The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(63)
The aristocratic planes of his face slackened, and Maggie could have bitten her tongue. Curse her Irish temper. She’d never meant for him to be privy to that information. Damn it all.
He appeared speechless—a blessing since the condition would give her time to retreat before he could gather his thoughts. “I am unwell. Forgive me, but I must retire. Please go back to London, Simon. There’s nothing more to be said here.”
Ablaze with lamplight, the Salle Feydeau towered over the street. The imposing brick and stone theater had large figures carved into the fa?ade reminiscent of an Egyptian temple. Patrons dodged the assemblage of carriages, horses, and servants as they hurried to the entrance, indicated by the words Opéra-Comique stretched over a series of open doors.
Lucien hadn’t wanted to risk a late arrival. When traffic had slowed, he’d insisted they leave the carriage a few blocks away and walk instead. Maggie held the hem of her opera cloak out of the Parisian dirt, though there was no hope for her ruined slippers.
She could not blame Lucien for his anxiousness, not tonight. Henri had the lead role in this production, and Lucien did not want to miss the opening performance.
Once inside, the two of them were shown to an upper box with an excellent view of the stage. As Lucien chatted with the usher, Maggie stepped down to the front and gazed over the rail. With gilded surfaces, red velvet curtains, and marble accents, the theater was the most beautiful building she’d ever seen. Wooden puppets on strings danced on the stage, but the crowd largely ignored this small performance. Instead, a sea of black topcoats and tall ostrich feathers rippled throughout the boxes as the crowd talked amongst themselves.
“Shall we sit?” Lucien asked behind her.
Maggie nodded. “Does Henri always procure you a box?”
“He insists for opening night, though I’d much rather be down there.” He gestured to the floor. “He says it relaxes him to find me whenever he becomes nervous.” Because the true nature of their relationship must be kept secret, Lucien posed as Henri’s theatrical instructor in public. Maggie suspected the tedium of maintaining the ruse had been one of the reasons the two had moved to Montmartre.
“How lovely you two are to one another.”
“Not always,” he admitted, the side of his mouth lifting slightly. “We are both artists, so we tend to be stubborn.” He knocked his head with his fist. “As you know only too well, since you are of the same temperament.”
She chuckled. “True. But if we were not stubborn, we might listen to our critics and never paint again.”
“Or perhaps we would acknowledge our mistakes in hopes of never repeating them, n’est-ce pas?” He gave her a pointed stare that left little doubt to his meaning.
“You are wasting your breath. Save it for Henri’s ovation.” She lifted her opera glasses and began searching the crowd.
“You must admit, it is très intéressant. I would never have expected your earl to try and court you. First with flowers, then the paint. What did he send today?”
Maggie shifted in her seat. While she hadn’t seen Simon since the masquerade three nights ago, gifts had been delivered in his name every morning. First, an enormous bouquet of white roses arrived. The fragrance, Simon wrote, smelled like her skin. Next came green pigment, a shade she happened to know not many colormen carried. He claimed the color was the same as her eyes in the throes of passion and asked that she think of him between her thighs whenever she used it.
Today’s offering had been bawdier. A bronze statue of Priapus, the Greek god of male genitalia, with his huge erect phallus, had both shocked and amused her. Heat suffused her face when she recalled the note.
My lady,
Your hands have precisely the same effect on my person. Should you want to watch once more, I am most happy to oblige.
Yours faithfully,
Simon
She’d memorized every word before tossing the paper into the fire.
“Well?” Lucien prompted.
“Merely a statue.” Maggie pretended to peer through her opera glasses, if only so Lucien wouldn’t notice her discomfort.
“If merely a statue, then why have you turned red?”
She lowered the glasses. “I do not know what I am supposed to do,” she admitted. “Does he plan on sending me something each day until I . . . what? I have no idea what the rules are.”
“Ah.” Lucien sat back and crossed his legs. “I see. You have never been pursued and the idea makes you uncomfortable. Can you not just enjoy it, ma chère? In a dress as beautiful as that, you deserve to have the men of Paris slavering at your feet.”
Maggie smoothed her low-cut silver and white opera dress while she considered Lucien’s words. No man had ever tried to win her. During her debut she’d received a few bouquets, but no suitor had ever seriously courted her—not even Simon. Her husband had given her a perfunctory gift on each birthday, no doubt picked out by his secretary. She could not even recall them.
This kindness from Simon unnerved her. When the two of them were at odds, she could easily find her footing. Gifts and adoring words, however, were harder to navigate. Discounting them made her a shrew, but did he honestly believe a few tokens would heal wounds long scarred over? And what did he hope to accomplish?