The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(38)
With the unwelcome image of a girl battered and bruised stuck in her brain, Maggie walked to the cabinet for the promise of a drink. “Would you care for a sherry?” she asked Julia.
“No, thank you.”
Maggie heard the slide of metal and turned to see the duchess at the peephole. “Nothing lascivious whatsoever out there. Just a few overstuffed dandies.” Julia sighed and stepped away from the wall.
They chatted of unimportant gossip for several long minutes, waiting for Madame Hartley to return. Then Julia said, “You surprise me, Maggie.”
Maggie sipped her sherry. “Me? Whyever would I surprise you?”
“You must admit, what you and Pearl are doing, it is an unusual cause for a lady.”
Maggie didn’t like the shrewd, knowing gaze the duchess gave her. She tried to make light of it. “Shouldn’t we all strive to assist those less fortunate?”
“Yes, but one could do so in much more . . . acceptable ways. Most ladies hold benefits or serve on the board of various charities. Go knocking on doors to solicit funds for their causes. You, on the other hand, are in the thick of it. Rescuing these women, making sure they are not unfairly taken advantage of. It makes me wonder if this cause isn’t”—she waved her hand, searching for the right word—“personal to you.”
Maggie sipped her sherry. She hadn’t many female friends, had purposely not cultivated those relationships. Women were too intuitive. Whereas men saw what they wanted, the raucous parties and free champagne, women noticed more, which led to questions one would rather not answer.
But the duchess had come along tonight. Pearl had suggested it, knowing the resources at Julia’s disposal as well as her social standing, and Julia hadn’t even blinked before jumping in Maggie’s carriage. And while Maggie did not want to bare her soul, she owed her new friend an honest response.
“It’s none of my business, of course—”
“It is personal to me,” Maggie answered. “I know what it is like to suffer at the hands of cruelty. To reap consequences one never imagined nor deserved. You weren’t there during my debut, but if it weren’t for Hawkins, I very well could be earning my living on my back. Perhaps not in a place such as this, but kept all the same. So I feel a great sympathy toward the women with little choice but to sell themselves.”
“Oh, Maggie. My sincere apologies for bringing up unpleasant memories.” Julia’s quiet tone was heartfelt. “I was led to believe that Cranford . . . that you and he . . .”
Maggie’s hands curled into fists. “No. Most assuredly not. He was to marry my friend, Amelia. Said he wanted to ask me questions about her. I didn’t know any different. Why wouldn’t I believe him? He had seemed nice enough, quick with a smile and a joke. We’d even danced a few times. But he didn’t wish to ask questions about his betrothed. He presumed—” She took a very unladylike gulp of sherry. “He presumed I would be amenable to his advances.”
“But you were not.” Julia stated it as fact, not a question.
“Indeed not. Fought him off, in fact. I got away but became disheveled in the process. And when your dress is torn and the gentleman in question is grinning from ear to ear, no one believes you did not ask for it.” She lifted a shoulder. “And the damage is done. The Half-Irish Harlot was born.”
“Oh, dear,” Julia whispered, a deep frown on her face. “Had he never even asked, the nitwit?” she mumbled.
Maggie returned to the cabinet, intent on a second sherry. She didn’t normally imbibe heavily, but why not? This was a week for firsts, it turned out. “Who never asked? Cranford?”
When the latch on the door sounded, Maggie spun, expecting to see Madame Hartley.
A furious Duke of Colton appeared instead. Followed by—
Oh, no.
Behind stood an equally furious Earl of Winchester. Maggie refused to shrink under his frosty blue stare. He was not her husband or her father. She answered to no one, not even the man who’d given her more pleasure in one afternoon than she’d had in a lifetime. She squared her shoulders as the duke stalked directly toward Julia.
“I ought to paddle your backside, madam,” Colton snarled at his wife.
Julia snorted. “As if that would be any kind of punishment. And calm yourself, Colton. No one has seen us and we haven’t left this tiny room. Do not make me regret sending for you.”
Simon came in to lean against the wall, his large frame making the small room even more suffocating. He folded his arms over his chest, crossed his booted feet at the ankles. While he may appear relaxed to someone unacquainted with him, Maggie knew better. The set of his jaw, the brisk, efficient movements, the light jumping in the depths of his gaze . . . He was livid.
Madame Hartley breezed in behind the men, shutting the door. “Your Grace, my lord, may I offer either of you a glass of port or claret?”
“By all means, and why not play a hand of whist or two while we’re at it,” Colton nearly shouted. “Have you all lost your minds?” He grabbed Julia’s wrist. “Come. We are leaving.”
“Wait,” the duchess cried, neatly breaking free of her husband’s grasp. “You haven’t learned why I needed you and Simon to rush here.”
Surprised, Maggie’s eyes flew to Simon, whose own steely blues were locked on her face. She couldn’t look away. Her skin prickled, a warmth slowly spreading out through her veins, as she remembered yesterday afternoon. She forced it back, buried it deep where she kept all the memories better not revisited.