The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (15)

Chapter Fifteen

Maggie accepted a healthy glass of brandy from Lucien. They had the library to themselves—after she encouraged an enthusiastic Hera and Dionysus to scale Mount Olympus elsewhere. “Thank you.” She lifted the brandy to her lips and took an unladylike swallow.

“What was Jean-Louis thinking, to keep you outside so long? Mon Dieu, but you are frozen.”

“Jean-Louis did not keep me outside. Truthfully, he insisted I come inside, but I wanted a moment to myself. There was another man. He came up from the gardens.”

Lucien pushed his unruly mass of hair back from his face and dropped into a chair. “From the gardens? Who was it?”

Maggie shrugged. “I do not know. He wore a mask and would not give me his name. He’d been waiting to find me alone, he said.”

“I begin to see why your earl left you with me and dashed off into the crowd. This man, did he hurt you?”

“No. He merely wanted to frighten me, I think.” She took another swallow of brandy. “He knew of Lemarc, Lucien.”

Her friend’s eyes rounded. “Knew that you and Lemarc are one and the same?” When she nodded, he asked, “Comment?”

“I do not know how. Only a small number of people are aware of Lemarc’s real identity and they are all trustworthy. I would never suspect you or Rebecca. Or Mrs. McGinnis.”

“What about your earl? You said he knew. What would he do with such information?”

“Stop calling him ‘my’ earl,” she snapped, then softened her tone. “And it’s not Winchester. Lemarc as a woman makes him appear an even bigger fool, which he would want to avoid with his proposal going to vote this spring.”

“You cannot be sure, ma chère. Perhaps he—”

“No, he would not.”

Lucien’s face gentled while his eyes remained sharp. She remembered the look well, the master softening a blow for the pupil. He never liked to hurt her feelings. “Maggie, do not let your tendre for him blind you to the most obvious of things. For two years, you have maintained the secret. But in a few short months your earl reappears and learns you are Lemarc, and now someone else knows as well. This appears more than coincidence, non?”

The door swung open, sounds from the party spilling inside. Simon strode into the room, his handsome face pulled into a deep frown as he stalked to the sideboard. Maggie allowed herself a moment to appreciate the sight of his lithe body in the Roman costume. Henri was right; Simon did have very fine legs.

Were her feelings for Simon preventing her from seeing the truth, that he’d spilled her secret to another? Perhaps he had confided in Quint, who had in turn told someone else. If that were the case, half of London could know her identity by now. The pain behind her temples increased twofold, and she began to massage the area with her fingers.

What had the stranger meant by such a statement? “He’s gone,” Simon announced. “Jumped into a waiting cabriolet and disappeared. The staff only took note of his exit, not his entrance.” He turned, a glass of claret in his hand. “Will you tell me what he said to upset you?”

Maggie had no intention of telling him the truth. The only person she fully trusted was Lucien, and even he had not learned all of it. Some details were best not shared. She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing of consequence. I suspect he was returning from a tryst in the gardens and stopped merely to be polite.”

Simon swallowed the rich, dark wine, all the while leaning against the sideboard and watching her over the rim of his glass. “You are lying,” he finally said. “Did he proposition you? Is that what you are hiding?”

A choking noise of disbelief came from Lucien’s direction, but Maggie kept focused on Simon. “Why must you continue to believe the worst of me?”

His brows drew together. “It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the situation. If a man finds a beautiful woman alone on a terrace, it’s hardly unheard of to deliver a proposition.”

“The voice of experience, no doubt,” she snapped.

Lucien came to his feet. “I believe it is time for me to excuse myself and return to the party.”

“Lucien, wait,” she told her friend. “My head is pounding. If I decide to retire, will you see to the guests?”

“Of course, ma chère.” He sketched a bow and whirled toward the door.

When they were alone, Maggie sighed. Too many emotions warred inside her, and she was exhausted. Her head throbbed, as if a carver were chiseling away at the hard planes of her skull, a sure indication she needed rest. She rose. “You have wasted your time in coming to Paris, Simon. I am weary of our battle and it’s plain it cannot be resolved.”

He straightened and set down his wine. “That is nonsense. The only battle is your refusal to be honest with me or to trust me. Like not telling me you were undermining my proposal behind my back.”

The surprise must have shown on her face because he said, “Yes, madam. I have learned of your efforts to woo Markham.”

“I did not woo him, Simon. I merely expressed my concerns about your proposal and pointed out its flaws.”

“And why would you not discuss these concerns with me?”

“I told you I did not care for it.”

Frowning, he placed his hands on his hips. The motion showed off the ripple of muscle along his bare forearms and biceps. Oh, God. Even with a headache she still noticed things she should not. Annoying how very aware of him she was at that moment.

“This is a perfect example, Maggie,” he continued. “You are determined to thwart me and hold me at arm’s length. If you would only trust me—”

“Trust you?” she scoffed, her voice sharp. “Why the devil would I ever do something so foolish? No, you broke my heart once. I shall not give you the chance to do it again.”

The aristocratic planes of his face slackened, and Maggie could have bitten her tongue. Curse her Irish temper. She’d never meant for him to be privy to that information. Damn it all.

He appeared speechless—a blessing since the condition would give her time to retreat before he could gather his thoughts. “I am unwell. Forgive me, but I must retire. Please go back to London, Simon. There’s nothing more to be said here.”

 

 

Ablaze with lamplight, the Salle Feydeau towered over the street. The imposing brick and stone theater had large figures carved into the façade reminiscent of an Egyptian temple. Patrons dodged the assemblage of carriages, horses, and servants as they hurried to the entrance, indicated by the words Opéra-Comique stretched over a series of open doors.

Lucien hadn’t wanted to risk a late arrival. When traffic had slowed, he’d insisted they leave the carriage a few blocks away and walk instead. Maggie held the hem of her opera cloak out of the Parisian dirt, though there was no hope for her ruined slippers.

She could not blame Lucien for his anxiousness, not tonight. Henri had the lead role in this production, and Lucien did not want to miss the opening performance.

Once inside, the two of them were shown to an upper box with an excellent view of the stage. As Lucien chatted with the usher, Maggie stepped down to the front and gazed over the rail. With gilded surfaces, red velvet curtains, and marble accents, the theater was the most beautiful building she’d ever seen. Wooden puppets on strings danced on the stage, but the crowd largely ignored this small performance. Instead, a sea of black topcoats and tall ostrich feathers rippled throughout the boxes as the crowd talked amongst themselves.

“Shall we sit?” Lucien asked behind her.

Maggie nodded. “Does Henri always procure you a box?”

“He insists for opening night, though I’d much rather be down there.” He gestured to the floor. “He says it relaxes him to find me whenever he becomes nervous.” Because the true nature of their relationship must be kept secret, Lucien posed as Henri’s theatrical instructor in public. Maggie suspected the tedium of maintaining the ruse had been one of the reasons the two had moved to Montmartre.

“How lovely you two are to one another.”

“Not always,” he admitted, the side of his mouth lifting slightly. “We are both artists, so we tend to be stubborn.” He knocked his head with his fist. “As you know only too well, since you are of the same temperament.”

She chuckled. “True. But if we were not stubborn, we might listen to our critics and never paint again.”

“Or perhaps we would acknowledge our mistakes in hopes of never repeating them, n’est-ce pas?” He gave her a pointed stare that left little doubt to his meaning.

“You are wasting your breath. Save it for Henri’s ovation.” She lifted her opera glasses and began searching the crowd.

“You must admit, it is très intéressant. I would never have expected your earl to try and court you. First with flowers, then the paint. What did he send today?”

Maggie shifted in her seat. While she hadn’t seen Simon since the masquerade three nights ago, gifts had been delivered in his name every morning. First, an enormous bouquet of white roses arrived. The fragrance, Simon wrote, smelled like her skin. Next came green pigment, a shade she happened to know not many colormen carried. He claimed the color was the same as her eyes in the throes of passion and asked that she think of him between her thighs whenever she used it.

Today’s offering had been bawdier. A bronze statue of Priapus, the Greek god of male genitalia, with his huge erect phallus, had both shocked and amused her. Heat suffused her face when she recalled the note.

She’d memorized every word before tossing the paper into the fire.

“Well?” Lucien prompted.

“Merely a statue.” Maggie pretended to peer through her opera glasses, if only so Lucien wouldn’t notice her discomfort.

“If merely a statue, then why have you turned red?”

She lowered the glasses. “I do not know what I am supposed to do,” she admitted. “Does he plan on sending me something each day until I . . . what? I have no idea what the rules are.”

“Ah.” Lucien sat back and crossed his legs. “I see. You have never been pursued and the idea makes you uncomfortable. Can you not just enjoy it, ma chère? In a dress as beautiful as that, you deserve to have the men of Paris slavering at your feet.”

Maggie smoothed her low-cut silver and white opera dress while she considered Lucien’s words. No man had ever tried to win her. During her debut she’d received a few bouquets, but no suitor had ever seriously courted her—not even Simon. Her husband had given her a perfunctory gift on each birthday, no doubt picked out by his secretary. She could not even recall them.

This kindness from Simon unnerved her. When the two of them were at odds, she could easily find her footing. Gifts and adoring words, however, were harder to navigate. Discounting them made her a shrew, but did he honestly believe a few tokens would heal wounds long scarred over? And what did he hope to accomplish?

She fervently wished their conversation the other night had not taken place. Without that infernal headache, she never would have revealed the fact he’d broken her heart. Silly female notion anyway, a broken heart. No doubt he thought the revelation ridiculous.

“I could enjoy the attention if I knew what he hoped to gain,” she told Lucien.

“It is obvious, non? Your earl intends to lure you back to his bed.”

The performance began, leaving Maggie to contemplate Lucien’s statement. Could it be as simple as that? If he merely wanted to bed her again, would he go to so much trouble? It wasn’t as if she were a maiden, for heaven’s sake. Not that it mattered. She could not allow her resolve to weaken. Any association between the two of them must be avoided. His political career would certainly suffer from her reputation, and she had no plans to curtail either her behavior or her career as Lemarc. No one would take away the freedom she’d worked so hard to achieve.

 

 

The first act had been bloody torturous. Maggie’s box was not far and Simon had hardly taken his eyes off her, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. She looked devastatingly beautiful. The silver and white opera dress showed off the creamy, rounded tops of her breasts. Her long, black hair was fashioned into rings of curls held away from her face with a silver band, exposing the long column of her throat. He wanted to nibble on that soft pale skin.

When they reached the first break, Simon turned to his companions. “Lady Sophia, Lady Ardington, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”

Lady Sophia stood, her brown eyes shrewd and knowing. “I shall come with you.”

Simon blinked. Sophia was the Duchess of Colton’s closest friend, which meant she enjoyed trouble every bit as much as Julia—only Sophia had no husband to keep her in line. Under normal circumstances, Simon avoided her, but she’d requested his escort to the Opéra-Comique this evening. Since he’d already planned to attend, there had been no reason to turn Sophia and her stepmother down.

Of course, he hadn’t counted on Sophia dogging his every step tonight. He needed to have a private conversation with Maggie, one no unmarried lady should overhear. Impatient to leave, he frowned at Sophia. “No.”

Sophia waved her hand dismissively, then said, “Stepmama, Lord Winchester and I will return shortly.” She grabbed Simon’s arm and began tugging him out of the box. “Come on. I am dying to meet her.”

Once in the corridor, he placed her hand on his sleeve. They started in the direction of Maggie’s box. “How do you know where I’m going?”

“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.