The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(33)

Thoughts of offspring reminded him of this afternoon. Yes, he’d acted abominably. Should have withdrawn, spent himself anywhere but inside her. He never forgot with Adrianna or with any of his other lovers. His father’s mistress had borne the seventh earl two bastards, and Simon could still remember the day he’d learned of the existence of his half siblings. While it was not uncommon amongst the nobility, the revelation had confused and hurt him at the time, and Simon had vowed at nine he’d not sire any by-blows. And so far, to his knowledge, he hadn’t.

No question, then, he’d erred this afternoon. But hell . . . pulling out had been the last thing on his mind at that precise moment. The feel of Maggie clenched around him had been heaven. The pleasure had ripped through him, roared up from the depths of his soul to obliterate everything else.

All of those women can have you, as far as I’m concerned.

Obviously Maggie hadn’t been similarly affected.

She had every right to be angry, of course. His actions had been thoughtless. No doubt her other lovers were far more considerate.

“You have the oddest expression on your face right now. What are you thinking?”

Simon glanced at his mother and shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

“Some days I fear you’ve grown far too serious, Simon.” She sighed, and he refrained from comment, reaching out to steal another piece of plum cake instead. “Have you by any chance run into Lady Hawkins since she returned from that godforsaken little town Hawkins dragged her to?”

The cake turned to dust in his mouth. No chance his mother asked that particular question on a whim. Obviously word had gotten round about either his attendance at Maggie’s extravagant soirée or the dinner party at Colton’s.

He swallowed, forcing the lump of dry cake down his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

She sipped her tea, sharp blue eyes identical to his own watching him over the rim of her cup. “And?”

“And she seems well. Hawkins left her fairly well off, it seems, and she certainly loves to stir up attention for herself.”

“Hawkins did not leave her well off,” his mother said. “A very modest jointure, I heard. The estate got the rest.”

Interesting. He hadn’t paid attention to the gossip when Hawkins died, but the woman lived in debauchery and excess to rival a Bourbon king. How could she possibly afford it?

“Were you kind to her?” his mother asked, and Simon nearly laughed. If he’d been any kinder, the two of them would’ve melted in a puddle of lust. Without doubt, it had been the most satisfying and intense encounter he’d ever had with a woman.

He didn’t care for the way his mother was studying him. “Why on earth would I be unkind?”

The countess sighed. “Because people often are, especially in our circles. She did not have an easy time with her debut, and the marriage to Hawkins could not have been much better. And I know you favored her.”

Such a commonplace phrase for the profound depth of his former feelings for Maggie. He had followed the girl around like a beggar, desperate for any word or glance she might throw his way. Hell, he’d almost demanded Cranford’s seconds, ready to take a bullet to defend her honor.

What a young, foolish idiot he’d been.

Then Cranford had shown him proof, the letters from Maggie suggesting assignations. How much she looked forward to Cranford’s attentions. The truth had nearly crushed Simon. And there had been others, Cranford swore, other men to whom she’d given her favors. But Simon had been the fattest prize that Season, a prestigious title and more wealth than any other unattached man that year.

It had all been a game to her. A game to win the husband too besotted to know better.

And so he’d licked his wounds like any respectable twenty-three-year-old would: the day of her hasty wedding, Simon got stinking drunk in one of London’s most exclusive brothels. He’d stayed for three days, hiring enough women to keep him entertained round the clock. Madame Hartley, the owner of the establishment, joked as he left that he should have his cock bronzed in commemoration.

“Simon, are you paying attention?”

He glanced up. “Of course. We are speaking of Lady Hawkins. And I did not shun her, if that is what has you concerned.”

“Most of the older women have, I’m afraid. She’s not welcome everywhere, as I’m sure you well know, and her mother was a dear friend at one time.” She paused. “Perhaps I should have spoken up for the gel. Hard to imagine she’d truly taken to Cranford, not when she had you. Anyway, I’d like to have her for dinner. Would you come?”

It took him a second, but he managed, “If you wish. But she might not accept the invitation, Mother.” Not after today, anyway.

“Nonsense. Why would she refuse?”

Simon shrugged. “You know how temperamental some women can be. Well, I must go deal with Sir James before this gets any worse.” He stood and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’ll send a note later after I meet with him.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Simon. And I shall let you know what Lady Hawkins says about dinner.”





Chapter Nine


Maggie hadn’t ever been inside a brothel before.

To be precise, she wasn’t truly in a brothel—or at least not any part where any of the guests could see her. She’d entered through a private door and had promptly been escorted to Madame Hartley’s small office, which, it turned out, had a convenient peephole into the main drawing room—a peephole Maggie immediately made use of.