The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (18)

Chapter Eighteen

Maggie rolled over when something dragged slowly over her bare skin. A deep inhale filled her head with the scent of orange and sandalwood and just a hint of tobacco. Simon. She fought the cobwebs to come awake, aware that a very good reason awaited her. Then the mattress dipped and his warmth wrapped around her, strong arms pulling her near.

“Are you awake?” he asked into her ear. Rough end-of-day whiskers teased her skin.

“Hmmm,” she answered, wriggling into the delicious male heat and strength behind her. “Almost.”

He chuckled. “Very well. Let us see if I can hasten your progress.”

Maggie smiled, even though he could not see it. His presence in a room turned her positively giddy. Good thing she’d given him a key to the house. His lips found the top of her shoulder, gentle kisses whispering over her flesh like the silky bristles of a paintbrush. “How was your dinner?”

“Disappointing.”

There was an edge in his voice that caught her attention. Turning, she searched out his eyes. “You were to dine with Lord Markham, no?”

“Yes. Quint came as well.”

“And that made it disappointing?”

“No. My evening is unimportant. I’d rather we spent our time together on more worthwhile pursuits.” His hand swept over her bare hip and up her rib cage to settle on her breast. He squeezed gently, plumping her. “I am so very glad you didn’t bother with nightclothes.”

Momentarily distracted, she enjoyed the sensation. Then she asked, “Were you able to sway Markham, as you’d hoped?”

He bent his head to swirl the tip of his tongue over her nipple. She moaned and arched up. Though tingles shot all over her body, she forced herself to stay on task. “Are you attempting to evade my questions?”

His lips closed over the taut tip and he drew it inside the lush heat of his mouth. Sweet heaven. Her lids drifted shut and she threaded her fingers through his silky hair. Everything inside her began buzzing, a heady thrum of desire only Simon could produce. But he had not fooled her.

After enjoying his attentions for a few more minutes, Maggie sucked in a deep breath and pulled away. Simon’s bright blue eyes had gone sleepy and dark, her very favorite. She bit her lip and tried to ignore how much she wanted him to ravish her. Soon, she promised herself. There was one issue to address first. “Simon, tell me. I know you are distracting me in order to avoid answering.”

“Markham will not be voting for my proposal. I was unable to convince him.” He angled his head to resume his ministrations to her breasts, but she tightened her grip to stop him.

“Why do I sense there is more?”

“May we discuss this later?” He rolled his hips, the hard length of his shaft urgently pressing into her thigh. “I want you, Mags.”

“Simon,” she admonished.

“Fine.” He flopped back and folded his arms behind his head, displaying the lines of his upper arms nicely. “Markham carried a tendre for you, madam, and seemed to resent that your affections were engaged elsewhere.”

“Meaning with you.”

A brief nod. “With me.”

She thought about that. Markham, a tendre? They had not spent much time together, but she had encouraged him at Julia’s dinner party to irritate Simon. And then there was the meeting to discuss Simon’s proposal. A pang of guilt slid through her belly. Many women flirted and pretended interest to get what they wanted; she’d seen it time and time again over the years. But she hadn’t ever done it, not before Markham, and the results did not sit well with her.

More to the point, how had Markham learned of her and Simon? This . . . connection between them began only recently. Who else knew?

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“How did Markham know about us?”

“Apparently half of Paris wagered on it.”

Maggie gaped. “You jest.”

“Hardly surprising. You are one of Society’s favorite topics to speculate on, after all. Even still, half of Paris might be an exaggeration. I’d say more like a third.”

She pushed his chest. “Be serious.”

“Darling.” He reached out to cup her jaw, and the strength and comfort in that simple gesture warmed her down to her toes. “Who cares what anyone thinks? You’ve certainly not worried before, so do not let us start now. Everyone was bound to find out eventually, and I, for one, do not give a damn about the gossip.”

His sincerity calmed her somewhat, but did he not see? Markham refused to support Simon because of her. How many others would there be? How many of Simon’s causes would be thwarted because of their association? His political influence would wither as long as the two of them were linked. A mistress would be acceptable, but a lady tainted by scandal and impropriety was another. Quite irresponsible on both their parts to think this liaison would not cost him.

At some point, if they continued, he would come to resent her. She was certain of it. He’d look back at all he might have accomplished if not for her—and that would kill her. For him to regret the time they spent together, to wish she were someone other than herself, would crush the part of her soul that had yearned for him all these years.

He wrapped her hair around his hand and gently tugged her down, drawing her away from those morose thoughts. His other hand steadied her above him. “Do not fret over Markham, Maggie. There are plenty of other ways to get what I want.” He shifted her on top of him, the hard planes of his body melding against her softness in all the best places. “And right now, what I want is you.”

She studied his face, saw the raw honesty and desire there, and her heart turned over. Emotion swelled inside her, an emotion she’d never expected to feel, and she quickly kissed him so he would not see it. He growled and settled her legs astride his hips, and she rocked over the heavy, hard length of his erection. They both shuddered.

“Besides,” he said against her mouth, “you hated my proposal. I should think you’d be glad to see it fail.”

No denying she did not agree with his idea. But she did not want to see him fail, not because of her. “I know you think your proposal shall protect ruined women who might otherwise be cast aside, forced to earn their livings by less than desirable means. But think about what you are telling her to endure: a tie to the very man who abused her. For the rest of her life, a reminder every year of what she suffered. Think of me. If Cranford had followed through on what he intended—” She paused as Simon’s face darkened. “Wait, let me finish. If Cranford had taken me against my will, I might be forced to accept his money. Even such an insubstantial thread would be untenable. No woman would want any tie to the man who’d hurt her in that manner, not even for money.”

His mouth settled in an unhappy line. He stared at her, and she could see his brain arguing the emotion against the logic. He’d been so sure of his position, but hopefully she could make him understand the other side.

“I could kill Cranford for hurting you.”

She traced the slight dent at the end of his chin with her fingertip. “As could I. And I’d rather starve than accept one farthing from him.”

He stroked the small of her back and ran his hand down over her buttock. “Starve?”

“That is how strongly I feel, Simon. Do not pursue this piece of legislation. There are other ways, better ways, to offer assistance to women in need.”

His face softened. He rose up to kiss her quickly, one hand sliding up into her hair. “Whatever you want, darling. You may help me redraft another proposal. A different one this time.”

“You would allow me to help you?”

“Of course.” He slid a hand between her legs and began to tease and torment. She gasped at the rush of sensation, and he said, “I will always listen to you. Like right now, I want to listen to you say my name in that particular way where . . .” He twisted his fingers to hit the precise spot he wanted.

“Simon,” she sighed.

“Yes, just like that.”

 

 

A few afternoons later, Maggie and Lucien stood in her studio. Lucien had brought along some paintings to show her. A long, involved conversation regarding technique ensued.

“Lucien, these are stunning. Truly.” Maggie bent to inspect the detail a bit further. “The unusual angles and the movement you’ve captured here are breathtaking. The thin brushstrokes . . . it must have taken forever. I love it.”

“I doubt they will sell.”

“When have you ever cared about whether your work will sell or not?”

He shrugged, his overly long, brown hair brushing his shoulders. “I do not care for notoriety, as you do, but even I must admit money is helpful.”

“How positively enterprising of you,” she teased. “I must be rubbing off on you.”

“You have done very well, ma chère. I cannot be prouder of you.”

She threw her arms around him for a hug, something she happened to know he hated but tolerated from her. “That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me,” she whispered into his cravat. “And I could never have done it without your help and guidance.”

He patted her back awkwardly and made a dismissive sound. “I did very little. The talent is all your own.”

Pulling back, she wiped at the moisture forming in her eyes. “Are you attempting to make me cry?”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Tilda appeared, a square, brown parcel in her hands. “My lady, a delivery boy just dropped this off for you.”

“Thank you, Tilda.” She accepted the parcel, felt the ridges with her fingers. A canvas. She carried it to a table and began unwrapping the paper.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“A painting.”

The heavy paper opened and Maggie withheld a seaside scene. One of hers, actually—but not quite hers. Yes, the scene was hers, but the shading was not the same. Also the strokes were from a fatter brush, and the hues were a bit darker. Close, but not an exact match of the landscape she’d once painted—though likely no one would know it but her. The work was that good. And there was her—Lemarc’s—signature at the bottom, which appeared almost correct even to her. Was this an attempt at duplicating a Lemarc? Who in the name of Hades had done this?

“It’s a copy of one of my paintings,” she told Lucien.

He peered down, studied it. “It is good. I think if I did not know you so well, I might believe it.”

“Why would someone bother copying me?” Turning her attention to the letter included within, she skimmed Mrs. McGinnis’s clear handwriting. The more she read, however, the more her discomfort grew. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.

“Maggie, you are as white as flour. What did she say?”

Staring down at the painting, she willed air into her lungs. “I am being blackmailed.”

“Mon dieu!” Lucien ripped the paper from her hand and began reading for himself. No doubt he would be equally horrified by the contents of the letter.

Someone had uncovered her identity as Lemarc, hired a forger—a damn good one by the looks of it—and was now circulating drawings throughout London. But not ordinary drawings—no, these pieces were aimed directly at the Prince Regent and his father, King George III, who was rumored to be on his deathbed. Hateful drawings meant to incite controversy, such as the inference that Prinny would bankrupt England when his father died, or that he suffered from the same mental deficiencies as the king. The most damaging one, according to Mrs. McGinnis, showed the carnage of Peterloo from the year before—where soldiers had ruthlessly squashed a rebellion in Manchester, killing many protesters—and urged the middle class to take up the cause of political reform once more, to not let their countrymen die in vain.

Someone was attempting to get Lemarc arrested for sedition.

Agents from the Crown had already paid a visit to Mrs. McGinnis, asking for personal information about Lemarc. The shopkeeper hedged and told them she didn’t know Lemarc’s true identity, but a meeting might be arranged when the artist returned from the Continent. Even though that appeared to pacify the agents for the moment, Mrs. McGinnis was frightened—with good reason. If they discovered she had lied to protect Maggie, the shopkeeper could be implicated as well. The only way to stop it, according to the forger, was for Maggie to hand over two thousand pounds annually—an absolutely outrageous amount of money.

“Did you see the other letter? The one Madame McGinnis said is on the back of the painting?”

Lucien’s voice snapped Maggie back to reality. She’d forgotten about the other letter. Flipping the forged painting over, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it. Her given name. Swallowing, she lifted it off the canvas, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table.

It was unsigned. Lucien, who had read over her shoulder, exclaimed, “Two thousand pounds! That is ridiculous. This scheme, who is behind it?”

Maggie shook her head. “I do not know. Anyone, I suppose. Why target Lemarc? Many artists are more successful than me.”

“This is meant to hurt you, ma chère. Someone wants to discredit you, to ruin your career. Who?” Lucien gave her a pointed look. “Perhaps—”

“No. Winchester would never do such a thing.”

“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.

“God, yes. Come for me,” he told her, lifting his lids to watch her body shudder and convulse as she pulsed around him. The feeling so exquisite, everything inside him coiled and then broke open. The orgasm tore through him without warning, and he emptied himself inside her body. He threw back his head and let out a shout as it went on and on, endless waves of ecstasy he was helpless to fight as she clutched him close.

When they both regained themselves, he slid out of her. “I apologize,” he said, producing a scrap of linen from his pocket and holding it out to her. “I meant to withdraw—”

She accepted the cloth. “I know. We were both carried away, I fear.”

He fastened his trousers, relieved she was not cross with his carelessness. He must’ve successfully convinced her of his plans to marry her. Without doubt, any child of theirs would not be born a bastard. “We should leave for London tomorrow morning. I’ll secure us passage.”

Maggie sat up and righted her clothing. “I have much to do before returning. Perhaps it would be best if we did not distract one another this evening.”

He frowned, unhappy with the idea but unable to argue with the logic. “Fine. I’ll collect you in the morning.” Holding her hand, he helped her off the table. With hair askew and flushed skin, she looked like a woman who’d just been tumbled. His woman. He kissed her quickly. “Until tomorrow, then.”