The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(23)

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.”