The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(49)

A fool . . . ten years ago? Her jaw fell open. “Whatever are you talking about? Ten years ago you turned your back on me when the scandal broke. How, precisely, is that making a fool of you?”

“Oh, please. Cranford told me, Maggie. About him and the others.”

The words were a punch to the gut. Not a surprise, really, but hearing them said aloud hurt more than she’d ever imagined. Mostly because it was Simon, the one person who really should have known better. Not merely because of their friendship during her debut, but last night she’d given him a piece of herself, opened up to him in ways she hadn’t with another living person. And here, mere hours later, he still thought the worst of her. What would it take to win him over? How in Hades would she ever make him believe her?

The answer was evident: He would never believe her. He was like the rest of them, the grasping, malicious so-called gentlemen and ladies who liked nothing more than a good, salacious story at someone else’s expense.

A prickling started behind her eyes and Maggie clenched her fists. No tears. Not for him. Not for any of them.

She hardened her heart, putting up a wall of icy resolve while straightening her shoulders. The same protection she adopted every time a lady gave her the cut direct on the street. Each time a rogue propositioned her at one of her parties. When the invitations to the biggest Society events never arrived at her address. Her Irish stubbornness, her father would have said. And for once, she was glad of it. They would not win. She would have the last laugh, pointing out their ridiculousness while pocketing their coin. Her success and independence had been hard fought, and she would not give it up.

Simon continued to glare at her, his body poised for a fight with his rigid jaw and aggressive posture. He plainly wanted her angry. Not surprising, since it was what they all longed to do: insult the Half-Irish Harlot enough that she buckled under the strain and carried on like a common doxy shouting down a customer on the streets of Covent Garden. Not damned likely.

So she withheld her anger, buried it deep inside, and regarded him evenly. Part of her considered maintaining her silence. After all, she’d learned years ago of the futility of trying to change a person’s mind once set. And it wasn’t as if the facts would change anything. Only Becca knew the truth, her sister being the one person Maggie had confided in.

But she wanted to say it, needed to say the truth, if only to watch Simon’s face when it sunk in.

She lifted an eyebrow, doing her best impersonation of a haughty dowager duchess. “I do not know what you were told or what letters you speak of. Ten years ago, I never involved myself with another man.”

“I have seen your letters to Cranford with my own eyes. I’ve seen the proof.”

Lord Cranford had letters . . . from her? The idea was preposterous. She’d never written the man a word, let alone an entire letter. “I never wrote letters to a man, most certainly not Lord Cranford. I do not know what you were shown, but they were not from me. I was a virgin when I married Hawkins.”

Simon blinked, and she could see the doubt creeping into his piercing blue gaze. “I don’t understand. You were caught with Cranford, alone. Disheveled. He told everyone . . .”

“That, thanks to my half-Irish blood, I would lift my skirts for anything in breeches?” she finished.

A muscle twitched in Simon’s jaw, but he nodded.

“And everyone in London believed him, including you.” She strode to the window. Down on the street, two young girls walked arm in arm toward the park, their maids trailing a respectable distance behind. The two girls laughed, enjoying a carefree day in their sheltered existence, and Maggie felt a stab of envy. What must it feel like, to have your whole life ahead of you, untarnished by hate and judgment?

“Are you saying Cranford lied? Why the devil would he do that?”

Maggie kept her gaze on the cold, gray London morning. “I could not say. I rebuffed his advances, quite vigorously I might add, and I can only assume I injured his male pride.”

“Wait, Cranford . . . made this all up? To gain what, your ruination? It makes no sense. And what sort of advances of Cranford’s caused you to be found in the state you were?”

She turned away from the street and regarded him. He watched her intently, a frown pulling at his handsome face. “Really, Simon, I’m quite certain you can imagine.”

He stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “Goddamn it. Why, Maggie? Why did you not tell anyone?”

“No one would have believed me. Even my own mother did not. You know how it looks when that sort of situation arises. Everyone accepts the word of a gentleman.”

“I would have believed you, Maggie. Me. I would have listened and tried to help you. You should have come to me with the truth.”

Didn’t he see? It should have been unnecessary. That was the point. He should have believed her incapable of such terrible duplicity. Simon had been the one bright spot in her Season, when she’d been surrounded by whispers and mocking smiles. She hadn’t fit in, her dark, Irish looks far from the superior pale English girls; but next to Simon, her less-than-impeccable pedigree hadn’t mattered. One grin from him had made the rest of it endurable. She’d been a silly young thing with a crush on the most handsome man in the ton, and the feeling had appeared mutual. Yes, Cranford had lied; however, Simon had never even given her a chance to explain.

“I see,” he said, his voice flat. He almost sounded hurt. “So Cranford ruins you, you do not trust me enough to confess the truth, and prefer to marry Hawkins instead. So tell me how I am the one turned into a drunken wastrel in your cartoons? What in God’s name did I do to deserve it?”