The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(78)

Perfectly reasonable, of course, but it did not make accepting his help any easier to bear. The past decade, she’d only had herself to rely on. Any problem had been hers alone to solve. To allow someone else to shoulder those problems, even Simon, was a strange, unsettling notion. “I must do something. I cannot sit and wait for you to slay my dragons for me. I am coming with you.”

Simon shook his head. “You must remain here. In Paris. It will keep you safe from—”

“I’m hardly safe here, with the forger aware of where I am. And remaining here is unthinkable. No, listen to me,” she said when it appeared he would argue. “I will go mad waiting here for news of my fate. And I can be of assistance in tracking down the forger. No one knows my work better than me. There may be ways of discovering his identity through the forgeries.”

His lips compressed to a thin, unhappy line.

“While this concern, it is touching,” Lucien said into the tense silence, “it is better if you work together toward the same result, non?”

“Returning will only make it easier for the Crown to find you,” Simon said, his jaw tight.

“Returning will make it easier for me to find the forger,” she said.

When Simon did not argue, Lucien rose. “I will tell Tilda to pack your things,” he said, and left the room.




Simon sighed as Barreau closed the door. He should have known it would prove bloody impossible to keep Maggie from the proceedings, as much as he did not want her involved. The maddening, stubborn female. Did she not see the peril at hand? This needed to be handled with diplomacy and tact—not exactly two of Maggie’s strengths. But they were his, and he would do all in his power to prevent her from losing everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish.

Without realizing it, he took a step toward her. She held up her hand. “Wait,” she told him. Her eyes slid away and he noticed the color on her cheeks. “There is another matter we must resolve before London.”

“And that would be?” He folded his arms across his chest. Could he convince her to move into Barrett House? He wanted her in his bed each night. But her bed would do just as—

“You and I. Us. We must stop seeing one another.”

He felt his brows lower. Had he heard her correctly? “We must . . . stop seeing one another?” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes.”

“Why in God’s name would we do that?”

“I cannot allow my reputation, such as it is, to affect you or your standing. The gossip in London will be a hundredfold worse than Paris.”

“Hang the gossip, Mags. I do not care what anyone says about us.”

She thrust her chin up. “You say that now, but you have no idea of the damage that will befall you, damage that cannot be undone. It is best we end our association now. Then you may act on Lemarc’s behalf in London with no one the wiser.”

The sincerity and determination on her face caused a frisson of panic to slide down his spine. “Absolutely not. And my standing is not a concern at the moment.”

“Not now, perhaps, but it will be. Soon. When Parliament reopens in a few months, you will care. However, by that time, it will be too late.”

No, no. This was all wrong. He meant to have a much different conversation concerning their future, one that included her naked, day in and day out. One of love and laughter, of all the things he’d been missing over the last few years. And where the devil was this attitude coming from? She had never shrunk from Society a day in her life. She did as she bloody well pleased, and to the devil with the consequences.

So why was a relationship with him any different? Was he not worth the risk?

“What are you afraid of?” he asked. “That my invitations dry up? That I must work a bit harder in Lords? That I take some ribbing at our expense?”

“You make it sound so easy. Yes, I am afraid of everything you mentioned—and more. And there will be more, Simon. This will affect you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. Markham is only the beginning. And have you thought of how it will impact your family?”

“My mother is the only concern, and I should like to see anyone try to snub her. Besides, she will be thrilled I have finally taken a bride.”

“A bride?” Maggie screeched. Her eyes round, she gaped at him.

“Yes, a bride. How can you be surprised? Of course I want to marry you.”

He assumed this information would reassure her, but if anything it made her appear even more anxious. “Are you mad? Look around you.” She swept the bright, airy space with her hand. A converted library, the studio brimmed with canvases, cloths, brushes, easels, and other bric-a-brac. “You want to marry this? Marry Lemarc? Because this shall never go away. My art, my work . . . this is who I am. I cannot give it up.”

“I would never dream of asking you to give it up.” He stepped closer, but she sidled away, out of his reach. He folded his arms. “Nevertheless, I want to be married. I want to wake up to you every morning. I want to travel with you, watch you paint, have you bear my children. . . .” He could go on; the list of what he wanted from her seemed endless.

“Children?” If possible, she turned paler. She covered her mouth with a hand, shook her head. “Now I know you are not thinking clearly,” she whispered.

“What did you assume, that after all these years I’d be satisfied with a few weeks of you in my bed?” Before she could evade him, he moved to clasp her face in his hands. “I need you, Maggie, and nothing will keep me from having you. Not fear or threats, not even the disapproval of every Society matron in London. Even if I must give up my seat in Lords.”