The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(65)
Nevertheless, who was this man? How had she come to know him? Even after all that had happened between them, he still didn’t know much about her. Well, he was of a mind to change that, starting tonight.
He waited for a break in the conversation. “Lady Hawkins,” he interjected, “might I have a word in private?”
Awkwardness descended until Sophia said, “Indeed, I must be getting back to my box. My stepmother will be looking for me. Jean-Louis, would you mind escorting me back? I would love to hear more about the type of paintings you create.”
They said their good-byes and Sophia fairly dragged the Frenchman away, much to Simon’s relief. Now alone in the box with Maggie, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
“Very much. Henri is marvelous. And you?”
“Yes, though truthfully I haven’t seen much of it.”
“Did you arrive late?”
“Seconds after the curtain rose. The mob outside was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was referring to something else entirely, however.”
“Oh, the lovely Lady Sophia. I suppose she could be quite dis—”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “You know very well she is not the reason I am here tonight. I came for you.”
She bit her lip, the soft, plump flesh disappearing between her front teeth. Simon remembered her mouth and the extraordinary sensation when she’d used it on him. Heat flared in his groin.
“Simon, these arguments are exhausting, and I cannot see why we should continue. You have my gratitude for the presents, but you needn’t send any others.”
The words she’d flung at him the other night flickered in his mind. You broke my heart once. I shall not give you the chance to do it again. Julia had alluded to it in London, but hearing Maggie admit it changed everything. No longer would he wait. He meant to break down the walls she kept up between them. If she’d cared for him once, she could do so again. He merely needed to wage a clever, careful campaign.
So for the moment, he chose to avoid disagreeing with her. Instead he would employ strategy, much as he did when trying to win votes. “Have you seen Notre Dame?”
She blinked. “Of course. Many times. Why?”
“Will you accompany me there? Tomorrow?” Confusion wrinkled her brow and he fought the urge to grin.
“Tomorrow?” She frowned. “Positively not. I cannot go traipsing about Paris with you tomorrow. I am too far behind in my work.”
He reached for a silken black curl gracing her cheek, gently tucked it behind her ear. “Bring your work along. I promise to find you a quiet spot and leave you alone.”
“But why would you—?”
Before she could finish, the performers returned to the stage. Without waiting for permission, Simon took her hand and led her to her seat. Once she sat, he brushed his lips over her gloved fingertips. He noticed the color that stole over her cheeks. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured and then strode out of the box, enjoying his small victory.
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie winced as the carriage bounced into another rut in the road. Simon rested across from her, his long legs stretched out as far as space would allow. As promised, he’d arrived early this morning to collect her for this mysterious journey. She had tried to refuse and send him away, but even Tilda seemed to be on his side, marching Maggie out the door like a side of beef off to auction.
They’d been traveling for nearly an hour, having left the city proper some time ago. Obviously Simon had fabricated the story of visiting Notre Dame. She should have known he would pull a trick on her. At the very least, she wished she’d packed more of her painting and drawing supplies before agreeing to this kidnapping. The devil only knew where he planned to take her and how long they would be gone. She supposed she should be worried, demanding to know what he was about. But it was too late to turn back, so what was the point? At least the warming bricks kept the temperature cozy despite the cold outside.
She gazed out the small window, admiring the French countryside with its quiet wheat fields awaiting spring. The sky held no color, a blanket of mottled shades of gray, and she enjoyed the bracing fresh air outside the city walls. Wide open spaces with their dormant trees and shrubs always relaxed her, and it had been much too long since she’d allowed herself this small indulgence.
Even so, why in God’s name had she agreed to accompany him today?
“How did you meet Barreau?”
Simon’s question startled her, both the interruption of the silence and the topic. She shifted to face him. “I came to Paris with my sister and her husband. Every morning, I used to walk down a certain section of the Rue de Rivoli and I noticed an artist there each day. He painted the crowd, lost in his work, but now and then I’d see him sketching a portrait for a customer. I began watching him and noticed he never took money for the sketches. And his work . . . oh, it was extraordinary. Truly extraordinary. So vivid and realistic. So one day, I approached and asked him why he never accepted payment for his sketches.” Her mouth turned up in amusement. “That sparked a long and passionate diatribe about how art belongs to the people and it is an artist’s duty to share that gift with everyone gratis.”
“Ah, a Jacobin.”
“No doubt, had he been born earlier. So I complimented him on his work and we discussed art. He handed me his charcoal and some paper and instructed me to sketch him. Testing me, of course. When I produced the sketch, he nearly fell out of his chair.” She chuckled. “He asked what artist I had apprenticed under. For weeks, I could not convince him I was self-taught. He suspected me of lying until my ineptitude about business matters became apparent. Lucien may be jaded to the ways of the world, but he is not ignorant. He’s taught me a great deal over the years.”