The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(66)

“What did he do with your sketch of him?”

Heat suffused her face. “He framed it. It hangs in his apartments in Montmartre.”

“And that embarrasses you? I should think you would be filled with pride over impressing him.”

She waved her hand. “I’ve offered many times to redo it. Lucien won’t hear of it.”

“I cannot say I blame him. Sometimes the memory means more. Will you sketch me one day?”

She bit her lip, trying not to giggle. He sighed, reading her perfectly. “I meant a true sketch. Not Winejester. I’ve had the obligatory portrait done when I took over the title. Hangs at Winchester Towers and I can hardly stand to look at the thing. I should like to see what you see.”

Her first instinct was to refuse. Drawing could be quite personal, an intimate connection between artist and subject. She made a study of her model, noticed every hair, every shadow, to create the most true representation possible. With Simon, however, there would be no need to study; she had every inch of him committed to memory. “Perhaps,” she finally answered.

“How did you first start drawing, or notice you had a passion for it?”

She grinned at the memories. “Rebecca. She noticed my propensity for sketching during the lessons with our governess. Instead of learning my figures or practicing my penmanship, I was nearly always drawing. She encouraged me, along with my father.”

“The poet, correct?”

“Yes. He pushed me to express myself through paints and sketches. Even tried to convince my mother to let me travel abroad instead of coming out. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She was determined to see me molded into a proper English lady.” And look at how well that turned out.

“You never mentioned your hobby all those years ago.”

She shrugged. “Mother warned me not to reveal my unusual interests. She wanted me to appear just as demure and dim-witted as the rest of the girls debuting that year.”

He chuckled and silence descended for a long moment. Since they were asking questions, she had a few of her own. “Why politics?” she asked. “You never gave a fig about Parliament all those years ago.”

“It’s what is expected of me. The role of the Earl of Winchester.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “And I am adept at it.”

“So I have heard many times over. But do you love it? Feel any passion for it?”

His brows drew together. “One does not need to romanticize a task in order to do it well.”

“But if it does not make you happy, why do it?”

“Because I like to win.” His mouth kicked up. “Have you not learned that yet?”

The carriage began to slow. Simon leaned to see out the tiny window. “Ah, we must be arriving at our first stop. We can stretch our legs while they deal with the cattle.”

Minutes later, Simon helped her out of the carriage. The hanging sign read L’ANNEAU D’OR, or The Golden Ring. It was a modest, provincial structure, constructed of white stone and faded wood. The courtyard stood empty, save their carriage, and the two of them hurried inside.

Simon procured a table while Maggie took care of personal needs. When she found him in the common dining area, he had settled at a table near a small window, his gaze trained on the yard. The soft, gray light cast shadows on the familiar planes of his face, a play of chiaroscuro that fascinated her. He was annoyingly beautiful for a man.

Soon they were fortified with tea and ale, which they drank in companionable silence. A thought struck her and she had to stifle a giggle.

A tawny eyebrow quirked. “You find something amusing?”

“It just occurred to me, this is the longest amount of time we have spent in each other’s presence without arguing.”

“Not quite,” he murmured, leaning forward. His eyes grew sleepy and dark. “There was another time as well. When you spent the ni—”

“Simon!”

He grinned. “Do not tell me I’ve embarrassed you. Not the woman who flaunts convention with every breath she takes.”

It had nothing to do with propriety. She did not need another reminder of that night; the frequent dreams were enough.

“How is Cora?” she asked instead.

“Much improved when I left. My housekeeper will keep a sharp eye on her. The girl expressed some interest in the kitchens, so she’ll be trained below stairs when she’s ready. If we cannot use her, she’ll be sent to any number of households nearby.”

“You sound as if you’ve done this before.”

“Many times,” he answered after a swig of ale. “Barrett House is generally full to overflowing with housemaids and kitchen maids. If we cannot house any more, Mrs. Timmons sends them to Colton or Quint.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ah?”

“That is why Julia sent for you, is it not? And why Madame Hartley turned the girl over to you.”

“Yes.”

She sipped her tea and tried to fit this newfound knowledge into the image she’d established of him in her mind. Any way she turned it over, she could not understand a reason for his generosity. She had a hundred questions—did he truly hire any girl who presented herself? How did his staff manage it all?—but the one that emerged was, “Why do you do it?”