The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(17)

And truly, helping him was the very last thing she wanted to do. It was bad enough he had attended her party and cornered her there. “I am afraid I cannot.”

“May I ask why?”

She hadn’t expected him to press. What excuse could she give? Because she knew the effort to be a futile one? Because he deserved whatever inconvenience Lemarc’s cartoons produced a thousandfold? Or because, after all he’d done, he still made her heart race?

Into her silence, he said, “One afternoon, that is all I ask. If you do not see anything relevant, we’ll forget it entirely.”

“If I cannot discover anything, you shall give up searching for Lemarc?”

Simon shook his head. “Absolutely not. I plan to find him by any means at my disposal.”

That set her back. He did seem rather . . . determined. Hmm. Such tenacity did not bode well. Though she believed her secret safe, there was a kernel of panic inside her that he might succeed. Simon had a reputation for doggedly wearing down his opponents until he got his way, of using whatever means necessary to win. The notion of her career as Lemarc being exposed . . . ruined . . .

A sliver of dread slid down her spine.

Of course, staying involved in Simon’s quest meant she could throw him off the scent with misleading information. Keep him guessing. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. “Fine,” she agreed. “I would be pleased to aid in your search. To be fair, there are many more qualified than I to lend assistance. Perhaps you should think about asking another—”

“That is quite unnecessary,” he interrupted smoothly, smiling in triumph. “I think you are more than capable of the task.”

In a strange way, his faith in her was flattering. Little did he know she planned to undermine his efforts, ensuring his failure. In finding her. She had to bite her lip to keep a hysterical bubble of laughter from spilling out. “Very kind of you, my lord. When shall we begin our investigation?”

“As soon as possible, I think. I’ll send a note, if that is acceptable.”

“Yes.” Maggie tried not to think about how impossibly handsome he was. Of course, the light blue jacket and breeches did offset his fair coloring, making the blue of his eyes even brighter. His shoulders— Curse her feminine biology. Being a woman was decidedly unfair.

Instead, she concentrated on the smug, satisfied smile he now wore. Yes, he’d gotten precisely what he wanted today. Oh, how she longed to wipe that expression off his face. “Does anyone ever say no to the Earl of Winchester?”

“Rarely. I can be very persuasive.”

“So I have heard. You have a reputation in Lords for getting your way. I suspect you could talk a nun into giving up the cloth and throwing in with a band of gypsies if you wanted.”

The edge of his mouth kicked up. “That charming, am I?”

She could’ve bitten her tongue. “More like full of useless wind.”

His head fell back and he let out a deep, rich laugh. She loved his laugh. It was the kind of sound a woman felt deep in her belly, warming her from the inside out. She now knew what those stirrings represented, the kindling of desire. Her husband had never elicited passion from Maggie; their few couplings had been quick and perfunctory. Then Charles had taken ill and any obligations in the marriage bed had been rendered impossible. A relief to both parties concerned, to be sure.

But when Maggie went to study in Paris, there had been another man. She’d been attracted to the handsome and worldly Jean-Louis and, God save her vain soul, the attention had been quite nice. Her friend Lucien had encouraged her to take on a lover, one closer to her own age, and she’d liked Jean-Louis, so where was the harm? It had been an unholy disaster, however. The heavy breathing, the sweating, the embarrassment . . . it had all served to convince her of one terribly ironic thing: The Half-Irish Harlot was frigid.

She’d come to accept it as fact, especially since every sort of lewd invitation had been issued during her parties and she’d felt absolutely nothing. No twitches or flutters, no racing of her pulse, or anything else the poets waxed on about.

She knew she should feel something. In fact, it had been Simon who’d provided a hint of what a woman could feel for a man all those years ago. Through the rose-colored spectacles of youth, she’d noticed things about him: the unique color of his eyes, his quick smile, the fall of hair over his forehead. It had all made her quite breathless.

She was no longer a girl, however, and with a woman’s perspective she could well picture what was under his fine clothing. Broad shoulders atop a sculpted chest, slim hips, and long, muscular legs, a shaft jutting out proud and hard— Heat suffused her entire body, blood thrummed in her veins, and moisture pooled between her thighs. Swallowing, she closed her eyes. Heavens, she wanted him. Lusted after him, even.

Absolutely intolerable. She would not allow it. Could not allow it.

The room had grown unnaturally still. She found him studying her, his gaze locked on her hands. Maggie looked down. Her fingers were clutching the top of the wingback chair in a white-knuckled grip. She would not be surprised to find indentations from her nails in the fabric. She forced her hands to relax.

He lifted one supercilious brow, a knowing smirk on his lips, and mortification burned in her chest. He was aware of, or suspected, the direction of her thoughts, the blackguard.

Straightening, she asked, “Is that all?”