The Harlot Countess (20 page)

“Please. You have been staring at her all night and I read the broadsheets. Everyone talks about her. I was desperate to go to her masquerade, but my stepmother wouldn’t dare let me. Were you there?”

“Yes.” He recalled Nero fondling Boudica’s buttocks. “And the marchioness was right not to let you attend.”

He laughed. “I pity your future husband.”

“Me as well. Papa is growing more irritated every Season. I fear he may put his foot down this year.”

“So just pick one and be done with it. Marriage might not be as bad as you think.”

“Or it may be much, much worse—and I’d hardly take your word for it. You’ve certainly been in no rush to take a countess.”

“Julia and Colton are very happy,” he pointed out.

“Disgustingly so,” she agreed. “But she’s stuck with him so why not make the best of it? No, I think I’ll wait a little longer. What is going on between you and Lady Hawkins?”

“As if I’d tell you. The marquess would have my head on a stick.”

“You’re wrong. Papa likes you. Says there’s talk you may replace Liverpool one day.”

Simon drew back the curtain on Maggie’s box, held it open for Sophia. “I think that talk is vastly premature.” Especially if anyone ever discovered Lemarc’s true identity.

They stepped inside and found Maggie conversing with a man, their bodies in close proximity, her hand placed familiarly on his arm. Simon recognized him as Don Quixote from her masquerade, the one who had led her out to the terrace. His gut clenched, the jealousy swift and fierce. He’d expected to find her with Barreau, not one of her admirers. Forcing a smile, he continued on. “Lady Hawkins.”

Her head shot up, emerald-green gaze locking on him. Surprise flickered across her features before she schooled them, and she gave him a polite nod. “Lord Winchester.”

Introductions were made all around, during which it became clear that this artist, Jean-Louis, and Maggie were lovers. She was uncharacteristically skittish and talkative, and color stained her cheeks. The Frenchman kept his hand atop hers, where it lay firmly on his arm. Simon barely restrained himself from hauling Maggie over against his side.

Lady Sophia held up the conversation. “Lady Hawkins, the Duchess of Colton is one of my dearest friends and she insisted we meet. How fortunate you attended the premiere tonight.”

This resulted in a long exchange about Paris and shopping, the sort of discussion a man could safely tune out. It was then Simon noticed that Maggie made several subtle attempts to pull her hand off Jean-Louis’s arm but the Frenchman held fast. Had Simon misread the situation, or was she merely trying to employ discretion? The idea nearly made him laugh. Maggie, discreet?

Nevertheless, who was this man? How had she come to know him? Even after all that had happened between them, he still didn’t know much about her. Well, he was of a mind to change that, starting tonight.

He waited for a break in the conversation. “Lady Hawkins,” he interjected, “might I have a word in private?”

Awkwardness descended until Sophia said, “Indeed, I must be getting back to my box. My stepmother will be looking for me. Jean-Louis, would you mind escorting me back? I would love to hear more about the type of paintings you create.”

They said their good-byes and Sophia fairly dragged the Frenchman away, much to Simon’s relief. Now alone in the box with Maggie, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

“Very much. Henri is marvelous. And you?”

“Yes, though truthfully I haven’t seen much of it.”

“Did you arrive late?”

“Seconds after the curtain rose. The mob outside was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was referring to something else entirely, however.”

“Oh, the lovely Lady Sophia. I suppose she could be quite dis—”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “You know very well she is not the reason I am here tonight. I came for you.”

She bit her lip, the soft, plump flesh disappearing between her front teeth. Simon remembered her mouth and the extraordinary sensation when she’d used it on him. Heat flared in his groin.

“Simon, these arguments are exhausting, and I cannot see why we should continue. You have my gratitude for the presents, but you needn’t send any others.”

The words she’d flung at him the other night flickered in his mind.
You broke my heart once. I shall not give you the chance to do it again.
Julia had alluded to it in London, but hearing Maggie admit it changed everything. No longer would he wait. He meant to break down the walls she kept up between them. If she’d cared for him once, she could do so again. He merely needed to wage a clever, careful campaign.

So for the moment, he chose to avoid disagreeing with her. Instead he would employ strategy, much as he did when trying to win votes. “Have you seen Notre Dame?”

She blinked. “Of course. Many times. Why?”

“Will you accompany me there? Tomorrow?” Confusion wrinkled her brow and he fought the urge to grin.

“Tomorrow?” She frowned. “Positively not. I cannot go traipsing about Paris with you tomorrow. I am too far behind in my work.”

He reached for a silken black curl gracing her cheek, gently tucked it behind her ear. “Bring your work along. I promise to find you a quiet spot and leave you alone.”

“But why would you—?”

Before she could finish, the performers returned to the stage. Without waiting for permission, Simon took her hand and led her to her seat. Once she sat, he brushed his lips over her gloved fingertips. He noticed the color that stole over her cheeks. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured and then strode out of the box, enjoying his small victory.

Chapter Sixteen

Maggie winced as the carriage bounced into another rut in the road. Simon rested across from her, his long legs stretched out as far as space would allow. As promised, he’d arrived early this morning to collect her for this mysterious journey. She had tried to refuse and send him away, but even Tilda seemed to be on his side, marching Maggie out the door like a side of beef off to auction.

They’d been traveling for nearly an hour, having left the city proper some time ago. Obviously Simon had fabricated the story of visiting Notre Dame. She should have known he would pull a trick on her. At the very least, she wished she’d packed more of her painting and drawing supplies before agreeing to this kidnapping. The devil only knew where he planned to take her and how long they would be gone. She supposed she should be worried, demanding to know what he was about. But it was too late to turn back, so what was the point? At least the warming bricks kept the temperature cozy despite the cold outside.

She gazed out the small window, admiring the French countryside with its quiet wheat fields awaiting spring. The sky held no color, a blanket of mottled shades of gray, and she enjoyed the bracing fresh air outside the city walls. Wide open spaces with their dormant trees and shrubs always relaxed her, and it had been much too long since she’d allowed herself this small indulgence.

Even so, why in God’s name had she agreed to accompany him today?

“How did you meet Barreau?”

Simon’s question startled her, both the interruption of the silence and the topic. She shifted to face him. “I came to Paris with my sister and her husband. Every morning, I used to walk down a certain section of the Rue de Rivoli and I noticed an artist there each day. He painted the crowd, lost in his work, but now and then I’d see him sketching a portrait for a customer. I began watching him and noticed he never took money for the sketches. And his work . . . oh, it was extraordinary. Truly extraordinary. So vivid and realistic. So one day, I approached and asked him why he never accepted payment for his sketches.” Her mouth turned up in amusement. “That sparked a long and passionate diatribe about how art belongs to the people and it is an artist’s duty to share that gift with everyone
gratis
.”

“Ah, a Jacobin.”

“No doubt, had he been born earlier. So I complimented him on his work and we discussed art. He handed me his charcoal and some paper and instructed me to sketch him. Testing me, of course. When I produced the sketch, he nearly fell out of his chair.” She chuckled. “He asked what artist I had apprenticed under. For weeks, I could not convince him I was self-taught. He suspected me of lying until my ineptitude about business matters became apparent. Lucien may be jaded to the ways of the world, but he is not ignorant. He’s taught me a great deal over the years.”

“What did he do with your sketch of him?”

Heat suffused her face. “He framed it. It hangs in his apartments in Montmartre.”

“And that embarrasses you? I should think you would be filled with pride over impressing him.”

She waved her hand. “I’ve offered many times to redo it. Lucien won’t hear of it.”

“I cannot say I blame him. Sometimes the memory means more. Will you sketch me one day?”

She bit her lip, trying not to giggle. He sighed, reading her perfectly. “I meant a
true
sketch. Not Winejester. I’ve had the obligatory portrait done when I took over the title. Hangs at Winchester Towers and I can hardly stand to look at the thing. I should like to see what you see.”

Her first instinct was to refuse. Drawing could be quite personal, an intimate connection between artist and subject. She made a study of her model, noticed every hair, every shadow, to create the most true representation possible. With Simon, however, there would be no need to study; she had every inch of him committed to memory. “Perhaps,” she finally answered.

“How did you first start drawing, or notice you had a passion for it?”

She grinned at the memories. “Rebecca. She noticed my propensity for sketching during the lessons with our governess. Instead of learning my figures or practicing my penmanship, I was nearly always drawing. She encouraged me, along with my father.”

“The poet, correct?”

“Yes. He pushed me to express myself through paints and sketches. Even tried to convince my mother to let me travel abroad instead of coming out. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She was determined to see me molded into a proper English lady.”
And look at how well that turned out.

“You never mentioned your hobby all those years ago.”

She shrugged. “Mother warned me not to reveal my unusual interests. She wanted me to appear just as demure and dim-witted as the rest of the girls debuting that year.”

He chuckled and silence descended for a long moment. Since they were asking questions, she had a few of her own. “Why politics?” she asked. “You never gave a fig about Parliament all those years ago.”

“It’s what is expected of me. The role of the Earl of Winchester.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “And I am adept at it.”

“So I have heard many times over. But do you love it? Feel any passion for it?”

His brows drew together. “One does not need to romanticize a task in order to do it well.”

“But if it does not make you happy, why do it?”

“Because I like to win.” His mouth kicked up. “Have you not learned that yet?”

The carriage began to slow. Simon leaned to see out the tiny window. “Ah, we must be arriving at our first stop. We can stretch our legs while they deal with the cattle.”

Minutes later, Simon helped her out of the carriage. The hanging sign read L’A
NNEAU D
’O
R
, or The Golden Ring. It was a modest, provincial structure, constructed of white stone and faded wood. The courtyard stood empty, save their carriage, and the two of them hurried inside.

Simon procured a table while Maggie took care of personal needs. When she found him in the common dining area, he had settled at a table near a small window, his gaze trained on the yard. The soft, gray light cast shadows on the familiar planes of his face, a play of chiaroscuro that fascinated her. He was annoyingly beautiful for a man.

Soon they were fortified with tea and ale, which they drank in companionable silence. A thought struck her and she had to stifle a giggle.

A tawny eyebrow quirked. “You find something amusing?”

“It just occurred to me, this is the longest amount of time we have spent in each other’s presence without arguing.”

“Not quite,” he murmured, leaning forward. His eyes grew sleepy and dark. “There was another time as well. When you spent the ni—”

“Simon!”

He grinned. “Do not tell me I’ve embarrassed you. Not the woman who flaunts convention with every breath she takes.”

It had nothing to do with propriety. She did not need another reminder of that night; the frequent dreams were enough.

“How is Cora?” she asked instead.

“Much improved when I left. My housekeeper will keep a sharp eye on her. The girl expressed some interest in the kitchens, so she’ll be trained below stairs when she’s ready. If we cannot use her, she’ll be sent to any number of households nearby.”

“You sound as if you’ve done this before.”

“Many times,” he answered after a swig of ale. “Barrett House is generally full to overflowing with housemaids and kitchen maids. If we cannot house any more, Mrs. Timmons sends them to Colton or Quint.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ah?”

“That is why Julia sent for you, is it not? And why Madame Hartley turned the girl over to you.”

“Yes.”

She sipped her tea and tried to fit this newfound knowledge into the image she’d established of him in her mind. Any way she turned it over, she could not understand a reason for his generosity. She had a hundred questions—did he truly hire any girl who presented herself? How did his staff manage it all?—but the one that emerged was, “Why do you do it?”

He twisted the tankard in his hand, making small circles on the scarred tabletop. “Because I can.”

“So could any number of wealthy households, mine included. Yet it never occurred to me. Why did you begin?”

“Several years ago, a girl presented herself at the back door, bruises covering her face and desperate to escape an unpleasant home. My housekeeper came to me with the situation and we decided to hire her. Word traveled amongst our staff, and friends and relatives began appearing regularly to request employment.” He shrugged. “My housekeeper has a soft heart.”

Not merely his housekeeper, apparently.

“Come, the carriage is ready.” He stood and held out his hand. “Let us return to our journey.”

 

 

“Do we have a destination in mind?” she asked three-quarters of an hour later. “Or are we to stop when the mood strikes us?” They had made polite conversation since the inn, but he’d still said nothing of where they were going.

He folded his arms and smiled. “There is a destination, but wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”

“I cannot say that I care for surprises.”

“That is merely proof you need more of them. Life is terribly tedious if you know what is coming.”

“Who would have guessed the Earl of Winchester to be a philosopher?” she teased.

“I am a man of many talents, Lady Hawkins. As you might recall,” he returned, his blue eyes sparking with mischief.

She could not help it; she laughed. The rogue was impossibly charming, a fact he knew full well.

“I adore your laugh, Mags. I always have. You light up a room with it.”

Her chest tightened. The mirth stuck in her throat as emotion welled. Was it the use of his old nickname for her or the compliment that turned her inside out? She had no idea. Unsure how to respond, she returned her gaze to the window.

“Do my revelations unnerve you?”

“Yes,” she blurted. “I cannot think clearly when you say such things.”

He shook his head. “Exactly the point, my dear lady. I do not want you to think. I want you to
feel.
” Leaning forward, he plucked her hand out of her lap and tugged.

Before she could muster resistance, she ended up on his side, directly next to him. Her heart began slamming against her ribs. Heat surrounded her, his nearness sucking all the air from the carriage, and he slid a bare hand up to cup her jaw gently. Everything inside her tingled, a rush of awareness in each nerve ending to serve as a reminder of the delights at Barrett House—heady, wicked delights she craved late at night.

“Simon, stop.” The plea sounded half-earnest, even to her own ears.

“I cannot help myself. I’ve been attempting to resist you all morning. It is too much to ask.” He pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet, undid the bow, and lifted it off her head. She heard it hit the empty seat. “You are so very beautiful,” he murmured, twirling a loose strand of her hair around his fingers. He let it go, watched the curl fall to her cheek. Then he bent closer and she held her breath. “I ache for you, Maggie.”

His mouth covered hers, warm and firm, while his hands clutched her closer. She considered shoving him away, but the kiss was slow and coaxing, a sweet mixture of breath as their lips melded and shaped together. She closed her eyes and let sensation wash over her, clearing her mind of anything but the feel of his mouth dragging over her own. God, she’d missed this. She had not even realized how much until this very moment.

He nipped and teased, keeping the kiss nearly chaste, until she squirmed, ready to crawl into his lap to get closer. Each time she tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled back slightly. Determined, she reached up, slid her arms around his neck, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. The result was an instantaneous spark, as if she’d dropped an ember onto a pile of kindling. Simon took over, opening her mouth wider to thrust his tongue inside, invading, tasting her with relentless intensity. Maggie’s head swam as her fingers threaded the silken strands of his hair.

He broke off to rain kisses along her jawline, then traveled down the sensitive column of her throat to nibble and suck the skin under the high collar of her cold-weather pelisse. Nimble fingers worked the fastenings and the heavy fabric fell apart. Simon’s lips slid along her collarbone, and anticipation caused her breasts to swell inside her chemise and stays. His breath gusted over the fichu of her lilac traveling dress as he strayed lower.

“All this curst clothing,” he muttered, his hand gliding up over her corseted rib cage. “I want to see every inch of you.”

“That would prove challenging, considering our surroundings,” she breathed.

“But not impossible. And I do love a challenge.” He plucked the fichu from her décolletage. “Perhaps I shall work my way down.”

She thought of any number of reasons that she should push him away, including all the ways he’d hurt her, could hurt her still. But as his mouth traced the tops of her breasts exposed above her neckline, rational thought escaped her. Besides, when had she ever done as she
should?

With efficient presence of mind, he flicked the curtains on the carriage windows, plunging them into semidarkness. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light when he yanked on the edge of her dress enough to free one breast from her clothing. Her arms twined around his neck while they shared another blistering kiss. His thumb and forefinger found her nipple, squeezed. She gasped into his mouth, the sensation sending white-hot sparks down her spine.
Sweet heaven.
He rolled and tweaked her nipple until she writhed against the seat, the hunger nearly unbearable. Did he want her to beg?

Slow sweeps of his tongue. Maddening pressure at her breast. Her entire focus became nothing except Simon. Highwaymen could stop them and Maggie would not care as long as Simon kept kissing her. She sucked in breath when his lips trailed to her jawline.