The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(59)

He caught her hand against the hard plane of his breastbone, his brows lowered in confusion. “I’ve already explained Cranford duped me with the letters. And believe me, I mean to get an explanation as soon as I can locate the man. But you’ve made me pay time and time again for my sins with those cartoons. Can we not get past it and move for ward?”

How could she begin to explain all the ways he’d hurt her over the years? At the very least, he continually assumed the worst of her. Cranford was merely a small drop in the vast well of all that stood between her and Simon. “I would not even know where to begin. I cannot forget what’s happened and it’s doubtful I’ll ever forgive you.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe that. The woman in my bed at Barrett House was anything but bitter and resentful. I want honesty from you, Maggie,” he said, his tone entirely too reasonable. “I’ve had precious little in all the time we’ve known one another. Do you not think I deserve the truth?”

“Honesty?” she hissed and snatched her hand out of his grasp. “You do not want honesty. If you had, you’d’ve found me after the scandal broke in order to find out what happened. Instead, you closeted yourself off at Madame Hartley’s for the better part of a week in a drunken orgy.”

His face slackened in surprise. “How the devil did you—?”

“Maggie,” a gentle voice interrupted as a hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find Lucien at her side. “The two of you,” her friend said, looking between her and Simon, “you are attracting an audience. Perhaps you should retire to somewhere else in the house, non?”

Near the screens, a number of faces were not-so-discreetly turned toward the back of the room. Blast. Well, the guests certainly could not complain about a lack of entertainment this evening.

“No need,” she told Lucien. “We’re quite done here. Lord Winchester was just leaving.”




That had not gone well.

Simon scrubbed a hand over his jaw and watched Lucien escort Maggie toward the lights and revelry of the masquerade. He forced down his frustration, heaved a sigh. He’d erred tonight, no question. Perhaps he should have discussed his approach with Quint before their arrival. Well, too late now. He’d have to repair the damage—after he figured out what had made her so angry in the first place.

And how had she learned of his infamous sojourn at Madame Hartley’s all those years ago? Colton? Julia?

He rejoined the party. There would be enough time to think while standing watch over her. He wasn’t comfortable with her out there, unprotected. Some of the male guests had been overly attentive, hovering near her. Simon didn’t like it.

He found Quint as soon as he stepped into the ballroom. A waltz played and dancers crowded the floor, some using the proximity for more than dancing. An overweight Nero leered down at Boudica, his palm firmly on her buttocks.

“Back from your defeat at Actium, Mark Antony?” Quint drawled before lifting a teacup to his mouth.

“Hardly. Merely a minor setback.”

“Not from what I heard. Half the damn place is tittering about it.” Quint replaced the empty cup in the saucer and handed it off to a passing jackal footman. “So, what is your next plan of attack?”

“I am not sure. I hadn’t expected her to be so . . .” He couldn’t quite put it into words, all that anger, bitterness, and hatred. How to chip away at such a mountain of female pique?

“I suspected. God knows I cannot offer insight into the female brain. They all want to be wooed. And talked to. It’s . . . boggling.”

Wooed. Hmm.

“Do you plan to stay?” Quint asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re worried with all this debauchery around her,” Quint deduced. “Can’t say I blame you. Well, I’m off to find the very pretty Margaret Cavendish I saw earlier. I’ll see you in the morn.”

“Wait, who?”

Quint sighed, no doubt appalled. While Simon wasn’t stupid by any means, not many could rival Quint’s rapid intellect. “Duchess of Newcastle under Charles the Second. Poet, playwright, et cetera. Read a book once in a while, will you?” The viscount strode away, melting into the sea of ostrich feathers and tricorns.

Simon turned his attention back to Maggie. She stood on the far side of the room, near the open terrace doors, surrounded by a small circle of guests. Smiling and laughing, she had entranced those around her, if their rapt expressions were any indication. Simon could hardly blame them; her vibrancy had been one of the traits that had initially drawn him to her.

He sipped champagne and watched the men fawn over her. She didn’t encourage them, exactly, but participated enough to give a man a glimmer of hope. Long looks, meaningful smiles, small touches . . . she made sure to give attention to each man in the group. Simon’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t exactly jealousy. No, it was much more complex than that. He felt proprietary toward her, like he wanted to stand on a chair and announce to the room that she was his.

One man, dressed as Don Quixote, reached to open the terrace door. Maggie started for it, and Simon’s back stiffened. Was she truly so reckless as to allow a man to escort her outside, alone, where any number of things—

“Enjoying your evening, Winchester?”

His attention was briefly pulled away from the terrace to the man hovering an arm’s length away. “Indeed. And you, Markham?”