The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (8)

Chapter Eight

Markham fairly scurried out the door, much to Simon’s satisfaction.

“I cannot see how that was necessary,” Maggie snapped, placing her cup and saucer on the table.

“Did you honestly believe I would sit and watch while the two of you flirted with one another?”

Her jaw dropped. “I was not flirting with him. We were discussing other matters.”

“He wants to bed you, Maggie. And it’s not as if you weren’t flirting with him last night.”

“Jealousy does not become you.”

He gave a dismissive sound. “I am hardly jealous. I don’t care if you want to bed Markham—though I would urge you to set your sights higher. He’s not exactly known for prowess in the bedroom.”

Her creamy skin turned a pretty pink, and he found himself entranced. Sweet Bartholomew’s bollocks, she was beautiful. When she blushed, the traces of cynicism and distrust vanished and he saw the girl he remembered: an intoxicating combination of youthful innocence and a fortitude beyond her years. Strong, stubborn, and unafraid. Everything he’d ever admired in her. Desire slid down his spine, wound its way through his guts. God, he wanted her. Desperately.

“Allow me to guess,” she said tartly, smoothing down her skirts and avoiding his eyes. “Someone like yourself, perhaps?”

“If you are so inclined. I would most definitely enjoy your efforts at seduction.” He couldn’t prevent his voice from dropping to a low, husky pitch. “And I can guarantee you’d enjoy the results.”

Her gaze snapped to his and he saw the confusion there, not that he could offer any explanation for his remark. One man just finished flirting with her, and now here Simon did the same. But he liked to think the comparison ended there. Other men might lust after Maggie, thanks to her exotic beauty or legendary reputation, but Simon knew her. Knew how she bit her lip when she was confused. The deep, rich sound of her laughter when she found something amusing. The stubborn set to her chin when she argued.

“I think not,” she returned, though the hitch in her voice suggested otherwise. “Did you bring those paintings to show me?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I did. These are Lemarc’s bird paintings I purchased the other day.” Standing, he moved the tea tray to another side table. Then he retrieved the paintings and began placing them in front of Maggie.

“Only eight? I thought there were nineteen in the set.”

“Excellent memory. There are nineteen and Quint has the rest. I can have them sent over, if you wish. But I thought these might be a good start.”

He purposely slid onto the sofa, close to her, the outside of his knee brushing against her skirts. “What do you think?”

“I like them,” she replied.

Chuckling, he said, “Not precisely what I meant, but I’m glad you approve. Quint has used these eight to pinpoint a general location for where they were painted.”

He felt her stiffen. “That’s . . . remarkable,” she said, a strange note in her voice.

“It is, indeed. There is one that caused him no small amount of trouble. I wonder if you can spot it.”

“Oh.” She held up her hands. “I know nothing about birds, I’m afraid. Why do you not tell me instead?”

This close, he could study each of her features. Green irises, clear and sharp, were locked on his face. The pouty, soft lips that beckoned a man’s mouth and tongue. A straight, delicate nose and graceful jaw. It was impossible to miss the pulse that fluttered at the base of her throat or the rapid rise and fall of her chest. God, he was mad for her. And the knowledge that he affected her every bit as much had lust tightening in his groin.

Her lips parted, the pink tip of her tongue darting out to moisten the plump flesh, and blood rushed to his cock, filling it in sweet, steady pulses. It took everything he had not to pounce on her.

A silky tendril of black hair curled by her temple. Without thinking, he reached up to drag the ink-colored strands between his thumb and forefinger. Soft, like velvet. What he wouldn’t give to have that luxurious curtain of hair surround them while she rode his shaft.

As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, color dusted her pale skin once more, an enticing blush he could not resist. He felt himself leaning toward her. “Maggie,” he whispered. “In the name of all that is holy, stop me now.”

Instead of blistering him with her razor-sharp tongue, she lifted her face and met him halfway, giving him the approval to kiss the bloody hell out of her.

Approval he promptly took advantage of, capturing her mouth fiercely and with no hesitation. He wanted to be gentle, to build slowly, but he couldn’t. He’d waited a lifetime to taste her. And it was even better than he’d imagined. Her lips were soft, her breath sweet and hot, and he found himself deepening the kiss. Hard to believe this was Maggie, yielding to him. Kissing him back with unexpected fervor. But now that he had her, the fires of hell couldn’t pull him away.

He could feel her trembling and realized his own hands were none too steady as well. And when his tongue touched hers, it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. Sweet, she was so sweet. Her mouth warm and lush, her tongue wicked and slick. His erection throbbed, harder than it’d been in ages. Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her. He came back again and again, a never-ending thirst that her kisses both eased and worsened at the same time.

Reason and good sense dictated this as a terrible idea. He shouldn’t have started this madness. It was the afternoon, for God’s sake. They could be caught at any moment—there were servants milling about, possibly listening at doors. Had he lost his everlasting mind?

But heaven help him, it wasn’t enough. Lust clawed at his insides, a swirling, living animal that craved satisfaction. He pressed her into the back of the couch, trying to get closer. Damned clothes. He’d give his considerable fortune to feel her naked skin next to his. To roll her underneath him and slide into the wetness between her thighs.

His palm covered her breast, cupping it, shaping it, stroking the taut nipple through her clothing. Her back arched, lifted to him, as she made a needy sound in her throat. Urgently, he dragged the bodice of her dress down, reached past the layers of cloth until her small breast spilled out. He broke off from her mouth and bent his head to see her. Gorgeous. A hard, pink-tipped nipple surrounded by a dark areola, a lovely contrast to her creamy white skin. Simon wasted no time in running his tongue over the taut bud, laving and licking, before drawing it deep in his mouth. He heard her sharp inhale and felt her fingers thread through his hair to hold him in place.

As if retreat was a possibility.

He knew she’d had many lovers and, right then, he did not care. It made not a whit of difference because none of those men had waited as long for her as Simon had. Dreamt about it as often as he had. Not one of them craved her down to their very souls. In fact, he’d never lusted after a woman with this much delirium. And now that he had her, with her body soft and pliant under his hands, he planned to pleasure her until she shouted his name. Only his.

So he used his teeth, scraping lightly, biting gently, until she whimpered. He loosened what fastenings he could, clawing at the laces of her dress, and then tugged the fabric down farther to give the other breast the same attention. She moaned, and he didn’t stop until she began writhing restlessly next to him. Her nipples were taut and eager, straining against his tongue, and unbelievably sweet.

Rising up, he reclaimed her mouth, drinking her in . . . surrounding himself with her. Her small hands slid up under his coat to clutch at his sides as she kissed him back. God, he needed to touch her—and wanted her to touch him in return.

He drew up her skirts, his fingers trailing up her thigh. She shivered—whether from the sensation or the cool air, he couldn’t say, but he didn’t stop. He would unlock all her secrets, find out what made her shudder and shake if it killed them both.

Liquid heat met his touch at the entrance to her body. Everlasting hell. She was wetter than he’d dared hope, and the undeniable proof of her desire made his gut clench. He held off, however strong his need to thrust deep into that slick heaven. No, he didn’t want to lose himself just yet.

“Simon,” she breathed, breaking off from his mouth as he slowly slipped a finger in her tight channel.

He bent to nibble her throat, kissing down to the hollow between her collarbones. “Yes?”

“Oh,” she gasped when he added a second finger. She was snug. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow imagining that hot silk squeezing his cock. Somehow he forced himself to stay on task.

He happened to notice her hands gripping the cushion, as if she were afraid to let go. That wouldn’t do at all. He much preferred active participation from his lovers rather than a woman who’d lie back and take it. Hell, if he wanted passivity in a bed partner, he’d marry.

Maggie had passion inside her. He’d seen countless examples, in fact, from glimpses during her youth to more recent skirmishes. And he meant to have it. Now.

“Lift your breasts for me,” he told her, continuing to work her with his hand, gliding in and out. “Hold them up.”

She hesitated only a moment, then shifted to cup the undersides of her mounds, plumping them. The sight nearly made him spend in his breeches like a lad. He rewarded her by laving a nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it between his lips. He flicked it, stroked it, worshipped the tip of her breast with every bit of his concentration; then he moved to the second and began all over again.

She was panting, head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure. He’d never seen anything more lovely in his life. When he felt her inner walls tighten, he stilled his hand.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, writhing. “Simon, you must . . . oh. Do not stop, please.”

He could finish it now, could use his thumb on the bud at the top of her cleft to send her over the edge. But he had to have more. He needed her complete surrender, to own her, body and soul.

“Come here,” he said, settling against the back of the sofa. Wrapping his hands around her small waist, he lifted her up and swung her over his lap, her knees astride his hips.

Ebony hair disheveled, emerald eyes gone dark, her lips swollen and rosy from his mouth . . . He’d put that look on her face, he thought smugly. “Touch me, Maggie. Put your hands on me. Any place. Anywhere at all. Just touch me.”

Maggie knew precisely what he meant. She hadn’t much experience with men, but there was one place they all wanted to be touched and, by God, she couldn’t wait to touch him there, either.

What had happened to her? In the last quarter hour, she’d gone from resenting his presence to falling under his spell like Persephone après the pomegranate seeds. Hardly her fault—talents such as Simon’s, she supposed, were not to be underestimated. No other man had ever incited a wicked burn in her belly. Or made her skin itch with need. She hadn’t expected it, and yet it seemed she’d waited a lifetime for it. She was consumed, overwrought. Indeed, she had every intention of following through on what was likely to happen on this tiny sofa.

She snaked her hand between their bodies, covered the hard shaft evident in the tight buckskin. He sucked in a breath, and she traced the thick, straining length of him with her fingertips.

“Maggie, please,” he pleaded through gritted teeth. “I am past the point of teasing.”

Hmm. Though her body throbbed, her heart beating so hard that blood roared in her ears, she thought he deserved to be tormented a little. She scooted back to sit on his thighs. Slowly working the buttons on his breeches, she peeled back the fall to reveal his shaft. Long and rigid with springy, dark blond curls at the base, his erection was more impressive than the two she’d seen before. With a fingertip, she traced the smooth, silky head.

If only she could see all of him in the gray afternoon light. She’d seen enough sketches of the bare human form—both male and female—and had even drawn a few unclothed models in Paris. The hard angles on a man were so different from the soft, roundness of a woman. Protruding hip bones, sharp ribs, the ripple of sinewy muscle under skin . . . they combined into something capable of great power and strength. It would be nice to see how Simon compared—from an artist’s perspective, of course.

Still, one must make do with what one had. She swiped her thumb over the tip, fascinated, and heard his groan.

“I want to take you to your bed,” he growled. “Lay you down and strip you bare. Please, Maggie. Will you let me?”

No, she nearly shouted, the answer swift and absolute. Stolen moments in her drawing room were one matter. Taking him to her chamber, undressing, allowing a man in her bed—at this hour, no less—was entirely something else. And it wasn’t the servants she worried about; it was her sanity.

In this small room, she could pretend that passion had overcome her reason. Pretend that Simon hadn’t hurt her terribly all those years ago. Pretend that this burning fever for him was nothing other than a temporary biological condition to be dealt with.

Without answering, she bent forward and pressed her mouth to his. He kissed her back, took her mouth as if it were necessary to his very survival. Spread the seam of her lips with his clever, wicked tongue. Demanding. Impatient. And Maggie melted against him, pliant and desperate to get closer. Her fingers threaded the smooth strands of his hair, holding on under the glorious rush of sensation.

His mouth broke off, and he trailed kisses down her neck. “You stubborn, maddening female,” he said into her skin. “I want to have you properly, not in here like a footman—”

Maggie rocked her cleft over his shaft with a roll of her hips, forestalling his words. The resulting pleasure pulsed in her core. “Simon, please. Now.”

Simon groaned, his eyes searching her face. He gathered her skirts out of the way to expose her. “Take me inside, Maggie. Let me have you.”

She hesitated, questions coming unbidden to her mind. Did he want . . . ? The mechanics weren’t unknown, of course, but she’d never . . . well, she’d never been the one on top. Should she merely—

Without warning, he snatched her shoulders and twisted their bodies until she was on her back, Simon cradled between her splayed thighs. His eyes glittered, and she felt the blunt tip of him at her entrance as he lined up. In one smooth thrust, he drove deep, filling her completely.

She squeaked and clutched at his shoulders. Though not a maiden, she hadn’t done this often. It hadn’t hurt, exactly, but the sensation had taken her by surprise.

He dropped his forehead to hers. “I’m a cad. I took you too fast. But I could not . . . I’m sorry, Mags. Let me make it better.” Withdrawing slightly, he angled to slide back inside. “The servants . . . ?”

She gasped, the deliciousness of that one small movement too much to take. “No,” she breathed, knowing Tilda well enough that her maid would not allow anyone to disturb them for any reason. “Again, Simon.”

He complied, then murmured, “The way you feel around me . . . so tight.” Another rock of his hips, deeper this time. “God in heaven.”

She couldn’t agree more. It felt less of an invasion and more of a merging. Like his body was leading hers to a destination they could only arrive at together. She’d never have guessed, would never have imagined, this bliss. How had she gone her whole life without feeling it until now?

The pace increased, their ragged breathing filling the small drawing room as ghostly afternoon light filtered in through the glass. Simon filled her again and again, increasing the ache, until she whimpered and writhed beneath him. He teased her nipples, rolling and pinching them, drawing them deep into the lush heat of his mouth. When she thought she would die from the intensity of it, he reached between her legs and found the hard nubbin of flesh at the apex of her thighs, stroked. Once, twice, again, and she exploded in a burst of color and light, muscles clenching in a spectacular euphoria.

As she floated back down and tried to catch her breath, Simon’s movements grew erratic. Then his head snapped back, and he let out a deep, feral growl, his body shuddering. He pulsed inside her and she held on, savoring the intense force of his orgasm.

Relief washed through her. He’d given her pleasure and she’d returned it in kind.

She was not frigid.

Giddy with that knowledge, she wrapped around him. Strange to be fully clothed and feel so close to a man. She pressed a soft kiss to the rough skin of his throat, above his perfectly ruined cravat. Chest still heaving, he thrust one last time, and her channel, slick from his seed, offered no resistance.

His . . . seed.

Oh.

Her husband hadn’t tried to prevent conception during their few couplings, but Jean-Louis had. Therefore, she knew what a man must do when a baby was not the intended purpose, and Simon had not done it. A riotous mix of emotions crashed through her. Everything from panic to fear to longing.

Then back to fear.

She did not want a child—not even one with eyes as blue as a Norwegian fjord she’d seen once in a painting. No, she most definitely did not. Having another man’s by-blow would truly confirm what the ton thought of her. She’d have to move away, give up her livelihood, give up Lemarc.

And the spiteful women, the horrible ones who snickered behind her back, would win.

It begged the question, why had Simon not taken care with her? Surely he remembered those precautions with his mistress. Because you do not matter to him. He thinks you no better than a trollop, as does everyone else. Her insides turned cold.

She pushed at his shoulder, dislodging him. “Get up, Simon.”

That roused him out of his postcoital befuddlement. “Oh, my apologies. I must be quite heavy.” He withdrew and sat back on the sofa. Maggie felt the sticky wetness between her thighs as she untangled herself and stood up. Damn it.

She tucked her breasts back into her stays and gown. She couldn’t do the fastenings, of course, so she held the garment over her bosom. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Simon working at the buttons of his breeches. Her hair must look a fright but there was no hope for it now. She’d order up a bath the instant he walked out the door—which couldn’t come soon enough for her liking.

He rose and adjusted his clothing. Despite the disheveled hair and ruined cravat, he was impossibly handsome.

When she said nothing, he remarked, “Not much for tender words and a cuddle after the fact, then? Cannot say I blame you. This sofa is deuced uncomfortable for this sort of thing.”

Though his tone was light, she clamped down on the furious retort burning in her chest. “Why did you not . . . withdraw?” No doubt she blushed, if the heat under her skin was any indication, but the question could not be ignored, no matter how uncomfortable the topic.

He blinked. “To be honest, I forgot. It felt . . . rather, you felt . . . so perfect and I lost my head. But you needn’t worry if it comes to that. I’ll—”

“Yes, and while I’m sure a bastard here or there is nothing to you, it makes a great deal of difference to me. Why is it men never think before rutting like a . . . like a . . .”

“Careful,” he warned, his gaze gone colder than the North Sea in February. “I am feeling particularly indulgent at the moment, but I would not push it, Maggie.”

Who did he think he was, giving her orders as if he were her father? Or, even worse, her husband. “Or else what, Simon?”

He thrust his hands on his hips. “Really, you’re experienced enough to know what was happening here. And you enjoyed it every bit as much as I did. Need I remind how you begged?”

No, he needn’t. Likely those memories would haunt her nightmares for some time to come. And the words only proved that he was no different from the others. Even after what had just happened, he still believed what everyone said, the vicious rumors and packs of lies.

And that hurt.

She took a ragged breath. “I am not some mistress to whom you may toss a few coins and send on her way. You assume because of my nickname I’ve legions of lovers, which could not be further from the truth.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I apologized for the carelessness on my part. Rest assured I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“Indeed, you’ll not, because what happened today shan’t be repeated.”

“Why the devil not?”

Because it was too wonderful. Too beautiful. Too much like everything she’d ever hoped for.

But he hadn’t. Simon had walked away, had turned his back on her when she’d needed him most. He never asked for the truth. Never once had he sought her out to hear what had happened that night in the Lockheed gardens. He’d cast her into the lion’s den without a second thought and she’d spent years crying herself to sleep at night, wondering what she’d ever done to deserve a life such as the one forced upon her.

And when Hawkins died, she’d earned the most precious commodity a woman like her could ever have: freedom.

No one would take that away—not even Simon.

“It was a mistake,” she told him, lifting her shoulder with a carelessness she did not feel.

His expression shifted, the stark planes of his aristocratic face turning hard. Dangerous. She took an unconscious step back as he stalked forward but then planted her feet. He would not intimidate her, by God.

“A mistake?” he whispered darkly, prowling toward her. “The moans? The sighs? The way you wrapped your legs around my hips? Was that all a mistake, Maggie?”

She opened her mouth to confirm it, but he continued, cutting her off.

“The wetness pooling between your thighs said otherwise. The way you begged me to take you said otherwise.” He now stood much too close. She had to wrench her neck to look at him as he loomed over her. “You say you’re no doxy; well, I am no untried lad you can chew up and spit out. Nor am I an old man rutting with rheumy eyes and a withered prick. Believe what you must to be able to sleep at night, but what happened was no mistake.”

Oh, he was intolerable. “It shall not happen again, Simon.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Take comfort, then, that I won’t force my attentions on you. There are any number of women who won’t cringe at the idea of me in their bed.”

“Like your mistress,” she couldn’t help saying.

Something flashed in his eyes, and she feared it might be satisfaction. “Why, you almost sound jealous, Lady Hawkins.”

The idea of Simon and another woman doing what had just occurred in Maggie’s drawing room sickened and depressed her, but she’d be damned if she ever let him know. “Hardly. All of those women can have you, as far as I’m concerned.”

Shoulders stiff, he took a step back and bowed. “I shall remember you said so, madam.”

 

 

“Good afternoon, Mother. You look lovely, as always.” Simon bent to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“I’ll overlook the fact you’re late because of that compliment—which, I’m sure, was your intention.” Still a handsome woman, the countess was tall and thin with features similar to his own. She looked much the same as she always did, in a high-neck violet gown. She put down her embroidery, an activity she only undertook when anxious.

He’d gone home after Maggie’s in order to change, which had made him late for his afternoon appointment with the countess. He grinned at her. “I never could get anything by you.”

“You still cannot,” she retorted. “Please, sit. I cannot strain my neck to converse with you.” She requested tea as he settled into a chair. When they were alone, she asked, “Have you been to your club today?”

“No. Why?”

“It’s that wastrel, Sir James!” his mother blurted, color high on her cheeks. “I heard the news last night. Lady Keller heard from Lady Peterson that Sir James lost all of their money. All of it! Sybil is utterly ruined.”

Oh, Christ. “Wait.” Simon sat forward. “There is the money I set aside in her trust, is there not?”

“I confess I do not know, but I suspect that shiftless excuse for a man found out about the trust and convinced her to turn it over. Lord Peterson saw James drunk at the hazard table inside a gaming hell, babbling on about his investments failing. He was playing with every last farthing they had.”

“Unbelievable,” Simon muttered, slumping in his chair. “How can he be so stupid? But perhaps Sybil did not turn the money over to him. Surely she would not be so brainless.”

His mother shook her head. “Women who love the wrong man are blind to sloth, stupidity, or spite. Precisely why those of our class should never be allowed to make their own matches.”

“Seemed a good match at the time, though I wish I’d dug a bit deeper on him before we allowed it.”

“It would not have mattered. Sybil was determined to have him. She’d have run off to Scotland if we tried to stop them.”

That was true. Sybil had been madly in love with Sir James. Only sixteen at the time, Simon hadn’t understood the importance of his role as head of the family and had also lacked the experience to know what men of Sir James’s ilk were like. He’d had the title for a mere two years but hadn’t even finished school. Still, he wished he’d asked for advice or had James investigated because the man was an utter arse, through and through.

And now Simon had to clean up the mess. Again.

“I’ll go and see him this afternoon,” he told his mother. “No matter what has happened, I’ll not let Sybil suffer because of James’s stupidity.”

The dowager’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank you, Simon. I knew when he ran through her dowry in less than three years the man would be trouble.” The tea tray arrived and she labored over it for a few moments. “Remember that Greek diamond mine he invested in? Failed to produce a single stone and all the workers quit.”

He shook his head. “What about the fleet of merchant ships overtaken by pirates? Or the abandoned Russian coal venture?”

“My favorite was the monkey-breeding scheme where all the animals turned out to be male.” They both chuckled, and the dowager covered her mouth. “Oh, it’s wrong to laugh, Simon. The man has absolutely no sense and he’s ruining Sybil’s future.”

“I shall do what I can, Mother. Sybil will not end up on the streets.”

She picked up her cup. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

Simon liked to think so. He had worked hard over the last six years to carry on the Barrett family legacy in Parliament. The three estates he owned all prospered and were well-managed. True, he hadn’t married and started producing offspring, but he would someday. Just not anytime soon.

Thoughts of offspring reminded him of this afternoon. Yes, he’d acted abominably. Should have withdrawn, spent himself anywhere but inside her. He never forgot with Adrianna or with any of his other lovers. His father’s mistress had borne the seventh earl two bastards, and Simon could still remember the day he’d learned of the existence of his half siblings. While it was not uncommon amongst the nobility, the revelation had confused and hurt him at the time, and Simon had vowed at nine he’d not sire any by-blows. And so far, to his knowledge, he hadn’t.

No question, then, he’d erred this afternoon. But hell . . . pulling out had been the last thing on his mind at that precise moment. The feel of Maggie clenched around him had been heaven. The pleasure had ripped through him, roared up from the depths of his soul to obliterate everything else.

Obviously Maggie hadn’t been similarly affected.

She had every right to be angry, of course. His actions had been thoughtless. No doubt her other lovers were far more considerate.

“You have the oddest expression on your face right now. What are you thinking?”

Simon glanced at his mother and shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

“Some days I fear you’ve grown far too serious, Simon.” She sighed, and he refrained from comment, reaching out to steal another piece of plum cake instead. “Have you by any chance run into Lady Hawkins since she returned from that godforsaken little town Hawkins dragged her to?”

The cake turned to dust in his mouth. No chance his mother asked that particular question on a whim. Obviously word had gotten round about either his attendance at Maggie’s extravagant soirée or the dinner party at Colton’s.

He swallowed, forcing the lump of dry cake down his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

She sipped her tea, sharp blue eyes identical to his own watching him over the rim of her cup. “And?”

“And she seems well. Hawkins left her fairly well off, it seems, and she certainly loves to stir up attention for herself.”

“Hawkins did not leave her well off,” his mother said. “A very modest jointure, I heard. The estate got the rest.”

Interesting. He hadn’t paid attention to the gossip when Hawkins died, but the woman lived in debauchery and excess to rival a Bourbon king. How could she possibly afford it?

“Were you kind to her?” his mother asked, and Simon nearly laughed. If he’d been any kinder, the two of them would’ve melted in a puddle of lust. Without doubt, it had been the most satisfying and intense encounter he’d ever had with a woman.

He didn’t care for the way his mother was studying him. “Why on earth would I be unkind?”

The countess sighed. “Because people often are, especially in our circles. She did not have an easy time with her debut, and the marriage to Hawkins could not have been much better. And I know you favored her.”

Such a commonplace phrase for the profound depth of his former feelings for Maggie. He had followed the girl around like a beggar, desperate for any word or glance she might throw his way. Hell, he’d almost demanded Cranford’s seconds, ready to take a bullet to defend her honor.

Then Cranford had shown him proof, the letters from Maggie suggesting assignations. How much she looked forward to Cranford’s attentions. The truth had nearly crushed Simon. And there had been others, Cranford swore, other men to whom she’d given her favors. But Simon had been the fattest prize that Season, a prestigious title and more wealth than any other unattached man that year.

It had all been a game to her. A game to win the husband too besotted to know better.

And so he’d licked his wounds like any respectable twenty-three-year-old would: the day of her hasty wedding, Simon got stinking drunk in one of London’s most exclusive brothels. He’d stayed for three days, hiring enough women to keep him entertained round the clock. Madame Hartley, the owner of the establishment, joked as he left that he should have his cock bronzed in commemoration.

“Simon, are you paying attention?”

He glanced up. “Of course. We are speaking of Lady Hawkins. And I did not shun her, if that is what has you concerned.”

“Most of the older women have, I’m afraid. She’s not welcome everywhere, as I’m sure you well know, and her mother was a dear friend at one time.” She paused. “Perhaps I should have spoken up for the gel. Hard to imagine she’d truly taken to Cranford, not when she had you. Anyway, I’d like to have her for dinner. Would you come?”

It took him a second, but he managed, “If you wish. But she might not accept the invitation, Mother.” Not after today, anyway.

“Nonsense. Why would she refuse?”

Simon shrugged. “You know how temperamental some women can be. Well, I must go deal with Sir James before this gets any worse.” He stood and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’ll send a note later after I meet with him.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Simon. And I shall let you know what Lady Hawkins says about dinner.”