The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(55)

Her glance swung back to Lucien, who remained suspiciously silent behind his paper. Her friend’s earlier words pricked at her pride. Simon is not my lover, she repeated to herself. Perhaps he could have been, if circumstances had been different. She would have enjoyed learning more wickedness at his hand. Or hands, more like it.

That made her smile, but her amusement quickly faded when she remembered their last conversation. It hadn’t been an argument—well, not an argument of the type Lucien assumed. Simon had been . . . disappointed in her. Not to mention hurt by her duplicity. He’d refused to listen to reason, to accept her explanations, which could hardly be Maggie’s fault. Stubborn man.

Granted, she hadn’t exactly fought to make him understand. Maggie plucked the pencil off the table and twirled it in her fingers. Why would she? No one ever listened, in her experience. Simon would certainly be no different. After all, he’d accepted Cranford’s lies. Not once had he sought an explanation of the scandal. Yes, Cranford had produced proof, but it had been lies, all lies. Shouldn’t Simon have possessed at least a glimmer of doubt?

Devil take them all. Simon, Cranford, all the ton. She was tired of trying to fit into a world that neither believed in her nor had any interest in the truth. For God’s sake, she was not some hysterical female given to fits of the vapors. She’d endured a scandal, heartbreak, a forced marriage, her father’s death, her mother’s rapid decline, the entire ton whispering and gossiping about her....

She would not hide, licking her wounds and feeling melancholy about all that had transpired. Lucien was right. To do such a thing was not like her at all. Which meant one thing.

“I will accompany you into the city today,” she told Lucien. “I plan to see if my old house on l’avenue Gabriel is available.”

“You mean the lodgings you declared entirely too large for one simple English widow?” he drawled.

“The very one. And while the house may be too large for one simple English widow, it is perfect for the outrageous Half-Irish Harlot. It is time to host another party.”

Lucien slowly lowered the paper to smile at her. “Ah, at last. Welcome back, ma chère.”





Not even residing in a different country prevented gossip. Quite the contrary, in fact. Living amongst foreigners transformed the English into a tight-knit little group, and any news of those from home spread quickly. Therefore, Simon got word of Maggie’s appearance the instant she moved into the rambling house on Avenue Gabriel.

He felt overwhelming relief at the news. He’d been in France for over two weeks, unable to locate her despite his best efforts, and the worst possible outcomes started to occur to him: that she’d fallen overboard during the crossing. That she had been kidnapped by a band of thieves. That his information had been incorrect, and she hadn’t gone to Paris at all.

He worried Julia’s warning had materialized, that he’d lost Maggie for good.

Therefore, upon learning her location, his first instinct had been to rush to her house, apologize, and then kiss her senseless. It had taken Quint a quarter of an hour to convince him otherwise.

“The lady’s not receiving, Winchester. I was turned away at the door, and she certainly isn’t going to feel any friendlier toward you,” Quint had told him, after returning. “Not after the way you acted. Your best plan of attack would be to show up when she cannot escape you, then force her to hear you out. Word is she’s throwing a masquerade in ten days’ time. We’ll go along and you can plead your case then.”

So for over a week, Simon paced his top-floor rooms at H?tel Meurice like a caged lion, doing little but thinking on Maggie. Julia had planted the seed, but now Simon knew it as fact. Maggie was the reason he’d never married. He’d told himself all these years that he preferred being alone, but in truth he’d never found anyone quite like her. No one who made him feel alive the instant she stepped into a room. Who kept him guessing and wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. A woman who had caught him pleasuring himself and had not run screaming from the room.

He would not give her up. No more lies, no more mistrust. He would make Maggie believe it, use every bit of charm and persuasion in his possession until she accepted the inevitable.

Now he, along with half of Paris it seemed, had crammed into Maggie’s ballroom. Throngs of guests mingled about, all dressed in various revealing costumes. There were satyrs and goddesses, pirates and courtiers. A host of Madame de Pompadours as well as King Henry the Eighths. Quint had chosen to dress as one of his heroes, Francis Bacon, though not a soul would likely recognize the costume. Impractical choice, considering the high heels, wig, and ruff, but it was hard to talk Quint out of something once he’d set his mind.

Though he hadn’t seen the hostess yet, he knew her costume. He’d paid handsomely for the information so that his own ensemble would complement hers. He hoped she appreciated his effort, considering his bollocks had nearly frozen off on the way over.

The surroundings were spectacular. Maggie had truly outdone herself. The interior of the ballroom had been transformed into a lush Egyptian oasis, with potted palms and other smaller green plants dotting the space, accompanied by gold columns draped in red fabric. A wall hanging of a desert landscape—mounds of sand under a burning-hot orange sun—covered one side of the room, and he wondered if she had painted it. Tiny sitting areas with divans, pillows, and carpets were set up around the room so guests could relax and watch the revelry on the dance floor.