The Harlot Countess (17 page)

Chapter Thirteen

 

“
Ma chère,
relax. You are making me nervous.”

Maggie glanced across the small table at her mentor and good friend Lucien Barreau. With his artfully tousled brown hair and delicate features, she often teased him that he appeared more poet than painter. They were close in age, Lucien a year older, but he’d been painting his entire life. Without doubt, he was the most talented, generous, and knowledgeable artist Maggie had ever met.

And right now he was staring at her, his handsome face pulled into a frown.

“Forgive me,” she offered, weakly. She lifted a delicate cup to her lips and sipped the warm, fragrant Parisian coffee.

“Maggie,” Lucien said gently. His brown eyes were compassionate but resolute. “No more,
s’il vous plâit.
You have been here almost three weeks, and the moping . . . I cannot take it anymore. It is unlike you.”

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.

Her glance swung back to Lucien, who remained suspiciously silent behind his paper. Her friend’s earlier words pricked at her pride.
Simon is not my lover,
she repeated to herself. Perhaps he could have been, if circumstances had been different. She would have enjoyed learning more wickedness at his hand. Or hands, more like it.

That made her smile, but her amusement quickly faded when she remembered their last conversation. It hadn’t been an argument—well, not an argument of the type Lucien assumed. Simon had been . . . disappointed in her. Not to mention hurt by her duplicity. He’d refused to listen to reason, to accept her explanations, which could hardly be Maggie’s fault. Stubborn man.

Granted, she hadn’t exactly fought to make him understand. Maggie plucked the pencil off the table and twirled it in her fingers. Why would she? No one ever listened, in her experience. Simon would certainly be no different. After all, he’d accepted Cranford’s lies. Not once had he sought an explanation of the scandal. Yes, Cranford had produced proof, but it had been lies, all lies. Shouldn’t Simon have possessed at least a glimmer of doubt?

Devil take them all. Simon, Cranford, all the
ton.
She was tired of trying to fit into a world that neither believed in her nor had any interest in the truth. For God’s sake, she was not some hysterical female given to fits of the vapors. She’d endured a scandal, heartbreak, a forced marriage, her father’s death, her mother’s rapid decline, the entire
ton
whispering and gossiping about her....

She would not hide, licking her wounds and feeling melancholy about all that had transpired. Lucien was right. To do such a thing was
not
like her at all. Which meant one thing.

“I will accompany you into the city today,” she told Lucien. “I plan to see if my old house on
l’avenue
Gabriel is available.”

“You mean the lodgings you declared entirely too large for one simple English widow?” he drawled.

“The very one. And while the house may be too large for one simple English widow, it is perfect for the outrageous Half-Irish Harlot. It is time to host another party.”

Lucien slowly lowered the paper to smile at her. “Ah, at last. Welcome back,
ma chère
.”

Not even residing in a different country prevented gossip. Quite the contrary, in fact. Living amongst foreigners transformed the English into a tight-knit little group, and any news of those from home spread quickly. Therefore, Simon got word of Maggie’s appearance the instant she moved into the rambling house on Avenue Gabriel.

He felt overwhelming relief at the news. He’d been in France for over two weeks, unable to locate her despite his best efforts, and the worst possible outcomes started to occur to him: that she’d fallen overboard during the crossing. That she had been kidnapped by a band of thieves. That his information had been incorrect, and she hadn’t gone to Paris at all.

He worried Julia’s warning had materialized, that he’d lost Maggie for good.

Therefore, upon learning her location, his first instinct had been to rush to her house, apologize, and then kiss her senseless. It had taken Quint a quarter of an hour to convince him otherwise.

“The lady’s not receiving, Winchester. I was turned away at the door, and she certainly isn’t going to feel any friendlier toward you,” Quint had told him, after returning. “Not after the way you acted. Your best plan of attack would be to show up when she cannot escape you, then force her to hear you out. Word is she’s throwing a masquerade in ten days’ time. We’ll go along and you can plead your case then.”

So for over a week, Simon paced his top-floor rooms at Hôtel Meurice like a caged lion, doing little but thinking on Maggie. Julia had planted the seed, but now Simon knew it as fact. Maggie was the reason he’d never married. He’d told himself all these years that he preferred being alone, but in truth he’d never found anyone quite like her. No one who made him feel alive the instant she stepped into a room. Who kept him guessing and wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. A woman who had caught him pleasuring himself and had not run screaming from the room.

He would not give her up. No more lies, no more mistrust. He would make Maggie believe it, use every bit of charm and persuasion in his possession until she accepted the inevitable.

Now he, along with half of Paris it seemed, had crammed into Maggie’s ballroom. Throngs of guests mingled about, all dressed in various revealing costumes. There were satyrs and goddesses, pirates and courtiers. A host of Madame de Pompadours as well as King Henry the Eighths. Quint had chosen to dress as one of his heroes, Francis Bacon, though not a soul would likely recognize the costume. Impractical choice, considering the high heels, wig, and ruff, but it was hard to talk Quint out of something once he’d set his mind.

Though he hadn’t seen the hostess yet, he knew her costume. He’d paid handsomely for the information so that his own ensemble would complement hers. He hoped she appreciated his effort, considering his bollocks had nearly frozen off on the way over.

The surroundings were spectacular. Maggie had truly outdone herself. The interior of the ballroom had been transformed into a lush Egyptian oasis, with potted palms and other smaller green plants dotting the space, accompanied by gold columns draped in red fabric. A wall hanging of a desert landscape—mounds of sand under a burning-hot orange sun—covered one side of the room, and he wondered if she had painted it. Tiny sitting areas with divans, pillows, and carpets were set up around the room so guests could relax and watch the revelry on the dance floor.

The footmen were in costume as well, each bare-chested and wearing a black half-mask resembling a jackal. The top portion of each mask covered the men’s eyes, with tall, dark ears pointing to the ceiling, leaving their mouths and noses free. Gold bands encircled their upper arms and thick neck plates of gold and onyx rested against the naked skin of their collars. Black and gold skirts fell to their mid-thighs. Where on earth had she hired these fellows?

Despite the sea of costumes and dominoes, he spotted her with little effort. She stood at the far end of the ballroom, surrounded by guests. Mostly men, from what he could see. Little wonder considering the flimsy, nearly transparent white gown she wore. The cloth pulled tight across her bosom, thrusting her breasts up and out, while ropes of gold beading hung in her black hair, attached to a gilded band encircling her head. Gold shoes adorned her feet, the straps crossing over her ankles. She held a glass of champagne in one hand and a curved scepter in the other.