The Harlot Countess (24 page)

“Of course not.” Lucien scowled at her. “The earl, he loves you. Passionately. He would never want to hurt you like this. I saw it myself, how much he cares for you.”

“When? At the opera?”

He nodded. “He hardly took his eyes off you all evening. Staring at you like a girl at her very first
amour
.”

Though the information warmed her, she elbowed him in the arm. “Be serious. And do not make jests at his expense.”

Lucien’s brows shot up. “Is that so? While I am happy for you, I have now lost a great deal of money to Henri. I thought you would at least hold out until—”

“Lucien,” she snapped, “you are not helping.”

He straightened and regarded the painting once more. “Well, who then? Who else would do this?”

Though her mind reeled, Maggie tried to focus enough to come up with a name. Whoever had sent this note wanted more than just money; he or she wanted to tarnish Lemarc’s name. And for all she knew, that plan may have already succeeded in London. Amongst artists, a fine line existed between noteworthy and dangerously improper. The former meant she could count on being hired by anyone wealthy and bored enough to want to rub elbows with a notorious artist. The latter meant she would never be hired by patrons who cared about soiling their precious reputations—in other words, just about everyone in the
ton.
If she didn’t get to London and repair the damage already done to Lemarc’s name, then all would be lost. Oh, and she’d still have to evade the authorities.

She really, truly did not wish to go to prison.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she said, “I swear, I cannot imagine. I’ve kept a low profile in London, barely going out except for my own parties. There isn’t anyone, other than Winchester, who is mocked enough in the cartoons for this sort of retribution—and I know he isn’t responsible. What am I going to do?”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Tilda appeared. “My lady, the Earl of Winchester to see you.”

“I beg your pardon for barging in like this.” Simon stepped around Tilda and came forward. Dark blue trousers showed off his long, lean legs, while a tailored matching topcoat hugged his shoulders. His handsome face, ruddy from the cold, showed lines of concern. “Ah, I see you’ve received one as well,” he said, gesturing to the table. “I came as soon as mine was delivered.” Slipping a hand inside of his pocket, he retrieved a folded piece of paper.

“Yours? You mean you received a letter as well? But that makes no sense . . .” She looked at Lucien for answers, but her friend merely shrugged.

“Here. Read this.” Simon thrust the paper into her hands. Maggie turned and spread it out on the table near the others, so she and Lucien could study it together. She motioned to her letters. “You might as well read mine, then.”

Short and on point, Simon’s missive informed him of the seditious cartoons penned under Lemarc’s name. It demanded money—three thousand pounds annually—in order to leave Maggie/Lemarc alone. In flipping it over, she noted the letter had been addressed to his hotel in Paris.

“Who knows you are in Paris, at Hôtel Meurice?” she asked him.

He glanced up from reading Mrs. McGinnis’s note. “Anyone, really. I’ve made no secret of it.”

“I must go back to London,” she told both men.

“I shall go with you,” Simon stated in a hard, determined voice she recognized well.

“No, that is—”

“Do not argue with me, Maggie.” He slapped his hand on the scarred wooden table. “You have no idea what trouble you face. Do you know how serious sedition charges are? It is a common law offense. You could be imprisoned
indefinitely
. I can protect you from that. At the very least, allow me to use my position and name to shelter you from the worst of it.”

He was quite worked up, and his concern warmed her. Nevertheless, she must prevent her troubles from dragging him down. “And what will it cost you to embroil yourself in this fiasco? More votes? Your political standing? I cannot allow you to align yourself with Lemarc against the Crown. What if you end up imprisoned?”

“That will not happen. I have known these men all my life, Maggie. They will not believe me of conspiring to overthrow the very system I have worked so hard to uphold. They will listen to me. And there is every chance I can keep your real identity a secret if I act as an agent for Lemarc.”

Perfectly reasonable, of course, but it did not make accepting his help any easier to bear. The past decade, she’d only had herself to rely on. Any problem had been hers alone to solve. To allow someone else to shoulder those problems, even Simon, was a strange, unsettling notion. “I must do something. I cannot sit and wait for you to slay my dragons for me. I am coming with you.”

Simon shook his head. “You must remain here. In Paris. It will keep you safe from—”

“I’m hardly safe here, with the forger aware of where I am. And remaining here is unthinkable. No, listen to me,” she said when it appeared he would argue. “I will go mad waiting here for news of my fate. And I can be of assistance in tracking down the forger. No one knows my work better than me. There may be ways of discovering his identity through the forgeries.”

His lips compressed to a thin, unhappy line.

“While this concern, it is touching,” Lucien said into the tense silence, “it is better if you work together toward the same result,
non?
”

“Returning will only make it easier for the Crown to find you,” Simon said, his jaw tight.

“Returning will make it easier for me to find the forger,” she said.

When Simon did not argue, Lucien rose. “I will tell Tilda to pack your things,” he said, and left the room.

 

 

Simon sighed as Barreau closed the door. He should have known it would prove bloody impossible to keep Maggie from the proceedings, as much as he did not want her involved. The maddening, stubborn female. Did she not see the peril at hand? This needed to be handled with diplomacy and tact—not exactly two of Maggie’s strengths. But they were his, and he would do all in his power to prevent her from losing everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish.

Without realizing it, he took a step toward her. She held up her hand. “Wait,” she told him. Her eyes slid away and he noticed the color on her cheeks. “There is another matter we must resolve before London.”

“And that would be?” He folded his arms across his chest. Could he convince her to move into Barrett House? He wanted her in his bed each night. But her bed would do just as—

“You and I. Us. We must stop seeing one another.”

He felt his brows lower. Had he heard her correctly? “We must . . . stop seeing one another?” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes.”

“Why in God’s name would we do that?”

“I cannot allow my reputation, such as it is, to affect you or your standing. The gossip in London will be a hundredfold worse than Paris.”

“Hang the gossip, Mags. I do not care what anyone says about us.”

She thrust her chin up. “You say that now, but you have no idea of the damage that will befall you, damage that cannot be undone. It is best we end our association now. Then you may act on Lemarc’s behalf in London with no one the wiser.”

The sincerity and determination on her face caused a frisson of panic to slide down his spine. “Absolutely not. And my standing is not a concern at the moment.”

“Not now, perhaps, but it will be. Soon. When Parliament reopens in a few months, you will care. However, by that time, it will be too late.”

No, no. This was all wrong. He meant to have a much different conversation concerning their future, one that included her naked, day in and day out. One of love and laughter, of all the things he’d been missing over the last few years. And where the devil was this attitude coming from? She had never shrunk from Society a day in her life. She did as she bloody well pleased, and to the devil with the consequences.

So why was a relationship with him any different? Was he not worth the risk?

“What are you afraid of?” he asked. “That my invitations dry up? That I must work a bit harder in Lords? That I take some ribbing at our expense?”

“You make it sound so easy. Yes, I am afraid of everything you mentioned—and more. And there will be more, Simon. This will affect you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. Markham is only the beginning. And have you thought of how it will impact your family?”

“My mother is the only concern, and I should like to see anyone try to snub her. Besides, she will be thrilled I have finally taken a bride.”

“A bride?” Maggie screeched. Her eyes round, she gaped at him.

“Yes, a bride. How can you be surprised? Of course I want to marry you.”

He assumed this information would reassure her, but if anything it made her appear even more anxious. “Are you mad? Look around you.” She swept the bright, airy space with her hand. A converted library, the studio brimmed with canvases, cloths, brushes, easels, and other bric-a-brac. “You want to marry
this?
Marry Lemarc? Because this shall never go away. My art, my work . . . this is who I am. I cannot give it up.”

“I would never dream of asking you to give it up.” He stepped closer, but she sidled away, out of his reach. He folded his arms. “Nevertheless, I want to be married. I want to wake up to you every morning. I want to travel with you, watch you paint, have you bear my children. . . .” He could go on; the list of what he wanted from her seemed endless.

“Children?” If possible, she turned paler. She covered her mouth with a hand, shook her head. “Now I know you are not thinking clearly,” she whispered.

“What did you assume, that after all these years I’d be satisfied with a few weeks of you in my bed?” Before she could evade him, he moved to clasp her face in his hands. “I need you, Maggie, and nothing will keep me from having you. Not fear or threats, not even the disapproval of every Society matron in London. Even if I must give up my seat in Lords.”

Moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes, pooling against the fringe of her lashes until two single tears streamed down her cheeks. He wiped at them with his thumbs. “Do not cry, darling. It will be fine. You shall see. Trust me.”

She started to shake her head, so he bent to kiss her. He could taste the reticence and worry in the way she held back. Using his mouth, his hands, and his tongue, he poured all his determination and confidence into their connection. She might not believe the words, but surely she could
feel
how much he cared for her. How much he craved her. How he’d never, ever let anything or anyone hurt her. After a few seconds, she responded, her fingers digging painfully into his arms as she kissed him back with desperate hunger. Satisfaction roared through his blood, quickly followed by a lust so acute, so painful, it nearly knocked him to his knees.

“The door,” he panted against her mouth.

“No need. They’ll not disturb us.” She nipped at his bottom lip, biting him, and then sucked the plump flesh inside her mouth. “Now, Simon.”

He should refuse. After all, he would see her this evening. What was it about Maggie that drove him to absolute madness? Then her fingers found his trouser buttons . . . and any thoughts of waiting vanished. She freed him from his clothing and began stroking him hard, fast. He’d taught her too well, he realized, his head falling back in blissful surrender. Christ, she’d have him spilling in her hand in another minute.

Incapable of waiting any longer, he led her to the scarred wooden table. He pushed the letters and forged painting out of the way. “Up,” he told her. “Lift your skirts.”

Her hooded green gaze never left his face as she sat, reclined on an elbow, and slowly raised the hem of her faded morning dress, petticoats, and shift. Her mound, covered in soft, downy hair, lay bare to him in the midday light. So beautiful. He would never get tired of looking at her.

Her knees fell open in brazen invitation. Everything in him screamed to take her fast and hard, but he did not want to hurt her. He stepped between her legs and swiped a finger over the entrance to her body. Wet. Ready. He lined up and, with one thrust, buried himself as far as he could. The sheer exquisiteness of that motion ripped a groan from both of them. Hot and tight, her channel gripped his cock like a fist. She fell back against the table, his beautiful, wild Maggie spread before him like the most enticing banquet. As she watched him, her lips formed the one word guaranteed to raise his desire to a fever pitch. “Please,” she whispered.

Oh, hell.
Bending, he hooked her knees over the crooks of his arms and straightened. Her hips were up off the table, allowing him better leverage. He began slamming inside her, a rough, punishing rhythm they both craved. His hands wrapped around her thighs to pull her forward onto his cock with each thrust. She gasped, her lids fluttering closed. “Yes,” she breathed.

Never had he been so out of control with a woman, not even in his youth. But Maggie twisted him up, turned him inside out—a fact she was well aware of and relished. Many nights she had teased and tortured him until he’d taken her like an animal in heat, delirious with a bestial craving for her. None of those evenings, however, had been quite as frenetic as this.

Pleasure built at the base of his spine. Each stroke brought him closer to release and he knew it would not be long. “Use your fingers,” he gasped. “Come on, darling. Let me see you.”

Unashamed and heart-stoppingly beautiful, she slid her hand down her belly and through the thatch of hair covering her mound. Clever fingers found the swollen bud at the apex of her crease, rolled it. The sight so erotic, Simon had to close his eyes. If he watched her, this would all be over too soon. She moaned and he doubled his efforts, hips pounding against her to drive his cock deep. Her muscles clenched, tightening as she reached the peak.