The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(28)
Simon’s lips flattened. “Fine. Let us have a long chat together. I so rarely get the chance to pay social calls.” He shifted deeper in his chair. “How is your wife, Markham? I assume she’ll be coming up for the start of the Season. Perhaps the two of you could join me for dinner at Barrett House. I’m certain she’d love to hear all you’ve been up to in her absence.”
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.