The Harlot Countess

  DRAWN TO THE EARL

  He flicked her earbob with his tongue, then nipped the lobe with gentle teeth. “What game are you playing at, Maggie?”

  “I—” Her traitorous voice caught, so she cleared her throat. “There is no game, Simon.”

  Her control began melting away. She longed to do every improper thing in the world to him—and encourage him to return them all in kind. Odd since she hadn’t ever enjoyed being with a man. Had hated it, actually. But somehow, this was different.

  Why had she started this? Oh yes, she’d thought to teach him a lesson, make a fool of him. Have him panting with lust and then leave him begging—only this was turning into something else entirely.

  “I like games,” he continued, his lips brushing over her throat in a seductive caress. “But I also like to win. I wonder, are you prepared to pay the price when you lose?”

  She shivered. There wasn’t enough air in the blasted room. “I never lose,” she rasped. “And you have more at stake.”

  “Do I?” His nose slid along the sensitive skin of her jaw. “I think I could take you against this wall. Right now. Right here.” His hips pressed against hers, his erection stiff and unapologetic, and she sucked in a breath. Before she knew it, her hands clutched at his waist to hold him in place.

  “But you should know,” he continued, his mouth hovering above her lips, “I only play games when there aren’t quite so many players. I do not care to be one of many.”

  It took a few seconds for that remark to sink in. When it did, hurt and anger resurfaced to eclipse whatever else she might have felt. The unbelievable, thick-skulled swine.

  All of her muscles clenched and she shoved at his shoulder with all her strength. When he stepped back, she pushed by him and strode for the door. While the idea of running had merit, she couldn’t resist a last parting jab over her shoulder. “Fitting, then, that we shall never know how you measure up.”

  Books by Joanna Shupe

  The Courtesan Duchess

  The Harlot Countess

  The Lady Hellion

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The HARLOT COUNTESS

  JOANNA SHUPE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DRAWN TO THE EARL

  Books by Joanna Shupe

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Spring, 1809

  London

  Silence rippled throughout the ballroom the moment her slipper hit the top step.

  Before Lady Margaret Neeley had a chance to comment on this odd reaction, her mother began tugging her down the stairs. Only then did the impending doom become apparent: the way each person avoided her gaze, the hushed tones sallied around the room, dancers paused mid-turn.

  And she realized at once that they knew.

  They knew.

  Somehow, despite her best efforts, stories of what happened the night before had circulated through the streets of London this afternoon. On morning calls, rides in Hyde Park, and promenades down Rotten Row, the ton had spread the tale hither and yon.

  With Maggie’s younger sister ill today, Mama hadn’t wanted to go on calls. Relieved, Maggie had spent the time drawing, grateful that they hadn’t received any callers. Now it was clear why.

  She hadn’t done anything wrong, she wanted to shout. In fact, she had tried very hard during her debut to appear a proper English girl. With the black hair and fiery temper of her Irish father, it had been a constant battle. She neither looked nor acted like all the other girls, and the ton seemed to enjoy casting her in the role of outsider despite that she’d spent most of her life in London.

  “Why has everyone gone quiet?” Mama hissed in her ear. “What have you done, Margaret?”

  Of course Mama would pick up on the disquiet. Also unsurprising she would place the blame for the uneasiness squarely at Maggie’s feet. Even still, Maggie couldn’t answer. A lump had lodged in her throat and even breathing was a challenge.

  Escape, her mind cried. Just run away and pretend this whole evening never happened. But she’d done nothing wrong. Surely someone would believe her. All she had to do was explain what had occurred in the Lockheed gardens.

  Lifting her chin, she continued down toward the glittering candlelight. Stubbornness had forever been a defect in her character, so everyone said. Mama lamented that Maggie would argue long after the point had been made. So she would not turn tail and run, though her stomach had tied itself into knots. No, she would face them, if only to prove she could do it.

  When they reached the bottom of the steps, the quiet was deafening. Their hosts did not bustle forth to greet them. Not one of her few friends rushed over to share gossip or compliment her dress. No young buck approached to request a spot on her dance card.

  Instead, the crowd swelled backward as if an untamed beast had wandered inside and might run amok at any moment.

  “Come,” her mother ordered, taking Maggie’s elbow. “Let us return home.”

  “No,” Maggie whispered emphatically. What had happened was not her fault, and she would not allow anyone to bully her. Someone would believe—

  A blur of blue silk sharpened into the flushed features of Lady Amelia. “I cannot believe you are so foolish as to show your face,” the girl hissed.

  Maggie straightened her shoulders and focused on her friend. “Whatever you have heard—”

  “He told me. Did you think he would not? My betrothed confided in me of your . . . your wickedness, Margaret. You tried to steal him from me, but you failed.”

  The entire room was now avidly watching and listening to this conversation. Even the orchestra had quieted. “Amelia, why would I—”

  “You were always jealous. I’ve had three offers this Season and you haven’t had a one. It comes as no surprise that you would try to steal Mr. Davenport for yourself.” As the heir to Viscount Cranford, Mr. Davenport was widely considered the most eligible man in London. He had proposed to Amelia more than a month ago and Maggie had been nothing but pleased for the other girl.

  So Maggie ignored her mother’s gasp and kept her eyes trained on Amelia. “You are wrong.”

  “Amelia.” Lady Rockland appeared and tugged on her daughter’s arm. “Come away this instant. You will ruin yourself by even speaking to that . . .” She did not finish, did not add the hateful word before spinning away in a flurry of obvious revulsion. Maggie could well imagine what Lady Rockland had been about to say, however.

  Whore. Harlot. Strumpet.

  Is that what she’d become in their eyes? It seemed incomprehensible, especially since Mr. Davenport had lied. Maggie had agreed to meet him to, as he’d said, discuss Amelia. Yet once on the edge of the gardens, it had become apparent the young man had something else in mind. He’d grabbed her, tried to pull her close and put his mouth on her. He’d ripped her
dress. Maggie had struck back in the one place it counted on a man and he’d released her. When she’d hurried back to the house, the couple arriving on the terrace must have drawn their own conclusions about her dishabille.

  Mr. Davenport had tricked her. Attacked her. Then he’d compounded the sin by lying about it to Amelia, one of the few girls Maggie had befriended. The need to make everyone understand tore at her insides. Did no one care for the truth?

  As she swept the room with her gaze, the hatred staring back at her made it undeniably clear that the truth did not matter. The ton had passed judgment. She wanted to scream with the unfairness of it. Would no one come to her aid? Surely one of the other unmarried young girls or the man she thought—

  More than a little desperately, she searched the room, this time for a tall, blond-haired man. He had been her safe harbor this Season, the one person who truly knew her, who would believe she’d never do anything so reckless. Likely he’d heard what happened by now. So why had Simon not stepped forward to defend her?

  There, in the back of the ballroom. Her eyes locked with the brilliant blue gaze she knew so well, a gaze that had sparkled down at her for more nights than she could count. His eyes were not sparkling now, however; they were flat, completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A flush slowly spread over his cheeks, almost as if he was . . . angry or perhaps embarrassed—which made no sense at all.

  She clasped her gloved hands together tightly, silently imploring him to rescue her. Yet he made no move to come closer. Holding her gaze, he raised his champagne glass and drained it.

  Hope bloomed when Simon shifted—only to be quashed when she realized what had happened. He’d presented her with his back.

  Simon had turned away.

  No one stirred. No one spoke. It seemed as if they were all waiting to see what she would do. Hysteria bubbled up in Maggie’s chest, a portentous weight crushing her lungs.

  Dear God. What was to become of her?

  Chapter Two

  December 1819

  London

  A man’s past could easily be forgotten—unless it hung in a shop window on the busiest stretch of St. James, of course.

  Simon Barrett, the eighth Earl of Winchester, stood frozen in the cold winter air, staring at yet another shining reminder of his illustrious, drunken youth. Despite the frigid temperature, an uncomfortable heat crawled up his neck. Hell, he hadn’t blushed since boyhood.

  Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the drawing in the print shop window, a depiction of a man too soused to stand while a lady nearby was robbed of her jewels. There could be no doubt of the man’s identity. As if the tall frame, blond hair, and bright blue eyes weren’t enough, the artist had provided the character with a name: Lord Winejester.

  Bloody hell.

  “I’d almost forgotten that side of you, the rogue from our youth.”

  Simon glanced at his good friend Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint. “Rather the artist’s point, I believe.”

  Simon wondered again why this artist, Lemarc, had fixated on him. Was one of his opponents accountable for the cartoons? One did not rise to the upper ranks of Parliament without stepping on some toes.

  “What number is this? I daresay it’s the fourth or fifth caricature of you in the last year. Lord Winejester is becoming quite popular. Mayhap you’ll get a commemorative spoon or plate, like Rowlandson’s Dr. Syntax,” Quint said, referring to the artist’s popular fictitious character.

  “Oh, to dream,” Simon drawled.

  Quint chuckled and nudged Simon’s shoulder. “Come now. You have laughed off the others. Why so grim now?”

  Not entirely true. Simon may have laughed publicly, but privately these cartoons worried him. He’d worked too hard building his reputation to allow it to be tarnished. His influence and prestige amongst his peers would suffer if he continued to be portrayed as a buffoon. Mayhap it was time to suggest a certain artist apply his skills elsewhere.

  And if said suggestion was perceived as a threat, well then, so be it.

  “Shall we go inside?”

  A bell tinkled over the door as Simon entered, Quint on his heels. A spacious room, the shop had rows of windows set high, right up to the ceiling, allowing light to bounce off every available surface, even on a gray winter day such as this. Framed art crowded the walls—landscapes, portraits, fashion plates, and life scenes in all different shapes and sizes—while racks of unframed canvases rested in the far corner. Simon strode to the long counter along the back wall, where an older woman stood patiently waiting. From behind small, rounded spectacles, her eyes widened and darted to the front window before settling back on his face. Well, at least I won’t need to introduce myself.

  She dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lords.”

  Simon removed his hat and placed it on the counter. “Good afternoon. I should like to speak with the owner.”

  “I am Mrs. McGinnis, the owner. Would your lordship be interested in purchasing a print?”

  “Not today. I am more interested in information.” He gestured to the front window. “Can you tell me how I might find the artist Lemarc? I find his work . . . interesting.” Quint snickered, but Simon ignored him.

  “I am afraid the artist wishes to remain anonymous, my lord.”

  This unsurprising response didn’t deter him in the least. Over the past few weeks, he’d made some casual inquiries regarding the artist and learned Lemarc was a sobriquet. “What if I offer to pay you for the information? Say, ten pounds.”

  Her lips twitched and he got the distinct impression Mrs. McGinnis held back a smile. “My lord, I’ve had an offer as high as fifty pounds.”

  “What about one hundred pounds?”

  “I must apologize, my lord, but my loyalties remain with the artist. It would not be proper for me to disregard his wishes.”

  Inwardly, he cursed the woman’s stubbornness, though one had to admire her devotion to Lemarc. “I’d like to purchase his cartoon in the window, then.”

  Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “I must apologize again to your lordship. That particular drawing is not for sale.”

  His jaw nearly dropped. “Not for sale? No matter the offer?”

  “No matter what your lordship offers. The artist would prefer to keep the piece in his own private collection.”

  Damnation. Simon drummed his fingers on the counter, his mind spinning. He couldn’t even buy the cartoons to get rid of them.

  Quint leaned forward. “Are there any other Lemarc pieces for sale?”

  “Why, yes, my lord,” the shopkeeper quickly answered. “I have a collection of bird paintings done in watercolors by that particular artist, if your lordships would be interested to see them.”

  “He’ll buy all of them.” Quint pushed a thumb in Simon’s direction. “Whatever you have.”

  “Birds?” Simon gave Quint a hard glare. “Birds, Quint?”

  “Buy them, Winchester. Trust me.”

  Simon turned back to the shopkeeper. “How many?”

  “Almost twenty, my lord. They’re quite nice, all done within the last few years. Would your lordships care to see them?”

  Quint answered, “No, that won’t be—”

  Simon gripped his friend’s shoulder and began towing him toward the front door. “Excuse us a moment, won’t you, Mrs. McGinnis?”

  “Of course. Take all the time your lordship requires. I’ll just be in the back.” She disappeared into the recesses of the shop, leaving the two men alone.

  Simon frowned at Quint. “Why the deuce am I purchasing almost twenty bird paintings? I loathe birds.”

  “Because some are regional, you oaf,” Quint whispered. “We might be able to find a common thread in the types of birds drawn and narrow down a county where Lemarc resides. At least that will give you a location in which to begin your search.”

  Simon blinked. “Quint, that’s . . .”

  “I know. Now buy the blasted pictures so we can get to the club. I’m s
tarving.”

  He’d momentarily forgotten Quint’s love of puzzles. “Fine. Consider this your project, then. Give me one of your cards.” Quint produced a card, and Simon called for Mrs. McGinnis. “I’ll take all the bird paintings,” he told the shopkeeper when she returned, withdrawing a card from his breast pocket. “Send the bill to me, but deliver the pictures to this address.” He handed over Quint’s card.

  “With 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?”

  “I’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—

  “Lord 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.