The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(10)

Her look turned measuring. “Thank you, though I might catch my death if I do not change out of my wet clothes.” She picked up the skirts of her dress, showed him the soaked fabric. Instantly, he was transfixed by the vision of her shapely leg covered in damp, transparent silk. His blood began to simmer. He wanted to feel her, to hold her . . . to run his tongue over the smooth knob of her ankle. A monumental mistake, if he allowed it, though desire was hardly ever logical.

Nevertheless, what came out of his mouth surprised even him. “Reminds me of the time I taught you to ice skate. Do you recall, at the Serpentine? The hem of your dress became damp and you nearly froze.”

She blinked up at him. “I haven’t thought of that outing in quite some time. That was a . . . nice day.”

“Yes, it was.” The urge to touch her worsened, a strange ache at the fond memories. “Will you dance with me?”

“Oh, I never dance.”

“Why not? You like to dance. At least, you did.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Dancing bores me to tears. Besides, it’s the sort of thing done at respectable parties.”

“Oh, the horror,” Simon drawled.

Her lips thinned. “Mock if you must, but I am no longer the girl you once knew—and I have no desire to become her ever again.”




The moment stretched and Maggie realized with humiliating alacrity she’d said far more than she’d intended. Simon’s eighth-generation, noble brow furrowed as he considered her words. Blast. Well, too late to take it back now. Unfortunately, she had her father’s temper as well as his creativity, and Simon had angered her over dancing, of all things. Honestly, who cared if she danced or not?

She had revealed too much. Blame his handsomeness, the distraction of looks so blond and aristocratic they could be sculpted out of fine Roman marble. His tall frame, elegantly turned out in a dark blue coat and matching breeches, drew every feminine eye in the room. And the way her pulse sped up at the sight irritated Maggie beyond measure, as she should be the one woman to know better.

Why had he mentioned the afternoon of skating? She would rather not remember the Simon of her debut, the charming man who seemingly could accomplish anything. He’d been so gentle that day, so solicitous, and had given her every bit of his attention. They had laughed often, and more than once he’d told her how much he admired her wit.

But too much had changed between them. Too much to ever go back, to be sure.

He opened his mouth—no doubt with some question or insight she had no desire to hear—so she blurted, “You wished to speak with me?”

His jaw snapped shut. After a moment, he said, “Not here, I think. No, I will come to see you tomorrow.”

“Will you.”

“Yes. The answers I require are best discussed in private.”

Oh, indeed? Little doubt what the line of questions would be, then. God knew she’d heard them all hundreds of times over the last ten years.

A small knot of disappointment twisted in her chest. She hadn’t expected it, though she should have. Simon was no different from the others. Hadn’t she learned that lesson when he’d ignored her after Mr. Davenport—now Viscount Cranford—spread those filthy lies? She’d loved Simon madly once, and he’d proven unworthy of such a powerful and generous emotion.

Yet hearing him say the words would open a wound she’d worked hard to heal. She needed to find a way to dissuade him. Ignoring him hadn’t done the trick. Neither had refusing him. There was another path to take.

“You assume I will be home to accept callers. Perhaps I have plans—or perhaps I will be occupied with another guest. The evening is far from over, after all.”

The expression on his face changed, hardened, as she’d hoped it would. Satisfaction was short-lived, however, because he returned, “If that is so, perhaps he could see his way to allowing you a few minutes for a friend.”

She almost laughed. “Friend? Simon, I have nothing to offer or say to you. The idea of a friendship between us is ludicrous for so many reasons, the least of which is your lauded political career. What will people think, the powerful Earl of Winchester with the Half-Irish—”

“Do not say it,” he snapped, surprising her.

“Do not say what? Harlot?” A dry, brittle laugh escaped. “Come, you know what everyone calls me. There’s no getting around it, I’m afraid. And one thing I’ve learned over the years is that it is better to embrace your destiny rather than try and alter it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”




Maggie threw open her chamber door with more force than she intended. Her sister, Rebecca, glanced up from where she sat on Maggie’s bed, reading. “My heavens. What is the matter?”

Maggie strode to the bell pull and tugged. She’d need Tilda’s help with a new gown. “I stepped in the pool and dampened the hem of my dress.”

“Did you? Oh, I wish I could have seen that.”

Maggie smiled at her sister. This was an old battle—one Becca would never, ever win. “You know my parties are not for respectable Society ladies. Coming below would ruin your reputation, which I might add already suffers from our being related. It’s bad enough you insist on sending your husband.”

Becca lifted her chin. “Someone needs to watch out for you. Marcus will never let anything happen.”