The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(67)
He twisted the tankard in his hand, making small circles on the scarred tabletop. “Because I can.”
“So could any number of wealthy households, mine included. Yet it never occurred to me. Why did you begin?”
“Several years ago, a girl presented herself at the back door, bruises covering her face and desperate to escape an unpleasant home. My housekeeper came to me with the situation and we decided to hire her. Word traveled amongst our staff, and friends and relatives began appearing regularly to request employment.” He shrugged. “My housekeeper has a soft heart.”
Not merely his housekeeper, apparently.
“Come, the carriage is ready.” He stood and held out his hand. “Let us return to our journey.”
“Do we have a destination in mind?” she asked three-quarters of an hour later. “Or are we to stop when the mood strikes us?” They had made polite conversation since the inn, but he’d still said nothing of where they were going.
He folded his arms and smiled. “There is a destination, but wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”
“I cannot say that I care for surprises.”
“That is merely proof you need more of them. Life is terribly tedious if you know what is coming.”
“Who would have guessed the Earl of Winchester to be a philosopher?” she teased.
“I am a man of many talents, Lady Hawkins. As you might recall,” he returned, his blue eyes sparking with mischief.
She could not help it; she laughed. The rogue was impossibly charming, a fact he knew full well.
“I adore your laugh, Mags. I always have. You light up a room with it.”
Her chest tightened. The mirth stuck in her throat as emotion welled. Was it the use of his old nickname for her or the compliment that turned her inside out? She had no idea. Unsure how to respond, she returned her gaze to the window.
“Do my revelations unnerve you?”
“Yes,” she blurted. “I cannot think clearly when you say such things.”
He shook his head. “Exactly the point, my dear lady. I do not want you to think. I want you to feel.” Leaning forward, he plucked her hand out of her lap and tugged.
Before she could muster resistance, she ended up on his side, directly next to him. Her heart began slamming against her ribs. Heat surrounded her, his nearness sucking all the air from the carriage, and he slid a bare hand up to cup her jaw gently. Everything inside her tingled, a rush of awareness in each nerve ending to serve as a reminder of the delights at Barrett House—heady, wicked delights she craved late at night.
“Simon, stop.” The plea sounded half-earnest, even to her own ears.
“I cannot help myself. I’ve been attempting to resist you all morning. It is too much to ask.” He pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet, undid the bow, and lifted it off her head. She heard it hit the empty seat. “You are so very beautiful,” he murmured, twirling a loose strand of her hair around his fingers. He let it go, watched the curl fall to her cheek. Then he bent closer and she held her breath. “I ache for you, Maggie.”
His mouth covered hers, warm and firm, while his hands clutched her closer. She considered shoving him away, but the kiss was slow and coaxing, a sweet mixture of breath as their lips melded and shaped together. She closed her eyes and let sensation wash over her, clearing her mind of anything but the feel of his mouth dragging over her own. God, she’d missed this. She had not even realized how much until this very moment.
He nipped and teased, keeping the kiss nearly chaste, until she squirmed, ready to crawl into his lap to get closer. Each time she tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled back slightly. Determined, she reached up, slid her arms around his neck, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. The result was an instantaneous spark, as if she’d dropped an ember onto a pile of kindling. Simon took over, opening her mouth wider to thrust his tongue inside, invading, tasting her with relentless intensity. Maggie’s head swam as her fingers threaded the silken strands of his hair.
He broke off to rain kisses along her jawline, then traveled down the sensitive column of her throat to nibble and suck the skin under the high collar of her cold-weather pelisse. Nimble fingers worked the fastenings and the heavy fabric fell apart. Simon’s lips slid along her collarbone, and anticipation caused her breasts to swell inside her chemise and stays. His breath gusted over the fichu of her lilac traveling dress as he strayed lower.
“All this curst clothing,” he muttered, his hand gliding up over her corseted rib cage. “I want to see every inch of you.”
“That would prove challenging, considering our surroundings,” she breathed.
“But not impossible. And I do love a challenge.” He plucked the fichu from her décolletage. “Perhaps I shall work my way down.”
She thought of any number of reasons that she should push him away, including all the ways he’d hurt her, could hurt her still. But as his mouth traced the tops of her breasts exposed above her neckline, rational thought escaped her. Besides, when had she ever done as she should?
With efficient presence of mind, he flicked the curtains on the carriage windows, plunging them into semidarkness. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light when he yanked on the edge of her dress enough to free one breast from her clothing. Her arms twined around his neck while they shared another blistering kiss. His thumb and forefinger found her nipple, squeezed. She gasped into his mouth, the sensation sending white-hot sparks down her spine. Sweet heaven. He rolled and tweaked her nipple until she writhed against the seat, the hunger nearly unbearable. Did he want her to beg?