The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(57)

Yes, he had his sights set on someone—a very perplexing, maddening, beautiful someone.




“Cleopatra,” Lucien murmured in Maggie’s ear, “Mark Antony has not taken his eyes off you all evening. Do you, perhaps, know the gentleman, ma chère?”

This was the first moment they’d had to themselves since the doors opened over two hours ago. The masquerade was a smashing success, judging by the enthusiastic crowd. Maggie sipped her champagne and looked at Lucien. “Mark Antony? Where?”

“There. On the far side, between the palm tree and Joan of Arc.”

She turned in the location he indicated, whereupon her gaze locked with piercing blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean. She sucked in a breath. Simon. He wore a gold mask, but she would recognize him anywhere, his intense stare causing prickles all down her limbs. Dear God, what was he doing here?

Pointedly turning away, she told Lucien, “He is no one important. Just a man I once knew.” And loved. And worshipped with my mouth. The unwelcome thought caused a fluttering deep in her belly.

“I do not know why you bother lying to me.”

“Maggie is lying about something?” asked Henri, Lucien’s longtime lover, as he joined them. “Is it to do with your lack of costume, Luc? I told you she would be disappointed.”

Henri, one of the most popular stage actors in Paris, was fashioned as Hamlet, his favorite dramatic character, while Lucien had refused to dress as anyone other than himself. He claimed to hate masquerades, seeing them as nothing but an aristocratic nuisance. Truly, her mentor could be such a stiff neck at times.

“No. It has to do with the way Mark Antony watches over our fair Cleopatra.”

Henri followed Lucien’s nod and proceeded to give Simon a once-over. After Henri took a long look, he pursed his lips and leaned in to whisper a rapid stream of French to Lucien. Maggie couldn’t catch all of it, but Lucien chuckled and told Henri to stop.

“What did he say?” Maggie asked Lucien.

Lucien’s lips twitched. “That Mark Antony has beautiful legs.” He waved a hand absently. “And some other nonsense. So is it he? Is this your English lover, finally come to his senses so that he may sweep you off into the night?”

“Nothing of the kind,” she lied. “My English lover is taller. And more handsome.”

“C’est impossible,” Henri said in a stage whisper to Lucien.

But Lucien ignored the comment to keep his perceptive gaze on Maggie. “Non, I am certain it is he. The question is, what will you do about him?”

“We are about to find out,” Henri announced. “The Roman invasion is upon us.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Simon wove his way through the guests toward her. A white short-sleeved tunic fell above his knees, a loose belt hanging at his waist, with a purple toga draped over his shoulders, the edges held together with a silver clasp. He wore the ensemble well; he appeared tall and lean, as appealing as any Roman statue she’d sketched, with the precise amount of power and arrogance. Her heart beat hard and fast beneath her ribs.

To her dismay, Lucien and Henri disappeared, leaving her quite alone in the crowded ballroom. She considered fleeing, but Simon would likely catch her. Better to face him down now, when they were surrounded by hundreds of people.

“Cleopatra,” he greeted her, bowing and holding a fist over his heart as a Roman might.

So they were to play roles. “Antony,” Maggie returned. “And here, me without my asp.”

He straightened and regarded her thoughtfully. “You are much too stubborn to choose death at your own hand, I believe.”

“But Antony killed himself first. Shall we try it and find out?” she said sweetly.

His mouth hitched. “How I have missed you, my dear Cleopatra.”

“Really? I must say, I am surprised. I would have thought you relieved to see the last of me.”

“You would be wrong. Will you walk with me?”

Something squeezed in her chest at the idea of being alone with him. Panic, she reasoned. “Why? I think whatever needs to be said is best conveyed here.”

A blond eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Afraid?”

“Of strangling you with your tunic? Quite. And taunts are beneath you.”

They were beginning to draw an audience, with several of the guests nearby now listening to the conversation with unconcealed interest. Simon noticed and reached out to grab her hand, pulling her along beside him. “Come along, my warrior queen. Let us explore the gardens.”

Where they would both freeze. She dug in her heels. “No, follow me.”

Plucking a fresh glass of champagne off a tray, she sipped the crisp, sweet liquid while leading him toward the back hall. She had no clue what Simon wanted, but hadn’t they said enough during their last conversation? He’d said he missed her. She nearly snorted. Even if it were true, that was hardly a reason to follow her to France.

If he’d come expecting her to apologize for Lemarc, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d no sooner apologize for her art than she would present herself at Almack’s on a Wednesday evening.

Lucien appeared in her path, his boyishly handsome face etched with concern. “Is everything well? Do you need me?” he asked her quietly in French.

“I am fine. I’ll only be a moment,” she returned in English and continued on.