The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(84)
Maggie blinked. “Simon? Simon wanted to challenge Cranford?”
“Yes. He was furious. Convinced that Cranford had dishonored you. Of course, I did not know any of the particulars, else I would have let him issue the challenge. But I was selfish; I was sixteen, had just been married off to a stranger who immediately abandoned me. Simon had been my friend since childhood. At the time, I was petrified he’d either be killed or be forced to leave England as well. So I convinced him to speak with Cranford first, instead of meeting over pistols at dawn.”
A duel. Simon had been willing to defend her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, one of amazement and gratitude. For so long, she’d assumed them all eager to shun her after the scandal, but Simon had cared enough to want to risk his life for her. Thank heavens Julia had talked him out of it. If he’d been killed . . . well, no sense dwelling on the past. Suffice it to say, she was grateful he hadn’t died.
While Maggie struggled with this information, Julia shifted a bit in her seat. “I feel positively wretched over it, Maggie. If Simon had issued the challenge, your entire life would be different. Not only that, but the two of you would have ended up together much sooner.”
“Perhaps . . . or perhaps not,” Maggie allowed. “We shall never know what may have happened. Cranford may very well have killed him.”
From the frown on her pale face, Julia did not appear reassured. So Maggie said, “Honestly, I am glad you stopped him. Challenging Cranford would have been monumentally idiotic.”
“Maggie,” Julia said gravely, “your reputation, your nickname. The cruelty you endured . . . none of that would have happened if I’d let him issue the challenge. You would be happily stowed away at Winchester Towers with four or five babies by now.”
“Lord, I should hope not,” Maggie snorted.
Julia cut her a glance. “Would it have been so terrible?”
Sobering, Maggie thought how best to express her thoughts. Not many women would understand, but perhaps Julia might. “My marriage to Hawkins was not a tragic one, and I had a great deal of freedom to learn and practice my skills. I traveled to Paris. I met Lucien. I gained insight into myself I never would have achieved without the scandal. I do not regret one minute of it. And while I might wish for others to remain unblemished by it, my reputation allows me certain liberties I’d never otherwise possess. I’ve led a life most of the women of our world will never know. It has not been perfect, but at least I can say I truly lived.”
She’d never put it all into words before, but Maggie meant every single one. Tension she’d carried for far too long disappeared off her frame, making her lighter, happier. So what if some of them snickered behind her back? Maggie could be more than the proper Lady Margaret Hawkins; she was also Maggie, the Half-Irish Harlot, as well as Lemarc. Pity the rest of them only had one persona.
“It relieves my mind to hear you say so,” Julia said. “I would not blame you if you told me to go to the devil. I would.”
“No. I’ve grown too fond of you. Besides, you were only concerned with Simon’s welfare, and rightly so.”
“Do you love him?” Julia cocked her perfectly coiffed blond head. “I must say, I’ve never seen him like this over a woman. If you break his heart, I do not want to have to choose sides.”
Love him? She’d thought she loved him once, when she was a girl. Now she tried not to think on it, tried to think of their relationship as fleeting. A passing fancy they would both recover from when it ended—and it would end. There was no choice, considering the people they had both become.
She decided to be honest. “I plan on leaving London once my affairs have been settled here, so do not worry over choosing sides.”
“Leaving?” Julia’s face clouded with confusion. “But I assumed.... Does he know?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. I’ve told no one.”
“Why?”
Was it not obvious? Her tongue thick and uncooperative, Maggie gestured to the room. “Because of Lemarc. Because of the Half-Irish Harlot. Because of everything I am.” Or rather, everything she was not. She gave a dry laugh. “Can you see me, a political hostess? It’s laughable.”
“Yes. I can,” Julia snapped, straightening her shoulders. “Are you telling me you think you are not good enough to stand as Simon’s wife? That you are unworthy ?” She shot to her feet and began moving angrily about the room. “Has he in any way intimated—”
“No !” Maggie rushed out. “Absolutely not. He said he wants to marry me, though I expect him to change his mind once he’s had time to consider the unfortunate ramifications of such a rash action.”
“Rash? The two of you have waited nearly ten years for one another. How is that rash, exactly?”
Tilda entered with tea, and both women waited patiently for the servant to depart. Maggie busied herself with pouring while Julia resumed her seat. The duchess had clearly romanticized Simon and Maggie’s relationship. Maggie, on the other hand, hadn’t romanticized anything in quite a long time; she’d learned to be practical out of necessity, even when doing so proved difficult.
“You should know,” Julia said, accepting her cup and saucer, “that while the Winchester men have all been brilliant statesmen, there’s not a one without a scandal in his past. And while Simon may seem respectable now—”