Chapter Fourteen
Her jaw fell before she could stop it. “A-Arouse you?” she sputtered. “Do not be ridiculous. I merely thought you should see them.”
“Pity.”
He did not sound appalled. Or bothered. Which irked her beyond measure. He seemed . . . amused.
While she mused over his lack of reaction, he picked up her hand and drew her behind the screens, toward the dark recesses of the room. “Simon, where are we going?”
“Now it is your turn to follow,” he said, tugging her to a far corner where the pianoforte rested, gathering dust. In the semidarkness, she could not see his features clearly so her other senses heightened in compensation. The brush of her skirts against his legs. The familiar smell of him, citrus and a hint of tobacco. He stood so close they were nearly touching, his large presence enveloping her. Her mouth went dry.
She had replayed their evening at Barrett House in her mind so often that she could recall almost every detail. Every glide of his hand. Every nibble of his lips. Her body had been his canvas, and with expert strokes and bold sweeps he’d created something that hadn’t existed before. Something only his masterful eye had seen the potential for. She had been transformed.
But it would be a mistake to allow lust to cloud her thinking, no matter how extraordinary it had been between them. There was too much at risk.
Did he plan seduction in this corner? If so, she needed to quickly dissuade him of the idea. Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she asked, “Why have you come to Paris? To inform me in great detail on how you plan to ruin Lemarc?”
His fingers tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, the small touch making her shiver. “No more lies between us,” he said. “You deserve honesty from me, and I should like you to do the same. I was unbelievably angry with you, but I never had any intention of revealing Lemarc.”
She knew the feeling well. Fury still simmered in her blood when she recalled their final exchange.
“But I now understand why you created Winejester and made a fool of me,” he continued. “I am willing to put it behind us in order to move forward. I have forgiven you.”
Had he really . . . ? A thrum of disbelief pounded in her ears. “You have forgiven me? You . . . you insufferable man.” Gad, he should be on his knees, begging her pardon and renouncing all his cruel words and deeds. Granted, as an earl, he’d probably never apologized to anyone in his life—but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. Disappointment burned in her chest, sharpening her tone as she stabbed a finger at his chest. “It hardly matters that you have forgiven me, Simon, because I haven’t forgiven you. And it’s unlikely I ever shall. Return to England. You are wasting your time here.”
He caught her hand against the hard plane of his breastbone, his brows lowered in confusion. “I’ve already explained Cranford duped me with the letters. And believe me, I mean to get an explanation as soon as I can locate the man. But you’ve made me pay time and time again for my sins with those cartoons. Can we not get past it and move for ward?”
How could she begin to explain all the ways he’d hurt her over the years? At the very least, he continually assumed the worst of her. Cranford was merely a small drop in the vast well of all that stood between her and Simon. “I would not even know where to begin. I cannot forget what’s happened and it’s doubtful I’ll ever forgive you.”
He shook his head. “I do not believe that. The woman in my bed at Barrett House was anything but bitter and resentful. I want honesty from you, Maggie,” he said, his tone entirely too reasonable. “I’ve had precious little in all the time we’ve known one another. Do you not think I deserve the truth?”
“Honesty?” she hissed and snatched her hand out of his grasp. “You do not want honesty. If you had, you’d’ve found me after the scandal broke in order to find out what happened. Instead, you closeted yourself off at Madame Hartley’s for the better part of a week in a drunken orgy.”
His face slackened in surprise. “How the devil did you—?”
“Maggie,” a gentle voice interrupted as a hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find Lucien at her side. “The two of you,” her friend said, looking between her and Simon, “you are attracting an audience. Perhaps you should retire to somewhere else in the house, non?”
Near the screens, a number of faces were not-so-discreetly turned toward the back of the room. Blast. Well, the guests certainly could not complain about a lack of entertainment this evening.
“No need,” she told Lucien. “We’re quite done here. Lord Winchester was just leaving.”
That had not gone well.
Simon scrubbed a hand over his jaw and watched Lucien escort Maggie toward the lights and revelry of the masquerade. He forced down his frustration, heaved a sigh. He’d erred tonight, no question. Perhaps he should have discussed his approach with Quint before their arrival. Well, too late now. He’d have to repair the damage—after he figured out what had made her so angry in the first place.
And how had she learned of his infamous sojourn at Madame Hartley’s all those years ago? Colton? Julia?
He rejoined the party. There would be enough time to think while standing watch over her. He wasn’t comfortable with her out there, unprotected. Some of the male guests had been overly attentive, hovering near her. Simon didn’t like it.
He found Quint as soon as he stepped into the ballroom. A waltz played and dancers crowded the floor, some using the proximity for more than dancing. An overweight Nero leered down at Boudica, his palm firmly on her buttocks.
“Back from your defeat at Actium, Mark Antony?” Quint drawled before lifting a teacup to his mouth.
“Hardly. Merely a minor setback.”
“Not from what I heard. Half the damn place is tittering about it.” Quint replaced the empty cup in the saucer and handed it off to a passing jackal footman. “So, what is your next plan of attack?”
“I am not sure. I hadn’t expected her to be so . . .” He couldn’t quite put it into words, all that anger, bitterness, and hatred. How to chip away at such a mountain of female pique?
“I suspected. God knows I cannot offer insight into the female brain. They all want to be wooed. And talked to. It’s . . . boggling.”
Wooed. Hmm.
“Do you plan to stay?” Quint asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re worried with all this debauchery around her,” Quint deduced. “Can’t say I blame you. Well, I’m off to find the very pretty Margaret Cavendish I saw earlier. I’ll see you in the morn.”
“Wait, who?”
Quint sighed, no doubt appalled. While Simon wasn’t stupid by any means, not many could rival Quint’s rapid intellect. “Duchess of Newcastle under Charles the Second. Poet, playwright, et cetera. Read a book once in a while, will you?” The viscount strode away, melting into the sea of ostrich feathers and tricorns.
Simon turned his attention back to Maggie. She stood on the far side of the room, near the open terrace doors, surrounded by a small circle of guests. Smiling and laughing, she had entranced those around her, if their rapt expressions were any indication. Simon could hardly blame them; her vibrancy had been one of the traits that had initially drawn him to her.
He sipped champagne and watched the men fawn over her. She didn’t encourage them, exactly, but participated enough to give a man a glimmer of hope. Long looks, meaningful smiles, small touches . . . she made sure to give attention to each man in the group. Simon’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t exactly jealousy. No, it was much more complex than that. He felt proprietary toward her, like he wanted to stand on a chair and announce to the room that she was his.
One man, dressed as Don Quixote, reached to open the terrace door. Maggie started for it, and Simon’s back stiffened. Was she truly so reckless as to allow a man to escort her outside, alone, where any number of things—
“Enjoying your evening, Winchester?”
His attention was briefly pulled away from the terrace to the man hovering an arm’s length away. “Indeed. And you, Markham?”
“Oh, yes. I daresay this exceeds any of her parties in London. Though you wouldn’t know, seeing as how you never attend the Harlot’s parties.”
“Do not call her that,” Simon said sharply.
Markham’s eyes rounded. “What? Why the devil not? She’s referred to herself as such many times in my presence. I cannot see that it’s offensive if she’s adopted the name as well.”
Simon clenched his jaw. How could he explain it without appearing a lovesick fool? He regarded the closed terrace doors. Had she gone outside? If so, to what end?
“And we are on rather intimate terms,” Markham boasted in a conspiratorial tone.
“What?” Every muscle in his body drew tight. Had she and Markham. . . .
“Well, not yet. But I do have high hopes, especially since she’s decided to woo me into joining your opposition.”
Simon’s jaw nearly fell open. Maggie, woo Markham? To the opposition? As far as Simon knew, she used Lemarc to undermine politicians and their causes—namely his. He’d never realized she would go to these lengths, of actually campaigning to thwart this upcoming legislation.
“Anyway,” Markham continued, “perhaps we should meet here in Paris, discuss your proposal in more detail.”
A few weeks ago, Simon would have leaped at the chance to bend Markham’s ear. The proposal needed all the support it could garner, and Markham was renowned for allowing his vote to be swayed by an evening of cards and spirits. But there were more important matters on Simon’s mind than politics at the moment. Like an answer as to what Maggie was doing on the terrace.
Still, an outright refusal wasn’t how the game was played. And few played it better than Simon. “Indeed, we should, Markham. I’m at the Hôtel Meurice. Why don’t you join me one evening for dinner?”
Markham’s chest expanded, pleased with the invitation. “Very good. Next week, perhaps. Did you see the collection?” He chuckled, then stopped short. “Oh, my apologies.”
Simon stifled a sigh. Seemed Quint hadn’t lied when he said half the party had heard of his and Maggie’s conversation in the music room. His eyes found the terrace doors once more. What was she about? Neither she nor Don Quixote had returned. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Surely he was overreacting. Likely she’d taken air, become engrossed in conversation. Nevertheless, he would rest easier if he could at least see her.
“Excuse me, Markham. There’s a matter I must attend to outside.”
“Mon chaton, you are even lovelier than you were three years ago.”
Maggie smiled at Jean-Louis, a man every bit as charming and handsome as she recalled. A friend of Lucien’s, Jean-Louis had been her one lover during her marriage. While she wasn’t proud of dishonoring her marriage vows, she’d been starved for any kind of affection during those lonely years. Charles had long since stopped any sort of contact between the two of them, awkward as those encounters had been. As her husband’s health deteriorated, he’d preferred the company of his longtime mistress and Maggie had been glad of it.
Her ineptitude and guilt, however, had proved a recipe for disaster in the brief affair with Jean-Louis. At least they had remained friends. “Your skill with pretty words rivals your abilities with a brush, mon ami. How have you been since I last saw you? Lucien tells me you’ve taken to portraits.”
“I have,” he said. “I find it’s more lucrative and reliable than anything else. I’ve just returned from Spain, where I spent months painting the new queen.”
“And entertaining the pretty Spanish ladies at court, no doubt.”
He smiled, his teeth even and white. “But of course. What sort of Frenchman would I be if I did not demonstrate all my skills in their backward little country?”
She laughed. “How generous you are.”
“Indeed, I try.” His expression sobered as he reached out to grasp her hand. “I regret that our . . .” He paused to search for the right word. “That our acquaintance did not continue. I find you very beautiful, Lady Hawkins. Should you ever need me, all you must do is ask.”
How she wished she felt something more for this sweet and charming man. When they had met, she’d had visions of setting up a studio overlooking the Île de la Cité, where they would paint each day and make love all night. Those hopes had been dashed, however, when it had become clear that something inside her was missing—something only one man had ever coaxed from her, damn him.
Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek. “Of course. And thank you, Jean-Louis. You were a wonderful friend when I desperately needed one.”
“I can be one again. Do not forget it.”
“I shan’t. Now run along or your lovely companion might wonder where you’ve wandered off to. I plan to take a few more minutes of air out here.”
“Alone? Non, I cannot allow it. A pretty woman should not remain out here by herself.”
She waved her hand. “Touching but unnecessary. I’m quite safe here, I assure you. Not to mention, I have no reputation to worry over. Go.” She tilted her chin toward the house. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
Still looking unsure, Jean-Louis returned to the party, and Maggie took a deep, cleansing breath. Entertaining guests while trying to ignore Simon’s penetrating stare had resulted in a persistent throbbing in her temples. Did the man not have a thing to do but watch her all evening? She wished he would return to his hotel, pack, and depart on the first steamer to London.
Didn’t she?
She rubbed her bare arms for warmth. The torches lining the edge of the terrace were more for decoration than heat; still, she found herself drifting toward them. How long did Simon plan to stay in Paris? I want honesty from you, Maggie. The idea made her both want to laugh and cry. No one in their world wanted honesty—the ton was built upon appearances and deceit, for heaven’s sake.
Even if he did want the truth, she’d been playing as someone else for so long she couldn’t begin to remember her former self, the Maggie he’d charmed during her debut. That girl no longer existed. In order to survive, she’d become another person, one who was stronger and more confident. One who kept her own counsel. Simon knew of Lemarc and she’d denied Cranford’s accusations. What more did he want from her?
A boot scraped over stone and she froze. Was someone else here? Another sound grated, this time near the stairs to the gardens. She forced herself to relax. Most likely it was a pair of lovers now returning to the party. She turned her back to give them privacy.
“Lady Hawkins,” a strange, deep voice said seconds later. “How utterly delectable you look this evening.”
Her breath caught. That voice. It was distorted slightly, but a memory nagged at the back of her mind. Maggie spun to find a man in a heavy greatcoat wearing a Black Plague mask. The elongated beak protruded from the face, the dark, soulless eyes staring at her from across the short distance.
“Who are you?” she asked, ignoring the talons of discomfort sliding down her spine.
“You do not recognize me? I am crushed.”
Heart hammering, she focused her artist’s eye on the details. He was English, she could tell both from the accent and his clothing. Slightly shorter than Simon and in good physical condition. Well dressed. She hadn’t noticed this particular costume earlier, and she was fairly certain she would have remembered it. “I am afraid I do not. Will you reveal yourself?”
“In good time, my dear, all in good time. You are a hard lady to find alone.”
The idea that he’d been waiting to catch her alone did not bode well. Her location, so removed from the house and the protection of the crowd, now slapped of overconfidence and hubris on her part. Still, she would not cower. “If you mean to do me harm, sir, you shall have the devil of a fight on your hands.”
“Oh, I like a good fight, Lady Hawkins. Nothing gets a man’s blood pumping faster, believe me.”
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “What is your purpose here? To frighten me?”
“Are you frightened? And here I had thought nothing would scare the great Lemarc.”
All the air whooshed out of her lungs. How . . . ? Had Simon told someone? No, she knew he hadn’t; he wouldn’t want it known he’d been mocked so publicly by a woman. A man’s pride could only take so much. She forced down the panic and straightened. “You are wasting my time with your nonsense. Either reveal yourself and your purpose, or be gone.”
“And if your hands were not shaking, I might believe you.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “That is from cold. I do not fear cowards who hide behind masks and lurk about in the shadows.”
“Yes, you prefer men such as Winchester. The next great politician, they say. Could even rival Fox, perhaps.” The sneer in his voice was evident despite the grotesque mask.
“I’ve grown weary of this conversation. Excuse me.” She started for the door, more than eager to put an end to this bizarre exchange.
“I suppose with your reputation, you’ve likely heard it all by now. He will use you, you know.”
Maggie stopped, spun around. “What?” she asked before she thought better of it.
“Winchester. He won’t live up to his promises, whatever they are. The consummate liar, he’ll take what he wants and move on.”
“How do you—”
The terrace door opened and Simon appeared. His glance volleyed between Maggie and the man in the death mask, and then he strode forward. “Lady Hawkins, may I be of assistance?”
Before the sentence had finished, her mystery companion bowed with a flourish and hastened toward the house. Simon stepped aside to allow access to the terrace door and approached her. “Maggie,” he said, a deep crease between his brows. “Your lips are blue. Why are you out here? Who was that man?” He slid his hands up and down her arms, the motion nearly painful on her frozen skin.
She shook her head. “I do not know. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Wouldn’t tell you? That’s utter nonsense. Did you recognize him as one of your guests?”
“No.”
Simon stared at the door through which the man had disappeared, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Come inside and get warmed up. Then you must tell me what he said to put such an unhappy look on your face.”