Chapter Six
“Simon, really. You must stop glaring at her,” Julia said.
Simon and Julia were making their way down to dinner, last in the line of guests. He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze away from Maggie and Markham. Anger still burned in his gut, however. Markham had attached himself to Lady Hawkins like an apothecary’s leech from the moment she’d arrived. Did the man have no shame?
“And you are the one who insisted I invite Markham,” Julia continued.
“Thank you for the reminder,” he muttered.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you jealous. This is quite interesting.”
He made a dismissive noise as they reached the stairs. “I’m hardly jealous of Markham. There’s a reason his wife stays in Cornwall and no mistress will tolerate him for more than a few weeks. The man wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she dropped, naked, into his lap.”
“A good thing we’ve been friends forever, otherwise my husband might take offense to the nature of this conversation.”
“Colton hardly scares me. After all, I’m the reason you two reconciled. He should thank me every chance he gets.”
“Oh, it was your doing, was it?”
He grinned down at her. “You never would have made it to Venice without my assistance.”
“True, but I had the hard part.”
“Please.” He held up his free hand. “Let’s not discuss Colton’s virility before I’ve food in my stomach. I’m likely to lose my appetite.”
Julia chuckled. “You are incorrigible. It’s a wonder anyone takes you seriously in Parliament.”
“They don’t know me as well as you do, that’s how.”
“Quite so. Otherwise, they would not be so easily intimidated by the illustrious statesman you’ve become.”
They entered the enormous dining room. Colton had taken his place at the head of the elaborate table, Julia’s aunt on his right. Simon noted that Markham had, of course, secured the chair beside Maggie. Bloody fool.
“Ease up, Simon,” Julia muttered. “You are crushing my hand.”
“My apologies.”
“You know, you deserve everything she gives you and more,” the duchess said under her breath as they took their seats.
“I shall remember you said as much,” he returned, “especially when Colton asks me if you’ve ever visited a gaming—”
She slapped his arm. “Simon! Do not breathe a word of that to my husband.”
“Something amiss, Duchess?” Colton called, glancing between his wife and Simon.
Julia gave him a perfectly innocent look. “No, Colton. Merely starving.” She signaled to the footman to begin service.
Simon purposely averted his gaze from Maggie and Markham during dinner. Maggie’s encouraging grins at the viscount made Simon contemplate stabbing someone with a dinner fork. So he drank more than he ate. Not until the sixth course did he realize he was fast on his way to becoming soused.
It didn’t help that she was bloody beautiful, the witch. He wished he’d stop noticing, but he could picture every detail, every curve—even with his eyes closed. All those years ago, he’d spent hours pondering the delicate bones in her wrist. Or the curve of her ear. Imagining her bare, soft breasts would have turned him hard as stone.
Tonight, the tops of said breasts were pushed absurdly high. He found the lush, creamy swells incredibly distracting, as likely did every other able-bodied male in the room.
And why had she come tonight? He hadn’t expected to see her here. At the very least, Julia should’ve warned him Maggie would be attending. Then he could have sent his regrets.
“Would you care to go and lie down?” Julia asked him quietly. “You are drawing stares.”
He straightened and forked up a bite of roasted lamb. “Do not be ridiculous.”
“Will you ever tell me what happened?”
Everything you likely hoped for and worse. The comment had pricked at him for days. What had Maggie meant? He noticed Julia studying him and tried to remember her question. Damned wine. “What?”
“I asked if you would tell me what happened between the two of you.”
“No.”
Julia contemplated his answer while she chewed. “Perhaps I’ll get Lady Hawkins to tell me, then.”
“Ask her if you wish, but you know what everyone knows. There’s nothing more to the tale.” She’d made a fool of him. The end. What more needed to be discussed?
“Oh, there’s often more to a story than what gossip carries. Look at Colton, the way the ton branded him a rapscallion and a murderer before the truth came out.”
“Colton is a rapscallion,” Simon pointed out.
Julia grinned. “Yes, but he’s my rapscallion now. And anyway, I am not so sure Lady Hawkins meant to break your heart.”
Simon picked up his wine and threw it back. He signaled to the footman for more. “Men don’t get broken hearts, Julia. Those are for young girls and poets with nothing but time on their hands.”
Julia drummed her fingers on the table. “Is that so?”
“Quite. I figure she did me a favor.”
“By all means, then, have another glass of gratitude before the end of dinner.”
There were six women in attendance, so maneuvering a seat next to the duchess proved challenging. Yet Maggie managed it neatly. The ladies had all settled in the drawing room, having left the gentlemen in the dining room, and the duchess now began pouring tea.
Maggie accepted her cup and added two lumps of sugar. She relaxed and took a grateful sip. Dinner had been excruciating. Not only had she juggled Markham’s attentions, but Simon spent the evening either scowling at her or pretending she didn’t exist. Hard to say which bothered her more.
Truth be told, the ease with which Simon interacted with the duchess made Maggie envious. Clearly the two were close friends. Maggie had once enjoyed that same familiarity with him. They had shared jokes and laughed together, and he’d been the first person she’d sought out upon entering a room. Of course, she’d stupidly assumed his attention meant something, that it showed a depth of feeling on his part. She’d been wrong; he’d snubbed her just as the rest had.
“I see you like your tea sweet,” the duchess remarked as she sat back. “I do as well, though I can’t resist a bit of cream.”
“I have a terrible sweet tooth,” Maggie admitted. “I’ve been known to have a slice of cake for breakfast.”
The duchess’s brows shot up. “How deliciously decadent. You are a woman after my own heart.”
“I hope so.” Maggie leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Perhaps you’ll be amenable to providing help to a friend of mine.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Pearl Kelly.” The duchess’s eyes widened, so Maggie continued. “She and I have embarked upon an endeavor, and we’ve encountered a strange request.” Maggie proceeded to fill the duchess in on the three girls who wanted to apprentice with a modiste.
“It is a challenge,” the duchess admitted. “But I do love a challenge. And because of the baby, I’ve ordered three new complete wardrobes in two years. My dressmakers are ready to nominate me for sainthood. Tell me, what do you and Pearl hope to accomplish?”
“For the most part, we offer the owners additional funds for better care. For disease and other delicate . . . problems. We also try to help the girls learn, whether it’s reading, writing, sewing, or an instrument.”
“A worthwhile cause. Indeed, I am a bit jealous she did not ask me to help.”
“It was I who approached her originally. However, if you and I had known one another, I would have asked for your involvement.”
“Well, you shall be hard-pressed to keep me out of it now. I’ll pay some visits tomorrow and let you know. Have you told Simon of this work?”
Maggie frowned. “No. Why would I?”
Julia’s lips twisted as if she stifled a smile. “No reason. Amazing how little we know of one another, is it not?”
Maggie shrugged. “Often what we show the world is not our true selves.”
“Indeed.” The duchess’s gaze was far too calculating for Maggie’s comfort. Another guest secured Julia’s attention, so Maggie took the opportunity to excuse herself. She needed a moment alone, or perhaps some fresh air.
The long corridor outside the drawing room resembled a maze, with doors every which way. Picking a direction, she searched for a footman. Perhaps he could draw her a detailed map on how to find the terrace.
From the shadow of an alcove, a figure stepped into her path. “Lady Hawkins.”
Simon. She started, pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared the life out of me. What are you doing out here?”
He folded his arms, the fine wool of his coat pulling taut across his broad shoulders. “I could ask you the same question—only I suspect the answer. Where did you have it planned?”
“Simon, I think you had better return to the dining room—”
“The music room? The conservatory?” he continued, steady steps bringing him closer. “I happen to know there are hundreds of little spots all over this house where one—or perhaps two—could hide for an extended period of time.”
She tried to make sense of his words over the thundering of her heart. Was he insinuating . . . ? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Did he always assume the worst of her? Feet planted, she stopped moving and lifted her chin. “Are you under the impression I’m engaging in some sort of a tryst? In the middle of a dinner party?” It was so absurd, she could hardly speak it.
His smirk confirmed it. “Convenient you and Markham both excused yourselves within moments of one another, wouldn’t you say? Let me give you a piece of advice for next time: It draws less attention if you sneak away once the gentlemen join the—”
She came forward to hiss, “You hypocritical horse’s arse. I stepped out for some air. Alone.”
He had the gall to snort. “Yes, I’m quite sure Markham would offer up a similar story if we were to ask him.”
Anger rushed through her veins, settling in her chest like a heavy mound of potter’s clay. Simon loomed over her, snarling down in self-righteous fury, and she discovered he’d backed her up against a wall. She knew in that moment he would never believe her denials; he’d formed his opinion of her ten years ago and there would be no changing his mind.
Fine, she could play the harlot for him. Maybe then he’d leave her alone—though she truly longed to crack him one across his closely shaven jaw.
She exhaled, forced her limbs to relax, and licked her lips. Predictably, his gaze locked on her mouth, so she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. His chest continued to rise and fall, the harsh exhales filling the room, and his eyes darkened to sapphires. Oh yes, revenge could be sweet. Ever so slowly, she dragged one finger down the length of her bare collarbone. “Did you corner me in hopes of taking his place?” she asked, her voice low and intimate.
Simon shifted closer, the pure male, spicy scent of him filling her nose. She liked the way he smelled, orange and sandalwood with a hint of tobacco. The proximity of his frame distracted her as well. His evening clothes held no padding, and the well-tailored fit hugged him quite perfectly. She could see the outline—
“If I chose to take Markham’s place,” he started, placing his hands against the wall, one on either side of her head, to cage her in. He leaned in and for one terrifying, heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he shifted just before their lips touched. The tip of his nose slid across her cheek, tiny puffs of breath heating her skin as he nuzzled her. Maggie’s breasts swelled, and her lids fell with a rush of pleasure that rippled the length of her body. “If I chose to take his place, it wouldn’t be here,” he whispered near her ear. “I’d take you to my bed at Barrett House and show you wickedness Markham could not even begin to imagine. But that is not why I cornered you.”
Close. He was much too close. Despite her desire to remain unaffected, her belly fluttered and warmth tingled between her legs. Why on earth had it only ever been this odious man to elicit such feelings? She swallowed. “Then why?”
He flicked her earbob with his tongue, then nipped the lobe with gentle teeth. She inhaled sharply. “What game are you playing at, Maggie?”
“I—” Her traitorous voice caught, so she cleared her throat. “There is no game, Simon.”
Her control began melting away. She longed to do every improper thing in the world to him—and for him to return them in kind. Odd since she hadn’t ever enjoyed intimacies with a man. Had hated it, actually. But somehow, this was different.
Why had she started this? Oh yes, she’d thought to teach him a lesson, make a fool of him. Have him panting with lust and then leave him begging—only this was turning into something else entirely.
“I like games,” he continued, his lips brushing over her throat in a seductive caress. “But I also like to win. I wonder, are you prepared to pay the price when you lose?”
She shivered. There wasn’t enough air in the damn room. “I never lose,” she rasped. “And you have more at stake.”
“Do I?” His nose slid along the sensitive line of her jaw, the skin prickling in his wake. “I think I could take you against this wall. Right now. Right here.” His hips pressed against hers, his erection stiff and unapologetic, and she sucked in a breath. Before she knew it, her hands clutched at his waist to hold him in place.
“But you should know,” he continued, his mouth hovering above her lips, “I only play games when there aren’t quite so many players. I do not care to be one of many.”
It took a few seconds for that remark to sink in. When it did, hurt and anger resurfaced to eclipse whatever else she might have felt. The unbelievable, thick-skulled swine.
All of her muscles clenched and she shoved at his shoulder with all her strength. When he stepped back, she pushed by him and strode for the door. While the idea of running had merit, she couldn’t resist a last parting jab over her shoulder. “Fitting, then, that we shall never know how you measure up.”
Simon needed several minutes to collect himself. The current state of his shaft, now diamond-hard, prevented an immediate return to the party, so he practiced the speech he’d been crafting for Parliament in order to distract himself from his run-in with Maggie. How she’d felt pressed against the length of him. Her sweet scent. The softness of her skin.
Groaning, he reached to shift himself inside his breeches. Christ, he’d never rejoin the others if he kept this up. And what had he been thinking, baiting her in such a manner? He had no intention of tangling himself with her, no matter how enticing the package. Why had he drunk so much wine at dinner?
At least he’d prevented her tryst with Markham.
That brought a measure of grim satisfaction for many reasons. Markham had been invited merely because Simon needed to gain the viscount’s support for the upcoming proposal. Yet the old fool had spent the entire evening salivating over Maggie—not that she’d done anything to dissuade him.
As long as Simon lived, he’d never understand what Maggie saw in those other men. While Simon could live with having been thrown over, she certainly deserved someone better than Cranford—or Markham. Had the woman no standards?
By the time he strode into the main hall, Maggie stood in the entryway, fastening her pelisse while speaking in low tones to Julia. The duchess nodded; then the two women embraced. So Maggie had decided to quit the party. Feeling a bit of a voyeur, he returned to the drawing room and found Markham on the sofa chatting with another guest. Had he given up on Maggie so easily, or did he have plans to follow her home this evening? The idea made Simon positively ill.
Colton and Quint were propped up near the sideboard, so Simon made his way over.
“I would ask where you’ve been,” Colton drawled, “but considering the way Lady Hawkins just blazed in and dragged my wife out of here, I’d venture the question unnecessary.”
Simon reached for the decanter. “Leave off, Colt.”
“What did you say to her?” Quint asked. “She looked bloody furious.”
Simon could not begin to sort through the emotions swirling in his head, let alone talk about it. “Do you two not have anything better to occupy your time than to stand around and gossip? You’re worse than ladies loitering around a punchbowl.”
The duke’s eyebrows lifted. “What has your bollocks up your arse?”
“It’s Markham, is it not? You think Lady Hawkins favors him.” Simon watched as Quint lifted his tea, sipped. The viscount never drank spirits. Ever. Said it scrambled his brain and he hated the dull, numb feeling.
Simon, on the other hand, needed a bit of numbness. His glass now full of claret, he took a healthy mouthful and swallowed.
“Doubt anyone missed that,” Colton said. “So she flirted with Markham and, what, it hurt your tender feelings?”
Simon sighed. “Remind me why I helped you reconcile with your wife? I liked you far better when I only saw you once every few years.”
“It’s because the duchess tricked you,” Quint put in. “Both of you, actually.”
“Quint,” Colton drawled, “there are times when you are unbelievably helpful. This is not one of those times.”
Because Simon had a clear shot of the doorway, he noted the instant Julia reentered the room. Glancing about, her gaze locked with his and, mouth tight, she started forward.
“I know that face,” Colton muttered. “That face means one should run—not walk—the other way. Winchester, dear God, man, do yourself a favor—”
“Too late,” Quint said as Julia joined them.
“May I speak with you?” Julia snapped at Simon. Her blue eyes narrowed on him and he knew he’d best get it over with.
He wouldn’t go without fortification, however, and took a moment to refill his glass. When he finished, he turned. “After you, Duchess.”
She stomped to the farthest point in the room, lifting her skirts to keep from tripping in her haste. “What in the name of Hades happened? You and Lady Hawkins disappear together, only to have her return in a tizzy. What. Did. You. Do?”
He took umbrage at that. “Why do you assume it was me? What about what she did?”
“What are you, a child tattling on your naughty sibling?” Julia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I vow, I have never seen you like this. You’re normally so calm, so predictable. It’s as if you’ve been completely replaced by a stranger with the same outward appearance.”
“What did Lady Hawkins tell you?”
“Nothing. Merely that she felt out of sorts and needed to get home to rest. But it was clear it had to do with you, since she came back from your tête-à-tête worked up into a lather. I don’t like you upsetting a guest, not to mention a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Yes, a friend. I like her. And I’m helping her with a little project.”
“What project?” He didn’t like the idea of Maggie and Julia becoming close. The two women were far too alike and he already knew what sort of trouble Julia could get in to. Hell, he’d rescued her enough over the years from one scrape or another. Now he needed to worry about Maggie as well?
“None of your concern, is what. Honestly, Simon, I know you’re carrying a grudge over what happened all those years—”
“Ridiculous. I am not carrying a grudge. But did you see the way she encouraged Markham, flirting with him all night? Fairly disgusting.”
“She’s a widow and has already earned a reputation for herself. Since most of polite society will not have her, I say she’s entitled to partake in fun wherever she can. And it is unlike you to pass judgment on another’s liaisons.”
He pressed his lips together, unable and unwilling to comment. How could he explain it to Julia when he barely understood it himself?
“Tonight almost makes me regret the small part I played in that fiasco during her debut. Perhaps you should have challenged Cranford after all.”
“No, you were right. It would not have changed the outcome and likely could have made it all worse. Cranford may be many things, but a poor shot has never been one of them.”
“I don’t know. There is a sense of grand romance. . . .” She trailed off. “Anyway, what’s done is done. I just cannot understand why you insist on punishing the woman. Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“Suffered?” he scoffed. “You’ve been to one of her parties. The woman lives like a French aristocrat before Robespierre started lopping heads off. I’d hardly call that a hardship.”
“You are obviously more cynical and dim-witted than I give you credit for.” Julia blew out a breath. “Being on the outskirts of our Society is different for a woman than a man. I shouldn’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to leave her be, Simon.”
“Fine,” he snapped, then gentled his tone. “I’ll leave her be.” He heard the resolution in his voice but wondered if he truly meant it.