The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(31)

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.

It’s what you could have had, if he’d offered for you ten years ago.

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.