Chapter Twenty-Two
The drawing room door burst open just as Maggie slid another canvas into a crate. She glanced up and watched as a windblown—but otherwise incredibly handsome—Earl of Winchester sailed into the room. Buff-colored breeches, tall boots, and a dark blue topcoat showed off his lean and powerful frame. Her heart stuttered then squeezed, her chest knotting with regret and grief.
Simon braced his booted feet and placed his hands on his hips. “I do not know whether to kiss you or take you over my knee, you foolish, foolish woman.”
She couldn’t stop herself from muttering, “Am I allowed to say which I’d prefer?”
He shook his head. “It is not amusing, Maggie. I nearly died of apoplexy when Sidmouth announced they’d found Lemarc. I swear, the news shaved ten years off my life.”
“I can certainly relate, considering how I felt when I learned you’d gone to speak on Lemarc’s behalf to the Crown. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking of saving your terrifically appealing backside, madam.”
“While throwing away your standing in Parliament? I could not allow you to do that. This way is preferable. Cranford loses and everyone else wins. Are you not always telling me how much you like to win?”
He did not answer, instead asking, “Tell me, how did you manage to turn Cranford into Lemarc?”
“I retrieved some of the Lemarc pieces from Mrs. McGinnis, which I took, along with various art supplies, to his residence. With his wife in the country and the servants dismissed, the place was a tomb. Julia and Lady Sophia helped me. Sophia’s lock-picking skills are impressive, in case you were wondering.”
Simon glanced heavenward. “I was not wondering, no. I vow, the three of you will be the death of me.”
He exhaled and crossed to where she stood. A large hand rose to gently cup her cheek, tenderness shining in the blue depths of his eyes. “You’ve given away Lemarc after you worked so hard to achieve success. Cranford will be lauded as one of the great artists of the day.”
“No.” She stepped back, putting distance between them. “He will be considered a radical. Likely all his work will be confiscated and burned, no matter the subject.”
“I cannot stand by and watch your work destroyed. How can you bear it?”
Because I love you more than I need to be Lemarc. She forced a shrug and continued to pack up her new canvases. “You can do nothing, Simon. Leave it be.”
When she did not respond, he seemed to finally take notice of his surroundings. “Are these new supplies to replace what you lost in the fire?”
Maggie nodded. She’d had Simon’s staff pick up a small number of things this afternoon while she was at Cranford’s town house, just enough to get her by until she settled somewhere.
Simon scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Then why are you packing it up, including the supplies and blank canvases?”
“I cannot stay here.” She had dreaded this part. Steeling herself, she faced him. “I am leaving London. It’s past time, I think.”
His jaw fell open. “Leaving? Are you . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He drew closer, his skin growing visibly paler as realization dawned. “Tell me you do not mean to leave me as well.”
Maggie cleared her throat in an attempt to ease the tightness there. “There will always be another Cranford, someone—”
“No,” he barked. “Absolutely not.”
“Simon, be reasonable. Someone will try to discover the identity of my sobriquet, whatever I choose to use. The threat will never truly go away.”
“So do not use a sobriquet. Use your real name—or the Countess of Winchester, if you like.” He crossed his arms over his chest, stern and unhappy. “Do not run from me, Maggie. I’ll not let you go.”
The Countess of Winchester? He couldn’t possibly mean it. For a man of his position to be married to a sensational artist would bring nothing but embarrassment and shame. Not to mention she’d no longer have the freedom to paint and draw as she pleased . . . would she? No husband would allow raunchy political cartoons and half-naked mermaid chalk drawings.
“Whereby I must paint bowls of fruit and flowers?”
His brows lowered, lines etching his forehead. “Is that your concern, that I’ll try to tame you into someone respectable?” When she didn’t answer, he laughed softly. “Darling, if you want to paint nude frescos on the ceiling at St. Paul’s, I’ll go and speak with the archbishop. I could not be prouder of your talent. As long as it’s not of me or our family, I’ll never tell you what you can or cannot do.”
She nibbled her lip, trying to decide if she believed him. Did he want her badly enough to lie? He admittedly hated to lose, the silver-tongued devil.
“If you like, I’ll have it written into the marriage contract. ‘The countess is allowed to paint and draw whatever she damn well pleases.’”
“You will?”
“Without hesitation, if that’s what it takes.”
She felt a burst of warm relief until she remembered all the rest of it. “My art is the least of our problems. My reputation—”
“I do not care a whit what the gossips say. Have your parties at Barrett House. And if you want to leave London, fine. We’ll live at Winchester Towers—or in Paris. It matters not to me as long as we’re together.”
“But all your work in Parliament—I cannot ask you to give that up.”
“Maggie, in case you’ve forgotten, I was ready to give it up a few hours ago when I went to see Sidmouth. I promise you, nothing is more important to me than you.”
The strength of his conviction, unwavering and honest, seeped into her, an overwhelming feeling of happiness and love that brought tears to her eyes. God, she hated to cry. But everything inside her welled up, a joy so profound she could not bear it. Before she knew it, he’d pulled her into his arms.
“I love you, you maddening, exquisite woman. Whatever I must do to keep you happy, I’ll do it. Gladly.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaled. “Just never leave me.”
His warmth surrounded her, the security and acceptance she’d searched for her whole life in this one embrace. She knew then she could never give it up, never give him up. She sagged into him, melted into his tall frame. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she felt him relax.
“I’ll make you a terrible wife.”
“You won’t. You’ll be exasperating, kind, loving, and strong. The one thing you’ll never be is boring, which is more than fine with me. Does this mean you agree to marry me?”
She almost said yes, but there were a few things still to work out first. Leaning back, she attempted to appear serious. “Will you build me a studio on the top floor, as I had in my old house?”
“Yes. All that’s there now is the nursery, which we can move to another floor. What else?”
“Will you allow me to paint your portrait?” She knew the ideal pose—one from the night where he’d pleasured himself—and her cheeks turned hot.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as his lips curved. “Is this a salacious sort of portrait, you minx?”
“If I am going to paint you, then it must be how I see you.”
He chuckled and glanced heavenward as if she tried his patience. “You may only paint me fully clothed, Maggie.”
“Why? It would only be for me, I promise. No one else would ever see it.”
“You never know what will happen to such a picture. It could end up in the wrong hands. Besides, you may see a more realistic and intimate version of me in our chambers any time you fancy.”
She tried to display the proper amount of disappointment. “You are already breaking your promise to keep me happy and we’ve not even married yet.”
He clasped her hand and began tugging her toward the door. “Come to my chambers and I’ll show you just how happy I can make you. Twice, if you ask nicely.”
“Simon,” she laughed. “There is still light outside.”
He threw open the latch. “You are not the only one who can be scandalous, my lady.”