The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe Page A

arguments to the contrary.”
    Becca leaned over to grip Maggie’s hand. “And you do not see that as miserable?”
    Maggie smiled, shook her head. “No, I certainly do not. Not everyone finds love as you and Marcus did. You are one of the rare examples of a happy marriage, Becca. And while I could not be more pleased for you, not everyone is so fortunate.”
    â€œAnd I have you to thank for my marriage to Marcus. Had you not married Hawkins, I never would have found my husband.”
    Maggie squeezed her sister’s fingers affectionately. After the scandal, Maggie had the choice to marry Hawkins or bring shame on her entire family, including her innocent younger sister. Under no certain terms would Maggie have deprived Becca of the ability to debut and find a husband, no matter what it cost her personally. So she’d married Hawkins, endured the painful and embarrassing wedding night, lived in the little town where the whispers and innuendo followed, and buried herself in her art. But Becca’s gratitude and happiness made the past ten years worthwhile.
    â€œI only wish Papa had lived long enough to see how successful you’ve become,” Becca continued. “He would be so proud of you.”
    Tears pricked Maggie’s eyes before she could prevent it. She missed her father, whose sensitive artist’s soul had been so much like her own. It hurt to think his final memories of her were of shame and disappointment. All she’d ever wanted was to make him proud, and she’d failed miserably while he’d been alive. Perhaps now, from wherever he rested, he would see all she’d accomplished in a short amount of time.
    She exhaled, released Becca’s hand, and sat back. “At least he saw you happily married. He knew how much you loved Marcus.” Watching her father’s grin during Becca’s wedding ceremony had been bittersweet for Maggie; Papa’s joy at Becca’s match only sharpened the contrast of his unhappiness during Maggie’s hasty wedding.
    â€œYes, but you were always his favorite. And he knew how talented you were, even then.” Cup in hand, Becca relaxed on the tiny sofa. “I do so love this space. It’s quite relaxing up here.”
    â€œI spend most of my time here,” Maggie said, “as you know. Just look at the stains on my hands.” Maggie had purchased the town house with a portion of her jointure. The best feature of her town house by far was the small glass room on the upper floor.
    The previous owner had been a sculptor and he’d joined the top-floor nursery and smaller bedroom into one giant windowed studio. The space was an artist’s dream. Two dormer windows had been combined to form one long row of windows—each comprised of small squares separated by thin glazing bars—for maximum light. All of them opened with hinges to allow for fresh air when she painted. There were glass windows in the ceiling as well, and they could be vented and propped open using a long pole. With its high ceilings and privacy, the room was quiet, airy, and bright. Maggie loved it.
    All she needed was this space and her paints. A pencil and some canvas. Simple things that in no way included the Earl of Winchester.
    â€œMaggie,” Becca said, regaining her attention. “You know the work I’ve been doing with the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. The committee has planned an event to raise money and I hoped to use some of your artwork, if you’re amenable. They’ve some other pieces, by Rowlandson, Pugin, and the like, and Lemarc’s work would surely generate some interest as well.”
    â€œOf course. Whatever you need. I would be honored.”
    â€œWhat do you think about donating some pieces under your own name? You’ve dreamed of establishing a more respectable career outside of Lemarc. This could be a most advantageous opportunity.”
    The idea had merit. It would