Chapter Eleven
The adjoining door closed softly and Maggie took her first true breath in a quarter hour. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so hard and loud that she’d been sure he would notice. But self-preservation had urged her to keep silent.
His ministrations had been so tender, almost . . . loving. He’d made a concerted effort not to wake her and she’d played along. Besides, if she did stir, what would she possibly say? Touch me, Simon. Kiss me. Prove what happened yesterday afternoon had not been chance.
It had not been easy. His featherlight touch roused her body, each brush of his hand or press of his finger making her ache. She’d practically purred under his care, like a kitten starved for attention. When he’d unfastened her laces, she’d thought she would melt into a pool of lust before his eyes.
Her breasts heavy with wanting and her core wet with desire, she could hardly breathe with the strength of it. The one spot where pleasure concentrated, the nubbin Simon had stroked to bring her to peak only yesterday, throbbed in time with her heart. He had awakened her in every way, and sleep would not come soon.
She rolled to her back in hopes of alleviating the craving, opened her eyes, and tried to focus on her surroundings. The pretty yellow wallpaper. The bouncing firelight in the grate. She recognized the painting over the mantel as Wilkie’s Village Politicians. Appropriate for Barrett House, she thought, considering the political legacy of the Earls of Winchester.
Even the masterful Dutch-inspired work could not distract her, however. Her body clamored for relief.
The adjoining door, was that his bedchamber? He’d gone through not long before, so she had to assume he was on the other side of that partition. What was he doing? Relaxing? Undressing? Or, God help her, bathing?
Imagining his tall, lean frame wet and bare, water sluicing over his limbs, did little to ease her suffering. She cupped a hand between her legs over her clothing, hoping to extinguish the flames of desire licking there—only to gasp at the contact. Decidedly worse, she noted in dismay and snatched her hand away.
Why had she consumed the whisky at Madame Hartley’s? If she had not, under no circumstances would she have fallen asleep at Cora’s bedside. Late nights were commonplace for her. She often painted until the wee hours of the morning, not to mention that raucous parties thrown by the Half-Irish Harlot usually continued until daybreak. And if she hadn’t nodded off she’d be at home at the moment, not writhing under the grip of deliciously wicked temptation.
Before she knew it, her feet found the hard floor. Her gown hung awkwardly, nearly off her shoulders since Simon had loosened it. Perhaps she could ask him to finish unlacing it. No, no—this was madness. Reckless insanity. She couldn’t possibly . . . could she? What would she say?
Very little, with any luck.
What she should do, what any sane woman would do, she thought as she moved closer to his door, was demand he redo her laces and then send for her carriage. But as her fingers wrapped around the door handle, she knew full well she wouldn’t.
The partition opened soundlessly and she peeked into what turned out to be a bedchamber. The soft glow of flames bounced off the corners of the massive room, revealing large, masculine furnishings. It was precisely the kind of room she expected—
A soft grunt caught her attention, and her eyes swung to the immense four-poster bed.
Her mouth fell open. Simon, bare as the day he was born, had stretched out on top of the coverlet and he was . . . touching himself. His shaft, specifically. He gripped it, stroking up and down, the muscles in his arms shifting as he worked. Eyes closed, face slackened in pleasure, his hand continued a regular rhythm, pumping from root to tip.
Lord above, he was beautiful.
She watched, fascinated, helpless to look away. There was no extra flesh on him. Flat stomach, broad shoulders, heavy, muscled thighs that bunched and twitched under the strain. Light golden hair dusted his upper chest, forearms and legs. He was breathtaking. She longed for her pencils and sketch papers in order to capture the essence of the purely selfish, purely spellbinding action.
The desire she’d felt in the other room paled in comparison to the inferno now raging inside her. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts as he stroked, the pressure clearly building. Top to bottom, then back again. Stronger now, moving faster. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Dug her toes into the carpet to keep from rushing forward. She’d never wanted to touch anyone so badly in all her years. Her limbs nearly vibrated with the force of remaining still.
His free hand came off the bed to rest on his belly, then began to slide lower. It didn’t stop where she assumed. Instead his long leg shifted, opened, and he reached down to cup the sac below. A groan rumbled out of his throat. Maggie’s knees turned to jelly, and she had to clutch the door frame to steady herself.
A small sound must’ve carried across the room because his lids snapped open, and Simon’s blue eyes, glittering and dark, pinned her to the spot. His hands stilled. Maggie held on to the wood, unsure of what she should say. How could she explain her unladylike, brazen behavior?
The fire crackled and hissed while she tried to wade through the murkiness of her mind to arrive at a coherent thought. One haughty blond eyebrow rose. No anger or shame in his expression, merely curiosity. His gaze, however, held wicked promise, almost as if he dared her to come forward.
“Do not stop,” she breathed, her voice a strangled plea. Oh, God. Had she truly said that aloud?
The side of his mouth hitched. Releasing the twin weights below his straining erection, he crooked a finger at her. She shook her head wildly. If she got close, there was no telling what she may do.
“Come here, Maggie.”
As if he’d pulled a string tethering her to him, her feet started forward at his husky command. The closer she crept, the more detail she noticed. The ridges, angles, and hollows along his delectable frame. The fine sheen of perspiration coating his skin. A small scar on his muscled abdomen. At the foot of his bed, she grabbed on to the nearest wooden poster, held it.
“I was unaware I had an audience,” he said. The hand began moving once more, drawing her eye below his navel. His palm swept over the bulbous head, then he fisted himself and pumped a few times. “You are so beautiful, all flushed in your arousal. Have you ever seen a man frig himself before?”
“No,” she whispered.
“It’s plain you’ve enjoyed the performance. Tell me what watching me makes you want to do.”
Dishonesty never occurred to her. “I want to lick you.”
His hand stilled and he gave a small intake of breath. “Where?” he rasped.
Her eyes met his. “Everywhere.”
He released his erection and it fell, stiff and proud, against his belly. Simon slid both arms above his head, his body stretched out in front of her in all its straining, aroused, masculine glory. Her mouth went dry. In no hurry, he waited. Clearly challenging her to see what she might do. Sweet heaven.
Could she do it?
Could she not do it?
It wasn’t as if she was an innocent; her maidenhead had been lost years ago. But pleasure, the kind Simon had shown her yesterday, was a recent discovery. She never would have believed it if she hadn’t experienced it for herself, in fact. And, as if it were a bite of Tilda’s lemon cake, she craved more.
Pulse racing, she began to climb onto the bed until he said, “Your dress. I want to take it off.” Bracing both feet on the floor, she turned to present him with her back. She heard him sit up, could feel the heat coming off his big body behind her, and she held her breath. His fingers flew over the laces. “There.”
She pulled her arms through the sleeves and let the gown fall to a puddle of silk on the ground. Before she could step out, he unfastened her petticoat and pushed the straps off her shoulders. Clasping her hips, he spun her around, reached for the ties of her stays. He removed the garment as quickly as the others and then reclined back on his bed, leaving her wearing only her thin shift.
Simon slid his arms back above his head, almost as if he were trying not to touch her. “Will you remove it, so I can watch?”
Maggie bit her lip. She hadn’t removed her clothing in front of a man before; her maid always undressed her, even during her marriage. But she wasn’t shy with Simon. Perhaps she should be, but he’d already seen most of her and anyway, what was one more pair of breasts? Male artists had been focusing on them since they first used sticks to draw in the dirt. And she’d seen enough art to know there were all different sizes and shapes. Hers were certainly not unique.
Grasping the hem of her shift, she lifted it over her head and tossed it to the floor.
Simon’s heavy-lidded gaze raked over her bare form. Everything inside her melted under his hot, appraising stare.
“Jesus, you are even lovelier than I imagined,” he breathed.
“I could say the same about you.”
“Show me,” he said, though it came out more like a plea than an order.
She climbed onto the massive bed and bent to press her mouth to the inside of his knee. The muscles in his leg jumped. Encouraged, she kissed her way up his thigh. The salty heat of his skin, the slight tickle of the wiry hair . . . She felt drugged on the smell and taste of him as she used her teeth and her tongue to mark her path, while Simon’s rapid exhalations echoed in the quiet of the bedchamber.
She nipped his hip bone and he sucked in a breath. Whereas her own experience had been rather limited, the bawdy engravings and illustrations that circulated through London had provided their own carnal education of sorts. The Lemarc sketches she’d produced for Madame Hartley showed couples engaged in all sorts of activities and positions of which Maggie had never dreamed. At the time, she’d dismissed them as fanciful imaginings. But now . . . now she yearned to explore. To discover. To please.
She swiped the tip of her tongue over the head of his engorged penis. His hips jerked.
“Oh, Christ,” he groaned. “Again, darling.”
She complied, this time starting at the root and working up the entire satiny length. When she reached the end, she wrapped her lips around him and sucked deep, drawing his thick erection into her mouth. His head and shoulders levered off the mattress, then dropped back down with a thud. He cursed, long and fluently, muscles tightening.
Remembering the motion of his hand earlier, she began to repeat the action with her mouth as best she could. If nothing else, surely it would feel pleasant enough—
“My God,” he wheezed. “I won’t last if you keep that up.”
She wanted to smile, but clearly couldn’t, so instead she worked harder, the soft, steely velvet sliding between her lips and against her tongue. It gave her a measure of power to be able to pleasure him this way, to be the one in control. She’d never have guessed as much from the erotic drawings. But this was heady, indeed. The ache between her legs increased as she bobbed up and down over his shaft.
Then she recalled something else from earlier. Her hand glided between his legs to the sac below, where she cupped and squeezed him gently.
“Oh, hell. I cannot—” His hips began rocking, quick, shallow thrusts into her mouth as his fists clutched the bedclothes. “I am going to . . . I cannot . . . God, Maggie!” He ended on a shout, and that’s when she tasted the first spurt of thick, ropy liquid on her tongue.
His body spasmed as he spent himself in her mouth, and she held on, tightening her grip on him during the release as best she could. He gasped and bucked, his seed emptying deep into her throat. Finally, when he stopped shuddering, she released him and placed a kiss to his belly. She’d satisfied him. Made him lose control, even. She was nearly giddy with the happiness, drunk on the power.
“Come here,” he panted. Large hands slipped under her arms and he lifted her up next to him. Their eyes met, and his blue depths were soft and full of a tender emotion she felt down to her toes.
He swept her hair back off her face, gathering the heavy mass to one side. “Do you know,” he asked softly, “what I was thinking of while pleasuring myself?”
She shook her head and he continued, “I was imagining you doing precisely as you just did. And the reality, my sweet lady, far exceeded any of my imaginings.” Cupping the back of her neck, he drew her down slowly toward his mouth. “Kiss me. Let me taste you.”
Her mouth met his, and he immediately parted her lips with his tongue and swept inside. She kissed him eagerly, aggressively, feeding the spark between them.
After a moment, he rolled her to her back. “Now I must return the favor.”
Simon settled between Maggie’s thighs, certain he’d never needed to please a woman more.
He pressed tiny kisses over the soft creamy skin of her inner thigh. He could smell her arousal, could see the glisten of desire on her outer lips. For him. The sight could bring a man to his knees.
He took a moment to merely look at her. Pale skin, with blue veins traceable under the surface. A thatch of black hair covered her mound. Legs parted invitingly. The vision struck him as unbelievably erotic. “God, you are lovely,” he whispered.
With the tip of his tongue, he traced the outer edges of the plump lips that guarded her channel. “Simon!” she gasped and jumped a bit, so he slid his hands beneath her bottom to hold her.
Her reticence surprised him. Surely one of her other lovers had tasted her here. “Relax, Maggie. Let me pleasure you.”
Then he licked her from the bottom of her opening to the tiny bud at the top, barely registering her squeak of shock. How could he pay attention to anything else when she was bared before him, her sex so wet and swollen and undeniably delicious? The sweet tang of her arousal exploded on his tongue and he nearly groaned. He’d never get enough of the taste of her. Indeed, if a man could choose a way to perish, performing this service would be his dying wish.
She gave an inarticulate sound as he began to focus on that one spot, the small bundle of nerves where a woman’s pleasure concentrated. He teased and tormented, using his mouth, his tongue, his hands, and even his teeth, to drive her to madness, listening to her moans and cries to determine what she liked best.
Her hands clutched at his head, fingers threading in his hair to hold him as he continued to work at her. Within seconds, her thighs began to quiver and her body grew tight. He shifted to slip a finger inside her channel and achieved the desired result. She gave a hoarse shout, limbs convulsing while her inner walls clamped down. He loved how she held nothing back, her reaction as honest and enthusiastic as he’d ever experienced. Loved it so much, in fact, his erection now strained against the bedclothes, demanding attention.
When her shudders finally ceased, he crawled up and covered her body with his own. With her flushed skin, tousled black hair, and drowsy, satisfied expression, she was exquisite. He brushed her hair out of her face.
“That was quite wicked of you,” she panted.
“My dear lady, I haven’t even begun to show you wicked.” He bent to suck the hollow behind her ear and rolled his hips, dragging his swollen cock, against her sensitive flesh. “Next time I’ll lie on my back, bring you on top of me with your feet at my head. That way we can both give pleasure with our mouths simultaneously.”
She inhaled and arched up, obviously in accordance with that plan. He grinned and palmed her breast. “Like that, do you? Shall I tell you what else I’d like to do to you?” He rolled her hard, smooth nipple between his fingertips.
“Simon,” she sighed, her lids fluttering closed.
“Perhaps I’ll show you instead.” Crawling down to her breasts, he shaped the luscious mounds with his hands. So lovely and plump. Perfect nipples that tasted like velvet. Lowering his head, he circled the puckered tip with his tongue. Her back bowed, pushing up toward his mouth, so he drew the bead inside and sucked hard.
She clutched him as he continued to lave the taut points of her breasts. When he had her writhing beneath him, soft mewling sounds in her throat, he rose up over her and slid inside. The warm, wet clasp fit him perfectly, and he closed his eyes against the surge of utter bliss. “Oh, Christ,” he heard himself rasp while struggling for control. He needed for this to last.
Her legs wrapped around his hips, pressing closer to urge him on, and instinct took over. Lust and need ripped through him, a force he was unable to resist—much like the woman beneath him. He drove deep again and again, his hips working, their bodies slapping together as he kept them joined. Her nails dug painfully into his back, her sweet gasps filled his ear. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down.
Suddenly she tightened, held her breath. He groaned, “God, yes. Take your pleasure, Mags.” She let out a shout and her silky walls milked his shaft. Pressure built in the base of his spine, spread through his bollocks, and he withdrew in time to spill himself on the sheets. The release went on and on, waves of incredible euphoria that wrung him dry. When it finally finished, he flopped down on the bed, shaken by the intensity and roughness with which he’d taken her.
He closed his eyes, gathered her against his side. He tried to catch his breath along with his sanity. Had it ever been like this with any other woman? If so, Simon couldn’t remember it. Feminine fingers dragged over his chest, exploring and soothing, and for once he remained silent. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t want her to suspect how raw he felt. The emotions coursing through him had no precedent. She’d reached in and flipped him inside out, and he wasn’t at all sure what to do about it.
“I should go back to my room,” she said, starting to pull away.
“Do not dare leave this bed.” He tightened his arm around her, pressed her close. “I am not finished with you yet.”
“Is that so?” She dragged the soft underside of her foot over his shin.
“Yes, that is so. Give me a moment to gather my strength.” And my wits.
“Hmm. So if I get up and leave, you are too weak to follow me.”
He shifted to stare at her. “I will always follow you, Maggie. You’ll not get away from me this time.” And he realized he meant it. He’d lost her once; he would not let her go. No matter the past, he wanted her, and tonight was proof of how satisfactory it could be between them.
She bit her lip, her cheeks turning a pale rose color. He could not decipher whether he’d embarrassed her or pleased her. Perhaps both.
“What did you say to Cora? How did you gain her cooperation and trust?”
He relaxed at the change in topic. No need baring his soul on their first night together. The first of many, he vowed. “I told her she would be safe here, that no one would force her to do a thing against her will.”
“And she believed you?”
His hand caressed her back, slid down to cup one of her buttocks. “I can be very persuasive. Have you not learned that by now?”
She gave him a wry smile, gestured to the bedroom. “Considering where we are and what just transpired, I am well aware of your skills of persuasion.”
“As if you did not enter my bedroom first,” he teased. “I believe you seduced me, madam.”
Deeper color on her cheeks this time. “It’s ungentlemanly of you to remind me.”
He rolled them until he had her pinned beneath him. “Darling, it is a fact I shall never let you forget.” Without giving her a chance to comment, he kissed her, long and sweet. Then he kept on kissing her until she moaned and begged him to take her.
After they’d exhausted themselves, she curled against him, an arm thrown over his chest. Her breath gusted over his skin rhythmically, and Simon had never felt more content. What did the past matter when he had the woman in his bed now? The other men, the scandal, the lies . . . all forgotten. Tonight was what mattered. And tonight, he’d found everything he ever wanted.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered into her thick mass of hair.
As he drifted to sleep, Maggie resting in his arms, he contemplated all the naughty things he’d like to do to her in the morning.
By the dawn, however, she was gone.
“My lord, a Mr. Hollister to see you.”
Simon sighed and carefully placed his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. He’d come down early with the intention of hurriedly breaking his fast so that he might pay a call on Maggie first thing. A number of questions swirled about in his head demanding answers, starting with why had she skulked out of his bed in the wee hours of the night. He’d learned from Stillman she’d called for a maid to help her dress around half past four, then departed in her carriage after checking on Cora once more.
That she hadn’t stayed left a sour taste in his mouth, one not washed away by the morning’s flavorful coffee.
And now the Runner had arrived. Simon still planned to find Lemarc, of course, but he had other issues on his mind that were more pressing than hearing Hollister’s report. “Tell him to come back this afternoon, Stillman.”
His butler bowed and left, and Simon snatched his cup for a deep, grateful sip. Newspapers littered the table, unread. He’d stared at the pages, unseeing, while trying to make sense of Maggie. Last night, she had crept into his chamber and left by the same means the instant he’d fallen asleep. Had she regretted it, then?
No, he told himself. Surely not. Perhaps she had, for once in her twenty-some years, shown a care for her reputation. Servants did talk, and likely she hadn’t wanted to be discovered in his bed. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to alleviate some of the tension that had taken up residence there in the last few hours. Yes, that had to be it.
What she did not yet understand was that he planned to marry her. The Winchester rubies were even now waiting in his study, the finely crafted set that had been in his family for five generations. Each Countess of Winchester had worn them on her wedding day, and Maggie would be no exception, despite her past.
Stillman returned, an unhappy expression on his face.
“My lord, I apologize but Mr. Hollister is rather insistent on seeing you.”
Simon dragged a hand down his freshly shaven jaw. What could be so bloody important? After all, he’d read an update from Hollister only three days ago. Had he discovered Lemarc’s identity in the meantime? Seemed unlikely. Nevertheless, if he could finish this quickly he could deal with more pressing issues. He stood. “Fine. Show him to the study.”
He entered as Stillman and Hollister came down the corridor. Simon made his way toward the desk and did not bother to hide his impatience as he threw himself in his chair. “Well, Mr. Hollister. You’ve got me, so let’s hear your pressing news.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.
Hollister stepped in and bowed. His reserved, serious countenance positively glowed with pride. “I’ve found him, my lord. Or her, as the case may be.”
Simon froze. “Her?” He motioned for the investigator to sit.
“Yes, my lord,” Hollister said, lowering into the chair opposite the desk. “We’ve been following McGinnis’s errand boy. Henrik is his name. Parents moved here three years ago from Prussia, and he began working for McGinnis about a year after she first opened. Mostly he delivers packages, paintings, and the like, around town. Occasionally runs out for supplies. Then we noticed him taking a trip over to an abbey on Knightrider Street. Went in empty-handed but came out with parcels wrapped in brown paper that looked a lot like canvases and engravings.
“So we watched that abbey for a few days as well. Saw a woman going in, carrying some of the same wrapped parcels. Came out, no parcels. My man followed her back to her big house over on Charles Street.”
Simon frowned, thoughts beginning to tumble about in his throbbing brain. Charles Street? No, it couldn’t be. How? Why? Then it all clicked for him, the pieces falling neatly into place, and his breath caught. Good God. The landscape. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? He didn’t even need Hollister to finish, but shock had robbed him of the ability to interrupt.
“We got a name from there and started doing some digging. Turns out, this particular woman and McGinnis knew each other in a small town in Norfolk called Little Walsingham. She was the wife of some fancy nob who kicked off almost two years ago.” Hollister cleared his throat, carried on. “He left her a small amount of money, and we assume the widow gave a portion of this to McGinnis to start the shop. I have a friend at the woman’s bank, and he confirmed monies put in that account by McGinnis over the last two years, presumably for art sold as Lemarc. A nice bit of change, if you ask me.”
“Let me guess,” he bit out, his jaw tight. “Lady Hawkins.”
Hollister blinked. “Well, yes, my lord. Excellent guess. Your lordship may even know—”
Simon’s hand slapped the desk, rattling the inkwell and pen tray. Hollister paled but said nothing as Simon silently fumed. Oh, he’d been so monumentally stupid. This whole time, she’d been making a fool of him. Hot, roiling rage clogged his throat. Lord Winejester. Bloody hell. He wanted to hit something, someone. Anything.
She’d been humiliating him while he’d been mooning over her. Again. Christ, would he never learn?
The velvet box containing the Winchester rubies sat squarely on the corner of his desk, mocking him. No smarter at four and thirty than he had been at three and twenty. His father, a paragon of intelligence and fortitude, would be sorely disappointed in his son. People will depend on you to do the honorable thing.
Simon’s eyes pinned Hollister to his chair. “How certain are you?”
“No doubt whatsoever, my lord. I’ve got proof, if your lordship would care to see.” Hollister gestured to a brown leather case resting on the floor.
Simon needed no proof. Deep down, he knew Hollister’s report to be true. The painting in her drawing room, her knowledge of technique . . . Oh, she must have had quite a laugh over this. It was all he could do to keep his seat, to not go tearing out of the house to demand answers. “No, that will be unnecessary,” he forced himself to say. “Nice work, Hollister. Send me a bill and make sure to include one hundred pounds as a bonus.”
The Runner beamed. “Thank you, my lord. And if your lordship ever requires anything else, just send for me.”
“I will. Thank you, Hollister.”
Simon waited until the investigator left before stomping to the front entry. “Stillman,” he bellowed.
The butler appeared from wherever butlers lurked throughout the day. “Yes, my lord?”
“Phaeton, Stillman. Now.” Spinning on his heel, he marched back to his study. There was one thing he needed to retrieve before he met the famous Lemarc.
Thus far, it had been an extraordinary day.
In her studio, Maggie had set to work on the landscapes for Ackermann, grinning like a simpleton all the while. Hard to recall a time when she’d been this productive. She felt relaxed and well rested, even though she’d had very little sleep. Her cheeks grew hot, the reason obvious. Last evening, well, she’d been in bed but most definitely not resting.
Simon had fallen asleep first, his patrician face boyishly handsome in slumber. She had watched him for a long time, content to merely drink him in. Full lips parted softly, his chest rising and falling. Blond lashes brushing the tops of his angled cheekbones. A thin layer of whiskers spreading over his jaw. How intimate, to see and feel those sharp hairs sprout on a man’s face. How wifely.
With her entire being, she had longed to stay in the warm cocoon of his bed, their bare legs brushing one another in relaxed, postcoital doze. But it wasn’t real. The contentment was an illusion. He knew nothing about her, not really. In fact, he continued to believe all the untrue, hurtful things said about her. And no matter how tender, how loving he’d been last night, the pain of what had happened during her debut could not be undone.
So she forced herself out of his embrace, to rise and return home. Better that way. Safer. She could not allow herself to feel tenderness or affection for him, not now. Not ever.
Too late, a voice inside her whispered. With her heart a shade too full of feelings this morning, she feared it was true.
Determined to forget, she turned back to her work, the one true solace from the melee of her life. No matter what chaotic mess tumbled down around her, there would always be the art. Her way of bringing joy and beauty into such a harsh, violent, and oftentimes cruel world.
The morning light had just begun to shift overhead when a knock interrupted.
“Yes?” She stretched her fingers to relieve the stiffness.
Tilda appeared. “Milady, that earl is back again, asking to see you.”
“Now?” Oh, dear. She had not expected him so soon. Had he come to update her on Cora? Or did he want to discuss last night? A strong sense of foreboding settled at the top of her spine. “Please show him in, Tilda. I’ll be down directly.”
The maid nodded and withdrew. Maggie spent a few minutes making herself presentable. Washed her hands. Removed her apron and hung it up. Smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks. Then she found a pair of pristine white gloves from a table drawer and slid them on to hide the stains on her fingers. This routine calmed her, as it was something to focus on rather than the nervousness churning in her belly. She had no regrets about last night, far from it, but she did not wish to see him so soon.
In the sitting room, she found him at the window, his arms clasped behind his back. The very sight of sandy hair and those broad shoulders caused her heart to stutter. “Good morning.”
He spun and it immediately became apparent that something was terribly wrong. His bright, crystal blue gaze normally danced, either with mischief or intelligence. Today it was dull. He looked . . . lost. Angry.
She frowned and came forward. “Are you ill? You—”
“I should have known.” He stomped over to the wall and pointed at a frame. “This painting here, the landscape. I should have seen it then. I should have recognized your handiwork.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, the painting?” She thought he’d come to talk about last night. Instead he wanted to discuss . . . her artwork?
He crooked a finger at her, beckoning. Dread settled in her chest, but she forced her feet to move to the wall. Her heartbeat seemed loud in her ears as she stepped closer.
“Here.” A long, elegant finger jabbed at a tiny bird wading in a tiny pool by the sea. “A plover with winter feathering.”
“Yes. That’s correct. I saw them quite often in Little Walsingham.”
“Obviously.” Simon stalked to a side table. He snatched a small painting and held it up for her. An exact match of that tiny plover. Oh, no. The bird paintings . . . she’d used the same pencil sketch for both . . .
The pieces fell into place. The air left her lungs in a rush while darkness filled the edges of her vision. She put a hand up to the wall, steadying herself. Heavens, was she going to faint?
“What an honor to finally meet you, Lemarc.”