The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe Page A

vibrancy and serenity of the location, as well as the chaos of the ocean. The artist had skill. Odd there was no signature in the corner. It had the look of a Gainsborough or Sandby, to his eye.
    Art normally bored him to tears, but this . . . this calmed him. He could stare at it and not grow to hate it day after day. There was something about it, though, something familiar about the image. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not the location, exactly—
    The door opened, startling him.
    “Good afternoon.”
    And there stood Lady Hawkins, every bit as vibrant and lovely as the painting he’d just been studying. The combination of black hair, luminous green eyes, and porcelain skin made his breath catch—just as it had all those years ago. Only she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a woman with fuller curves. He wished he could have witnessed her transition, he realized.
    She dropped a quick curtsy. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
    He bowed. “I have not been waiting long. I’ve been admiring this picture here.” He gestured to the watercolor. “I was attempting to discern the artist, but it’s unsigned. Do you know who painted it?”
    She smoothed the folds of her dark blue gown and drew near, her eyes on the painting. “Do you like it?”
    The hesitation and attention to her clothing gave him the impression the question unnerved her. His first thought was that someone close to her had painted it. A lover, perhaps? “I do, very much. I’m not an expert when it comes to art, but this is well done.”
    Satisfaction curved her generous lips. “Excellent.”
    Definitely a lover. A dark, irrational jealousy churned in his stomach. Would he forever be reminded at every turn just how many men had graced her bed? “Shall we sit?” he bit out.
    “I painted it.”
    “You?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, and a strange look passed over her face before she could hide it.
    “Shocking that a woman possesses talent, I know.”
    “I meant no such ridiculousness. You’re quite gifted.”
    “You are too kind,” she murmured, though there was a tone in her voice that sounded . . . offended?
    “Would you care to sit?” he heard himself ask again.
    She cocked her head, studied him with an enigmatic expression. “I’d rather stand. I suppose it’s only polite to offer you refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”
    He refused as Maggie drifted away toward the armchair by the fire. Instead of sitting in it, she ran her fingers over the high back, stroking the fabric and regarding him thoughtfully. “Have you come to see if I live up to my name?”
    “What?” he blurted. She couldn’t mean—
    “We’re both aware of what everyone calls me, Simon. I’ve heard the word nearly every place I have turned for ten years. One would not think the residents of Little Walsingham to be so current on gossip, but”—she shrugged—“there it is. So have you decided to find out if I have earned the title?”
    A vivid image flashed through his mind—one of Maggie on her back, skirts hiked up to her waist, legs spread invitingly—and lust swept through his groin. He had to force the arousing picture from his mind. “You believe I’ve come to try and fuck you.” He was deliberately crude.
    She didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do. Why else would you visit? Or perhaps you wanted to see if I decorated my house with nude frescos. Or if I keep young men tethered in my chambers to have my wicked way with them whenever I want. You would not be the first to ask if the rumors were true.”
    Astonishment rocked him back on his heels. Hard to say which he found more distasteful: that she’d said it, or that she thought so little of him in the first place. “And yet you seem determined to feed those rumors. With extravagant parties and dancing in pools, is it any wonder they talk about you?”
    “If I give them something to talk about, at least they cannot fabricate stories out of sheer boredom. But really, this is all beside the