The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(42)

Like falling at her feet and begging for the opportunity to slide between her thighs once more.

As the hour grew later, he expected Maggie to barge into his study to pepper him with the questions she’d obviously longed to ask during the ride from Madame Hartley’s. Curiously, she hadn’t. He wondered if maybe she’d left. Snuck out without a word. He wouldn’t put it past her. In fact, he’d put very little past her. The woman had a spine of steel.

So he was surprised at half past one to find Maggie in a chair at Cora’s bedside, asleep.

Watching her, he hardly breathed for fear of waking her. She was so lovely, unguarded in her slumber. Black lashes a stark contrast to her pale skin. Full, pink lips parted slightly. Tendrils of hair framed her delicate face like streaks of midnight, her breasts rising and falling gently.

He started when a presence came alongside him.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, whispered, “Pardon the intrusion, my lord. I’ve had the yellow chamber made up for her ladyship.” She tilted her head toward Maggie. “She didn’t want to leave the girl earlier. Fell right asleep not long after the girl did.”

He’d figured as much but he nodded anyway. “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. I’ll see that Lady Hawkins finds her chamber.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ve asked one of the maids to sit with the girl. I’ll have your lordship notified should her condition change.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. Good night.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Simon glanced at Maggie, his chest filling with a warmth he’d never experienced. She hadn’t wanted to leave Cora, a girl who most women of the ton would not even dare look at, let alone speak to. Whatever he’d originally believed regarding the reason for her presence at Madame Hartley’s tonight, it was now clear she and Julia had been on a rescue mission. So why the devil would the abbess send for two ladies of quality? Julia was an open book; Simon had known her long enough to be privy to all her secrets. And while there were many, none involved a crusade such as this. But Maggie was a mystery. What was her interest in all this?

One thing for certain: she was unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. He liked that about her. Always had. From the instant he’d met her, he’d liked her spirit, her fire. One had to respect how she refused to cower before the ton. Even before her scandal, when they snickered about her Irish blood, her poet father, or her looks, which were so unlike all the other English girls, Maggie had faced them down with her head high.

He knew because he’d been watching. Due to his mother’s friendship with Maggie’s mother, Simon had been directed to dance with Maggie once each night that Season. Initially, he’d chaffed at the order but found the girl so compelling he could not stay away. In addition to her beauty, she had wit. Not a quality many her age possessed, sad to say, but Simon appreciated it. She made him laugh. Better yet, she made him think.

The question, though, was what to do about her now.

He bent, slid his hands underneath her, and, as gently as he could manage, lifted her. She barely stirred, merely threw her arms around him and burrowed her face into the side of his throat with a sigh. As if they’d done this a hundred times.

Suddenly, he wished they had.

Those were thoughts he did not care to entertain at the moment, not when her soft, womanly curves were pressed intimately against him. He carefully strode to the stairs, took them slowly. Though he could claim the fear of waking her had him moving leisurely, the true reason was a reluctance to let her go.

Simon stepped into the yellow chamber. This was his mother’s old suite. He’d never had a woman stay in this room; guests normally stayed on the other side of Barrett House. Odd that Mrs. Timmons had chosen it, but he didn’t mind. He wanted Maggie here. Close to him.

He lowered her to the coverlet. She rolled away, settling into the pillow though her breathing remained steady. He stood there, deciding. He could leave her fully clothed, but women’s garments were not particularly comfortable. And she would require help to get out of them.

Help you’d be more than eager to provide.

He could be practical about it. Wasn’t as if he hadn’t undressed his fair share of ladies before. Just get it done and leave, man.

The idea nearly made him laugh.

He itched to undress her, but his motives were anything but pure. A familiar ache quickened in his groin as he remembered the previous afternoon’s encounter in her drawing room. The warm clasp of her body. How she’d clutched at him, clung so hard he’d felt the sting of her fingernails through his clothing. And when she’d reached her pleasure at last . . . Christ on a pony, he would never forget her expression as long as he lived. As if he’d gifted her with something precious and rare.

He shook himself. Hardly gentlemanly to stand over her like a lecher. And to remove her clothing would undoubtedly wake her. Slippers. He could deal with slippers. Efficiently, he bent, slid them off her feet, and placed them on the floor.

Perhaps he should loosen the fastenings of her gown. No way to get the contraption off without her cooperation, of course, but he could make her a bit more comfortable. Without jostling her, his fingers plucked at the laces, and as the fabric parted, he caught enticing flashes of her undergarments. His hands slowed. What if he—

What in hell was wrong with him? He was four and thirty, not four and ten. And a gentleman. Had he completely lost his mind? He forced himself to drop the laces and pull the bedclothes over her still-dressed form. Then he strode to the adjoining door, where he resolved not to think on Maggie any longer.