The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(58)

Behind her, Simon and Lucien had a quick exchange she was too far away to overhear. No doubt Lucien was warning Simon not to upset her, which was so like the Frenchman. Lucien had few friends but fiercely protected each one. Of course, he would have no recourse against the powerful Earl of Winchester, who could get away with what he pleased short of murder. Nevertheless, it touched her Lucien cared enough to try.

Simon caught up as she reached the threshold to the music room. “Have you seen the display?” she asked him.

“No. I’ve been occupied.”

“Then, come along. You must see the artifacts from ancient Egypt I have on loan just for the occasion.”

They entered the room, which had been transformed into a miniature collection of Egyptian art. Tables formed a semicircle with screens set up behind them. The screens had all been painted with various Egyptian themes and landscapes. The tables displayed the sculptures Lucien had procured through his web of collectors expressly for the masquerade. Maggie had laughed until her sides ached when the objects were unpacked; no display could have been more perfect for a woman with her reputation.

A small number of guests, mostly men, mingled throughout the room. A few women tittered and pointed, clearly embarrassed by the subject matter. She felt Simon’s subtle recognition as they drew closer to the first table.

“Are those . . .” he started. “Ah, fertility statues. I should have guessed.”

“Very good. Most of these are variations on Min,” she said, pointing to the stone carving of a dark man with a fully erect penis in one hand and a flail in the other. “The Egyptian god of fertility.”

There were close to thirty wood and stone carvings, each with large, proud phalluses the Egyptians believed carried virility. Simon said nothing, merely continued around the tables slowly while examining each piece. He would be disappointed, of course. No doubt he’d use the opportunity to chastise her for disregarding propriety and decency. What he didn’t understand was that she had no plans to be like the rest of Society. She couldn’t do it. Give up Lemarc and take up stitching by the fire, awaiting her husband’s return from a night of drunken carousing? Unthinkable.

There had been a time when she’d dreamed of being a proper wife to a man with good connections and an even better fortune; but now she knew the world contained so much more. She would not give up the freedom to do as she pleased.

“And this one?” Simon pointed to a wooden statue of a half crocodile, half hippopotamus, her large, swollen belly protruding below bare breasts.

“Taweret. Goddess of childbirth and fertility.” She studied him for a hint of reaction but couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “The carving is quite well preserved. You can still see the pattern of the scales on the tail.”

“Why did you bring me in here?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the tables. “Did you hope to shock me, Lady Hawkins, or perhaps arouse my baser instincts?”





Chapter Fourteen


Her jaw fell before she could stop it. “A-Arouse you?” she sputtered. “Do not be ridiculous. I merely thought you should see them.”

“Pity.”

He did not sound appalled. Or bothered. Which irked her beyond measure. He seemed . . . amused.

While she mused over his lack of reaction, he picked up her hand and drew her behind the screens, toward the dark recesses of the room. “Simon, where are we going?”

“Now it is your turn to follow,” he said, tugging her to a far corner where the pianoforte rested, gathering dust. In the semidarkness, she could not see his features clearly so her other senses heightened in compensation. The brush of her skirts against his legs. The familiar smell of him, citrus and a hint of tobacco. He stood so close they were nearly touching, his large presence enveloping her. Her mouth went dry.

She had replayed their evening at Barrett House in her mind so often that she could recall almost every detail. Every glide of his hand. Every nibble of his lips. Her body had been his canvas, and with expert strokes and bold sweeps he’d created something that hadn’t existed before. Something only his masterful eye had seen the potential for. She had been transformed.

But it would be a mistake to allow lust to cloud her thinking, no matter how extraordinary it had been between them. There was too much at risk.

Did he plan seduction in this corner? If so, she needed to quickly dissuade him of the idea. Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she asked, “Why have you come to Paris? To inform me in great detail on how you plan to ruin Lemarc?”

His fingers tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, the small touch making her shiver. “No more lies between us,” he said. “You deserve honesty from me, and I should like you to do the same. I was unbelievably angry with you, but I never had any intention of revealing Lemarc.”

She knew the feeling well. Fury still simmered in her blood when she recalled their final exchange.

“But I now understand why you created Winejester and made a fool of me,” he continued. “I am willing to put it behind us in order to move forward. I have forgiven you.”

Had he really . . . ? A thrum of disbelief pounded in her ears. “You have forgiven me? You . . . you insufferable man.” Gad, he should be on his knees, begging her pardon and renouncing all his cruel words and deeds. Granted, as an earl, he’d probably never apologized to anyone in his life—but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. Disappointment burned in her chest, sharpening her tone as she stabbed a finger at his chest. “It hardly matters that you have forgiven me, Simon, because I haven’t forgiven you. And it’s unlikely I ever shall. Return to England. You are wasting your time here.”