The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(71)

She removed her gloves and selected a piece of charcoal. The sketch-book came next. It was time to work.

As promised, Simon found her in the late afternoon as dusk began to settle. She had moved inside the church hours before to stay warm. While there, she finished sketches of her surroundings and then resumed work on the landscape pieces.

“And how was your afternoon, darling?” He slid into the row in front of her, skin pink from the cold, his piercing blue eyes searching her face.

She stretched and rolled her shoulders. Lud, these wooden pews were not built for comfort. “Lovely. And productive. But I am ready to return to Paris.”

His gaze slid away. “May I see what you are working on?”

She clutched the papers to her chest. “Absolutely not.”

A shadow passed over his face, and he went to stand. “Shall we?”

“Simon.” She rose to touch his sleeve. “I never show my work to anyone until it is done—or at least I am reasonably satisfied with it. It is not personal.”

“It isn’t another Winejester cartoon, is it? Causing a carriage accident on a rural road in France?”

“Absolutely not. I am sketching Welsh landmarks.”

He nodded and gestured to the door. “I shall wait for you just outside, then.”

Something about his demeanor bothered her. He’d been so flirtatious and agreeable earlier. Now he seemed out of sorts. Was he truly worried she would draw Winejester again? She hadn’t put up a Winejester cartoon since the day she’d run into him at Mrs. McGinnis’s shop. In fact, the one she’d drawn after the Colton dinner party had found its way into the fire. With all that had happened between them, she did not feel comfortable with the characterization any longer. It smacked of disrespect and Simon—

She dropped back on the pew, then winced at the pain shooting through her bottom. Goodness. She had sworn never to allow anything or anyone to interfere with her art. When had he become so important to her that she’d adjusted her plans? Granted, she no longer had just cause for revenge against Simon; he’d been duped by Cranford as well. But the bitterness, the anger, the hurt over all the unfairness thrust on her . . . it did not pain her quite as much.

Strange. Perhaps it was Simon’s recent attentions. Or their fragile rapprochement. Art would always be the most important part of her life, but perhaps room could be made for other . . . pursuits. She bit her lip to keep from giggling. Giggling. She—the fearsome Lemarc, who had politicians and the ton quaking in their fashionable boots—nearly giggled. It was unheard of.

Of course she wasn’t merely Lemarc; she was a woman, too. And this particular woman had learned that one particular man liked her laugh. He seemed to like quite a bit about her, the poor misguided fool. Unbelievably, she’d shown him the worst and he hadn’t run screaming.

She quickly packed up her things and strode to the entrance. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, she saw him relaxing against the facade, booted heel propped up on the stone. Tall, athletic, well-proportioned, with a face so beautiful it made her heart hurt. She found herself smiling as she strolled over to him.

He dragged his eyes down the length of her. “You are exceedingly happy for a woman who just spent three hours inside a church.”

“It was quiet and I had enough space and light. How can I possibly complain?” He reached and took the case out of her hands, and she asked, “And how did you spend your afternoon?”

“This and that. Nothing worth retelling. Watch your step,” he said as they began down the narrow stone set of stairs. The sun, now a burnished orange, had just begun to set, and there were lights glowing in the windows of the town below. The streets appeared deserted, with everyone likely off to enjoy pot-au-feu or a cassoulet with their families. Suddenly, she was starving.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and he remained quiet. When she took his arm, she said, “You should know there will not ever be another Winejester cartoon.”

His brows rose. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “I have decided to give him up.”

“I wish I could say I will miss him. But whatever your reasons, I am grateful.”

Since she did not care to tell him those reasons, she asked, “Are we to eat before we leave?”

“About that,” he started. “We are not leaving. At least, not tonight.”

Feet planted, she faced him. “What do you mean, ‘not leaving’?”

“It is too late to travel back. So we shall spend the night here in Auvers. I’ve procured us a room.”

“But it is barely dusk. We could make it back in a few hours. Why not leave now?”

He shook his head. “No. I do not want to travel in the dark. Not with you. It is not safe. We shall go back in the morning.”

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. This was a sudden development . . . or had he planned this all along? First he’d practically kidnapped her and now stranded her in rural France. “Was this your goal all along?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—and keep moving before we both freeze.” He took her arm and led her toward town. “I did not plan the carriage accident, Maggie.”

“When you say you have procured a room, do you mean one room? Or two rooms?”

He sighed, the burst a white plume in the cold air. “If you would prefer separate rooms, I can easily get another one.”