The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(60)
“Oh, yes. I daresay this exceeds any of her parties in London. Though you wouldn’t know, seeing as how you never attend the Harlot’s parties.”
“Do not call her that,” Simon said sharply.
Markham’s eyes rounded. “What? Why the devil not? She’s referred to herself as such many times in my presence. I cannot see that it’s offensive if she’s adopted the name as well.”
Simon clenched his jaw. How could he explain it without appearing a lovesick fool? He regarded the closed terrace doors. Had she gone outside? If so, to what end?
“And we are on rather intimate terms,” Markham boasted in a conspiratorial tone.
“What?” Every muscle in his body drew tight. Had she and Markham. . . .
“Well, not yet. But I do have high hopes, especially since she’s decided to woo me into joining your opposition.”
Simon’s jaw nearly fell open. Maggie, woo Markham? To the opposition? As far as Simon knew, she used Lemarc to undermine politicians and their causes—namely his. He’d never realized she would go to these lengths, of actually campaigning to thwart this upcoming legislation.
“Anyway,” Markham continued, “perhaps we should meet here in Paris, discuss your proposal in more detail.”
A few weeks ago, Simon would have leaped at the chance to bend Markham’s ear. The proposal needed all the support it could garner, and Markham was renowned for allowing his vote to be swayed by an evening of cards and spirits. But there were more important matters on Simon’s mind than politics at the moment. Like an answer as to what Maggie was doing on the terrace.
Still, an outright refusal wasn’t how the game was played. And few played it better than Simon. “Indeed, we should, Markham. I’m at the H?tel Meurice. Why don’t you join me one evening for dinner?”
Markham’s chest expanded, pleased with the invitation. “Very good. Next week, perhaps. Did you see the collection?” He chuckled, then stopped short. “Oh, my apologies.”
Simon stifled a sigh. Seemed Quint hadn’t lied when he said half the party had heard of his and Maggie’s conversation in the music room. His eyes found the terrace doors once more. What was she about? Neither she nor Don Quixote had returned. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Surely he was overreacting. Likely she’d taken air, become engrossed in conversation. Nevertheless, he would rest easier if he could at least see her.
“Excuse me, Markham. There’s a matter I must attend to outside.”
“Mon chaton, you are even lovelier than you were three years ago.”
Maggie smiled at Jean-Louis, a man every bit as charming and handsome as she recalled. A friend of Lucien’s, Jean-Louis had been her one lover during her marriage. While she wasn’t proud of dishonoring her marriage vows, she’d been starved for any kind of affection during those lonely years. Charles had long since stopped any sort of contact between the two of them, awkward as those encounters had been. As her husband’s health deteriorated, he’d preferred the company of his longtime mistress and Maggie had been glad of it.
Her ineptitude and guilt, however, had proved a recipe for disaster in the brief affair with Jean-Louis. At least they had remained friends. “Your skill with pretty words rivals your abilities with a brush, mon ami. How have you been since I last saw you? Lucien tells me you’ve taken to portraits.”
“I have,” he said. “I find it’s more lucrative and reliable than anything else. I’ve just returned from Spain, where I spent months painting the new queen.”
“And entertaining the pretty Spanish ladies at court, no doubt.”
He smiled, his teeth even and white. “But of course. What sort of Frenchman would I be if I did not demonstrate all my skills in their backward little country?”
She laughed. “How generous you are.”
“Indeed, I try.” His expression sobered as he reached out to grasp her hand. “I regret that our . . .” He paused to search for the right word. “That our acquaintance did not continue. I find you very beautiful, Lady Hawkins. Should you ever need me, all you must do is ask.”
How she wished she felt something more for this sweet and charming man. When they had met, she’d had visions of setting up a studio overlooking the ?le de la Cité, where they would paint each day and make love all night. Those hopes had been dashed, however, when it had become clear that something inside her was missing—something only one man had ever coaxed from her, damn him.
Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek. “Of course. And thank you, Jean-Louis. You were a wonderful friend when I desperately needed one.”
“I can be one again. Do not forget it.”
“I shan’t. Now run along or your lovely companion might wonder where you’ve wandered off to. I plan to take a few more minutes of air out here.”
“Alone? Non, I cannot allow it. A pretty woman should not remain out here by herself.”
She waved her hand. “Touching but unnecessary. I’m quite safe here, I assure you. Not to mention, I have no reputation to worry over. Go.” She tilted her chin toward the house. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
Still looking unsure, Jean-Louis returned to the party, and Maggie took a deep, cleansing breath. Entertaining guests while trying to ignore Simon’s penetrating stare had resulted in a persistent throbbing in her temples. Did the man not have a thing to do but watch her all evening? She wished he would return to his hotel, pack, and depart on the first steamer to London.