The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(54)
She gave him her haughtiest glare, the one reserved for her critics. “I do not mope.”
He produced a heavy, put-upon sigh and resumed reading his paper. She settled back in the surprisingly comfortable iron chair and watched the sparse activity on the street through the window.
Lucien had recently moved outside the city walls to the hillside village of Montmartre. Maggie suspected this was for privacy reasons, as well as to distance himself from the growing conservatism and civil unrest sweeping Paris in the last few years. She was glad to see Lucien place more importance on happier pursuits as he aged, rather than the political causes he’d once undertaken. With its windmills and vineyards, Montmartre was a quiescent alternative to his former chaotic life.
The café, situated inside a rooming house a few blocks from Lucien’s apartments, was typical of those everywhere in France, with rows of tables, a few comfortable couches, and gilded mirrors gracing the walls. As Lucien often said, the French were like spoiled young girls—they preferred to be surrounded by pretty things at all times.
Most of the morning crowd had already dispersed, leaving only a few customers remaining, and Maggie continued to gaze out the window pensively. She leaned forward and exhaled, a tiny cloud of warm fog forming a perfect little O on the cold glass. Reaching up, she traced an intricate pattern in the mist with the tip of her forefinger.
“I noticed you received a letter from Madame McGinnis yesterday. How are things in London?” Lucien asked casually over his copy of Le Constitutionnel.
The shopkeeper had written to inform Maggie of sales, offers, and the gossip of the London art world. At this moment, however, she didn’t want to think of Lemarc—or London. “Ever the same. She is anxious about the delivery of my next pieces.”
“You have not worked much since you arrived. Perhaps it is time?”
She stuck her tongue out at him, which made him chuckle. But he was right, of course. Life did not stop for a broken heart—a lesson she had learned many years ago. So she did what came as natural as breathing : she removed a sketch-book and pencil from her satchel and got to work. Mrs. McGinnis’s concern was not unwarranted; the drawings were almost due to Ackermann. No longer could Maggie allow troubles to keep her from her routine.
Soon, Maggie lost herself in the movement of her hand, the results emerging on the paper. The morning wore on, the bell above the door tinkling here and there, low voices chattering, but Maggie paid no mind. Lucien knew better than to talk to her, and she continued to put idea after idea to paper.
After she’d gotten the sketch the way she wanted, she put down her materials. “What shall we do today?” she asked Lucien, stretching away the soreness in her fingers. “Another museum?”
He folded his paper. “I must go into the city. Henri is rehearsing this afternoon and would like me to give my opinion on his performance. Would you care to join me?”
“That might be fun. You did say I should see Gericault’s new piece.”
“Oh, oui. Raft of the Medusa. It will cause an uproar at Salon this year.” Lucien’s gaze fairly glowed as it often did when they discussed great art. “You should not leave Paris without seeing it.”
“Who said I am leaving Paris?”
Lucien rolled his eyes. “You English, you are so impetuous. One fight with your lover and you run away. I am not complaining, because it has brought you here to me. But at some point, you will miss him enough to go home, or he will come to Paris and fetch you.”
“You are wrong,” she argued. “Neither of those things will happen. I had perfectly good reasons for leaving London—and not all of them had to do with a man.”
“I do not doubt it, ma chère.” With a snap, he lifted the paper back up in front of his face. The newsprint rustled ever so slightly, and she suspected he was laughing at her.
Maggie huffed and crossed her arms. “And he’s not my lover.”
A bark of amusement erupted behind the paper. She glared daggers at Lucien but held her tongue. Yes, there had been the encounter in her sitting room—she would never look at that sofa in quite the same light—and then the one night at Barrett House. That one magical, soul-altering night at Barrett House. The heat in his eyes as he’d studied her nakedness for the first time. Moist, rapid breath in her ear, the delicious weight of his body as he slid inside her. The low groan when he found his pleasure. No, she would never, ever forget that evening.
But she and Simon would not be sharing any more magical nights. Regret fluttered in her chest, and she beat it back by sheer force of will.
Leaving London had been the right decision. Paris served as salve for a wounded artist’s soul. She could separate herself from the trappings of English Society here, hide at Lucien’s, and focus on her art. In France, she felt more Lemarc than Lady Hawkins. A welcome respite if there ever was one.
But it was time to stop feeling sorry for herself, both for Lucien’s sake and her own.
Even so, she had no intention of returning to England. Paris would suit for however long she fancied. Simon could continue his lauded political career, without the hindrance of his association to the Half-Irish Harlot and/or Lemarc. Marcus and Rebecca would settle in the country, and their mother would continue to be well provided for. Lemarc’s works would continue to sell at McGinnis’s Print Shop. In fact, she could not think of one good reason to hie herself back to London. Perhaps she’d travel the Continent for a few years, as she’d once dreamed.