The Harlot Countess Read Free

card.
    â€œWith pleasure, my lord. Would your lordship care to have them framed?”
    Might as well, he thought. He’d find somewhere to use them. Shooting practice, perhaps. “Indeed. I bow to your expertise, Mrs. McGinnis. Choose whatever frames you deem appropriate. How long before they’re ready?”
    â€œI’ll get my boy on it straightaway. I should have them to your lordship day after tomorrow.”
    At that moment the bell over the door clanged, and he turned to see a small figure burst into the shop. A lady, by the look of her fashionable bonnet and black pelisse. She seemed to freeze upon seeing them but then inclined her head. There was something oddly familiar—
    â€œLord Quint,” he heard her say.
    Quint bowed. “Lady Hawkins. How nice to see you again.”
    The room suddenly lost all its air. Or perhaps Simon’s lungs refused to cooperate because a burn had sparked in his chest, a pressing heat as if the ceiling had collapsed on him. God’s teeth, he hadn’t expected to see her here. To see her anywhere, really. Ten years. It had been ten years since they’d last faced one another. He’d heard all about her, of course. From all accounts, the woman thrived on spectacle and notoriety—which struck him as odd, considering he remembered her as thoughtful and, well, shy.
    But he’d never really known her at all, had he? The scandal when she was still Lady Margaret, along with the behavior she’d exhibited since the end of her mourning period, had certainly proven that.
    Shock rendered him frozen, and the only thing he could do was stare. The years had certainly been kind to Lady Hawkins, if her appearance was any indication. Wisps of black hair fell out of her bonnet, her delicate features fairly glowing from the cold. She had creamy skin without a hint of imperfection, and green eyes that whispered of the Irish meadows of her ancestors. As he watched, her generous mouth twisted into a small smile. He remembered the simple beauty of that smile, the lengths he’d gone to in order to see it.
    There had been a time he would have done anything to make her happy. Such a foolish, foolish boy he’d been. Anger simmered in his gut at her faithlessness—anger he forced away for its sheer ridiculousness. It had been a decade, after all.
    â€œLord Winchester, it has been a long time,” he heard her say, her tone cool and quiet.
    He bowed stiffly. “Lady Hawkins. How wonderful to see you.” Even to his own ears, it sounded flat.
    She didn’t respond and an awkward silence fell. Devil take it, but he had no idea of what to say to her. Both his feet and tongue felt rooted to the floor.
    Finally, Quint asked, “Are you purchasing a print?”
    She stepped toward the counter, the top of her head barely reaching Simon’s shoulder. “I did, last week. Now it’s been framed and I’ve come to collect it. You?”
    â€œWinchester’s the one buying today,” Quint said.
    Lady Hawkins turned, her questioning gaze colliding with his. Hard to miss the intelligence—at once both familiar and mysterious—lurking there. He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a collection of bird paintings.”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œIndeed, my lady,” the shopkeeper confirmed. “All nineteen pictures by Lemarc. His lordship bought every one.”
    â€œAh. Have you discovered an interest in ornithology, sir?”
    The sound of her voice, teasing him in that unique, husky way, prickled over his skin. He didn’t intend the visceral response but found himself helpless to stop it. She’d teased him quite often over the months they’d spent together. She’d made him laugh, more than he’d ever thought possible, and it had not gone unnoticed when it had stopped.
    Had she made the late Lord Hawkins laugh? And what of the other men in her past?
    â€œThat means birds ,” she