “Good morning.”
He spun and it immediately became apparent that something was terribly wrong. His bright, crystal blue gaze normally danced, either with mischief or intelligence. Today it was dull. He looked . . . lost. Angry.
She frowned and came forward. “Are you ill? You—”
“I should have known.” He stomped over to the wall and pointed at a frame. “This painting here, the landscape. I should have seen it then. I should have recognized your handiwork.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, the painting?” She thought he’d come to talk about last night. Instead he wanted to discuss . . . her artwork?
He crooked a finger at her, beckoning. Dread settled in her chest, but she forced her feet to move to the wall. Her heartbeat seemed loud in her ears as she stepped closer.
“Here.” A long, elegant finger jabbed at a tiny bird wading in a tiny pool by the sea. “A plover with winter feathering.”
“Yes. That’s correct. I saw them quite often in Little Walsingham.”
“Obviously.” Simon stalked to a side table. He snatched a small painting and held it up for her. An exact match of that tiny plover. Oh, no. The bird paintings . . . she’d used the same pencil sketch for both . . .
The pieces fell into place. The air left her lungs in a rush while darkness filled the edges of her vision. She put a hand up to the wall, steadying herself. Heavens, was she going to faint?
“What an honor to finally meet you, Lemarc.”
Chapter Twelve
The derision in his voice was not lost on her. “How . . .” she asked, the sound surprisingly strong considering how weak she now felt. “How did you find out?”
“I hired a Runner. He followed McGinnis’s errand boy.”
“The abbey.” She closed her eyes. Damn. And here she thought she’d been so clever.
“Yes, the abbey. Really, Maggie, one would think you’d take more care. But then, you’ve never really tried to hide behind respectability, have you?” His jaw taut and shoulders rigid, he seemed to vibrate with raw fury. “I cannot believe you fooled me again. How you must have laughed at me all these weeks. Winejester. Christ!” He tossed the painting down on the table, where it landed with a smack. “I asked for your help in finding yourself!”
She flinched but did not shrink under the force of his anger. There was no time for hurt feelings or to acknowledge the fist-sized ball of regret lodged in her chest. No, this had to be managed. Simon was in a position, both politically and socially, to inflict damage on her—either as Lady Hawkins or Lemarc. Not that she cared about the personal side of things—she’d given up hope on that front many years ago. But she refused to see her livelihood threatened or, God forbid, eliminated.
“What will you do?” she asked him calmly.
His brow furrowed as he rocked back on his heels. “What will I do? Is that all you can think to say? You offer no apologies, nor even any explanations.” He made a dry, brittle sound, a bit like a hollow chuckle. “Of course. Why would you explain yourself? You never do.”
“Believe what you will. Everyone always does. No one is ever interested in the facts. But I must know what you plan—”
“I am, Maggie. I am quite interested in the facts. I should very much like to learn why you have proceeded to turn me into the village nincompoop. Was it not enough to make a fool of me ten years ago? You had to come back and do it once more for equal measure?”