by Joanna Shupe
Cora’s swollen eyes filled as she nodded. “I don’t want t’do this no more.”
“I know. I promise you won’t have to.”
When the door closed behind Simon and Madame Hartley, Colton stalked to the sideboard. “I hope she’s got something stronger than sherry in here.”
“No doubt she still keeps your private reserve on hand somewhere. After all, you were her best customer for years.” There was no jealousy in Julia’s tone. It was clear she was teasing her husband.
“Indeed.” He grinned at her. “I cannot argue, though it has been some time.”
“And that does not bother you?” Maggie asked the duchess, curious about her friend’s attitude.
“Not a bit,” Julia said. “We were not married at the time. This was years ago, before Colton left for the Continent. All young men sow their oats before settling down. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“We spent many wonderfully debauched evenings here,” Colton said wistfully, now holding a glass of what looked like whisky. He laughed. “Of course, Winchester’s three-day sojourn here is the stuff of legend, though it happened, let’s see, eight or nine years ago. I wish I could’ve seen it but I’d just left for France. So it must have been . . . May or June, I suppose.”
“Ten years ago, husband. You left for France ten years ago. But who’s counting?” the duchess quipped.
Maggie frowned. Ten years ago. In May or June? That would have been right about the time of her scandal and subsequent marriage to Hawkins. So when Maggie’s life was being irrevocably ruined, he’d been . . . celebrating with a bacchanal orgy to make a Roman envious? For three days? She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath.
“Quint wrote me, though. Told me that Winchester—”
“Nick, darling, do shut up,” Maggie heard Julia say and lifted her lids to find the duchesses’s gaze trained on her face.
Colton gave Maggie a contrite smile. “My apologies, madam. My comments were in poor taste.”
“Everything you do is in poor taste, you devil,” Julia quipped. “Maggie, forgive him. Some days I believe my husband to have been raised by wolves.”
That got Maggie to smile despite the searing pain in her chest. “No apologies necessary. It was a long time ago and, verily, why should I care?” She gestured to Colton’s glass. “Is there any more of that?”
The duke raised an eyebrow. “Plenty. Shall I pour you a dram?”
God, yes. “Please.” Maybe the whisky would wash the bitterness and anger out of her mouth.
“Me as well,” Julia put in. “I’d say we could all use a strong drink about now.”
Seconds later, Colton placed a crystal glass in Maggie’s hands, then gave one to his wife. Maggie watched him lean in and whisper something to the duchess that made Julia turn a deep scarlet. It was obvious the two were very much in love, and Maggie felt a sharp pang of envy. Her marriage had been devoid of any feeling, a strict business arrangement with nothing but responsibility and duty. What must it be like to share your life with someone who worships the very ground you walk on? she wondered, lifting the whisky to her lips.
As expected, the first swallow burned like the fires of hell. Maggie gasped, waited for her lungs to draw air once more. She’d had some experience with strong spirits, though she never could claim much tolerance for this particular one.
Dimly, she heard Julia coughing and the duke laughing, so Maggie assumed her friend’s experience hadn’t been much different than her own.
“Gad, how can you men drink such vile stuff?” the duchess rasped.
Once Maggie caught her breath, a pleasant warmth spread throughout her belly. Everything inside her relaxed. Loosened. Like a watch spring wound too tightly, her entire body . . . unfurled.
The second taste went down easier.
Colton raised his own glass in appreciation. “You hardly blinked on the first swallow. My admiration, madam.”
“Must be my Irish blood,” Maggie said with a rueful smile. “At least it’s useful for something.”
She hadn’t finished half her glass when Madame returned. The abbess explained that Simon planned to take the girl to Barrett House and would need transport since he’d traveled there in the duke’s carriage. Maggie immediately offered to take them. Not that she particularly cared to spend any amount of time with Simon. She’d much prefer never to see him again, in fact, but overseeing the girl’s care took precedence over any hurt feelings.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d never had hurt feelings before.
In moments, the two women had reaffixed dominoes and pulled cloak hoods over their heads. The back hall stood empty, so the duke led their small party to the mews.
Both carriages stood waiting, the cattle blowing clouds of impatient breath in the frigid air. Colton handed Maggie up first, had a quick word with her coachman, and then both he and Julia disappeared into his carriage. Maggie huddled against the squabs, the warming brick at her feet, as she watched the duke’s carriage lumber off.
At last, Simon appeared, hatless, his greatcoat wrapped around a large bundle in his arms. Maggie straightened as her coachman hopped down and pulled open the door. Simon maneuvered the entrance neatly, not even putting the girl down to step up and in. He settled on the seat, the girl resting on his lap protectively, and the door closed. She rapped twice on the roof and the carriage set off.
Maggie couldn’t see the girl’s face under the heavy wool of his coat. “Is she awake?” she whispered.
“No,” he answered. “She’s passed out, from the pain of moving her, I assume.”
“I want to help.”
“No. I will take her to Barrett House and then see you home.”
The dim lamplight outlined the hard set of his jaw. He clearly did not want her along, but that was too bad. Nothing would keep Maggie away. She lifted her chin, not avoiding his piercing blue gaze.
At length, he blew out a breath. “I know better than to argue when you’ve got that particular look on your face. So come to Barrett House, if you wish. You may assist once she’s inside and made comfortable. I’ve already sent for my physician to be roused out of bed.”
A hundred questions burned her tongue, but Simon turned to the window, all but ignoring her. She bit the eager words back, forced herself to wait. Before daybreak, she’d have her answers—both about the girl and the reason for his involvement.
He hadn’t expected to find her asleep.
Simon had maintained a respectable distance all evening while Maggie, his housekeeper, and his physician all tended to Cora’s injuries. When they finished, Simon spoke at length with his physician regarding the girl’s care. Thankfully, Madame Hartley’s bonesetter had done an excellent job on Cora’s arm. Dr. Gilchrist believed the girl would regain full use of it with no ill effects other than a slight stiffness in poor weather. The physician was concerned, however, about internal bleeding. He’d given Maggie and Simon’s housekeeper signs to watch for.
After Dr. Gilchrist quit the house, Simon returned to his study for a brandy.
He needed to gather his wits. Maggie was here. In the house. Just the idea of it made his cock half hard. God, he wanted her in his bed. Wanted her ink-colored hair to fan over his pillows, her pale, creamy limbs gracing his sheets. The picture caused his skin to prickle, need making him restless and randy.
Which was hardly appropriate, considering the reason for her presence in his house. He shouldn’t be lusting after the woman, shouldn’t be thinking of all the ways he wanted to pleasure her despite all that had transpired tonight. She wasn’t here for him, he reminded himself.
So he’d kept to his study, drinking. Cowardly, but better to avoid her than do something he’d regret.
Like falling at her feet and begging for the opportunity to slide between her thighs once more.
As the hour grew later, he expected Maggie to barge into his study to pepper him with the questions she’d obviously longed to ask during the ride from Madame Hartley’s. Curio
usly, she hadn’t. He wondered if maybe she’d left. Snuck out without a word. He wouldn’t put it past her. In fact, he’d put very little past her. The woman had a spine of steel.
So he was surprised at half past one to find Maggie in a chair at Cora’s bedside, asleep.
Watching her, he hardly breathed for fear of waking her. She was so lovely, unguarded in her slumber. Black lashes a stark contrast to her pale skin. Full, pink lips parted slightly. Tendrils of hair framed her delicate face like streaks of midnight, her breasts rising and falling gently.
He started when a presence came alongside him.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, whispered, “Pardon the intrusion, my lord. I’ve had the yellow chamber made up for her ladyship.” She tilted her head toward Maggie. “She didn’t want to leave the girl earlier. Fell right asleep not long after the girl did.”
He’d figured as much but he nodded anyway. “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. I’ll see that Lady Hawkins finds her chamber.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ve asked one of the maids to sit with the girl. I’ll have your lordship notified should her condition change.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. Good night.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Simon glanced at Maggie, his chest filling with a warmth he’d never experienced. She hadn’t wanted to leave Cora, a girl who most women of the ton would not even dare look at, let alone speak to. Whatever he’d originally believed regarding the reason for her presence at Madame Hartley’s tonight, it was now clear she and Julia had been on a rescue mission. So why the devil would the abbess send for two ladies of quality? Julia was an open book; Simon had known her long enough to be privy to all her secrets. And while there were many, none involved a crusade such as this. But Maggie was a mystery. What was her interest in all this?
One thing for certain: she was unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. He liked that about her. Always had. From the instant he’d met her, he’d liked her spirit, her fire. One had to respect how she refused to cower before the ton. Even before her scandal, when they snickered about her Irish blood, her poet father, or her looks, which were so unlike all the other English girls, Maggie had faced them down with her head high.
He knew because he’d been watching. Due to his mother’s friendship with Maggie’s mother, Simon had been directed to dance with Maggie once each night that Season. Initially, he’d chaffed at the order but found the girl so compelling he could not stay away. In addition to her beauty, she had wit. Not a quality many her age possessed, sad to say, but Simon appreciated it. She made him laugh. Better yet, she made him think.
The question, though, was what to do about her now.
He bent, slid his hands underneath her, and, as gently as he could manage, lifted her. She barely stirred, merely threw her arms around him and burrowed her face into the side of his throat with a sigh. As if they’d done this a hundred times.
Suddenly, he wished they had.
Those were thoughts he did not care to entertain at the moment, not when her soft, womanly curves were pressed intimately against him. He carefully strode to the stairs, took them slowly. Though he could claim the fear of waking her had him moving leisurely, the true reason was a reluctance to let her go.
Simon stepped into the yellow chamber. This was his mother’s old suite. He’d never had a woman stay in this room; guests normally stayed on the other side of Barrett House. Odd that Mrs. Timmons had chosen it, but he didn’t mind. He wanted Maggie here. Close to him.
He lowered her to the coverlet. She rolled away, settling into the pillow though her breathing remained steady. He stood there, deciding. He could leave her fully clothed, but women’s garments were not particularly comfortable. And she would require help to get out of them.
Help you’d be more than eager to provide.
He could be practical about it. Wasn’t as if he hadn’t undressed his fair share of ladies before. Just get it done and leave, man.
The idea nearly made him laugh.
He itched to undress her, but his motives were anything but pure. A familiar ache quickened in his groin as he remembered the previous afternoon’s encounter in her drawing room. The warm clasp of her body. How she’d clutched at him, clung so hard he’d felt the sting of her fingernails through his clothing. And when she’d reached her pleasure at last . . . Christ on a pony, he would never forget her expression as long as he lived. As if he’d gifted her with something precious and rare.
He shook himself. Hardly gentlemanly to stand over her like a lecher. And to remove her clothing would undoubtedly wake her. Slippers. He could deal with slippers. Efficiently, he bent, slid them off her feet, and placed them on the floor.
Perhaps he should loosen the fastenings of her gown. No way to get the contraption off without her cooperation, of course, but he could make her a bit more comfortable. Without jostling her, his fingers plucked at the laces, and as the fabric parted, he caught enticing flashes of her undergarments. His hands slowed. What if he—
What in hell was wrong with him? He was four and thirty, not four and ten. And a gentleman. Had he completely lost his mind? He forced himself to drop the laces and pull the bedclothes over her still-dressed form. Then he strode to the adjoining door, where he resolved not to think on Maggie any longer.
Chapter Eleven
The adjoining door closed softly and Maggie took her first true breath in a quarter hour. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so hard and loud that she’d been sure he would notice. But self-preservation had urged her to keep silent.
His ministrations had been so tender, almost . . . loving. He’d made a concerted effort not to wake her and she’d played along. Besides, if she did stir, what would she possibly say? Touch me, Simon. Kiss me. Prove what happened yesterday afternoon had not been chance.
It had not been easy. His featherlight touch roused her body, each brush of his hand or press of his finger making her ache. She’d practically purred under his care, like a kitten starved for attention. When he’d unfastened her laces, she’d thought she would melt into a pool of lust before his eyes.
Her breasts heavy with wanting and her core wet with desire, she could hardly breathe with the strength of it. The one spot where pleasure concentrated, the nubbin Simon had stroked to bring her to peak only yesterday, throbbed in time with her heart. He had awakened her in every way, and sleep would not come soon.
She rolled to her back in hopes of alleviating the craving, opened her eyes, and tried to focus on her surroundings. The pretty yellow wallpaper. The bouncing firelight in the grate. She recognized the painting over the mantel as Wilkie’s Village Politicians. Appropriate for Barrett House, she thought, considering the political legacy of the Earls of Winchester.
Even the masterful Dutch-inspired work could not distract her, however. Her body clamored for relief.
The adjoining door, was that his bedchamber? He’d gone through not long before, so she had to assume he was on the other side of that partition. What was he doing? Relaxing? Undressing? Or, God help her, bathing?
Imagining his tall, lean frame wet and bare, water sluicing over his limbs, did little to ease her suffering. She cupped a hand between her legs over her clothing, hoping to extinguish the flames of desire licking there—only to gasp at the contact. Decidedly worse, she noted in dismay and snatched her hand away.
Why had she consumed the whisky at Madame Hartley’s? If she had not, under no circumstances would she have fallen asleep at Cora’s bedside. Late nights were commonplace for her. She often painted until the wee hours of the morning, not to mention that raucous parties thrown by the Half-Irish Harlot usually continued until daybreak. And if she hadn’t nodded off she’d be at home at the moment, not writhing under the grip of deliciously wicked temptation.
Before she knew it, her feet found the hard floor. Her gown hung awkwardly, nearly off her shoulders since Simon had loosened it. Perhaps she could ask him to finish unlacing it. No, no—this was madnes
s. Reckless insanity. She couldn’t possibly . . . could she? What would she say?
Very little, with any luck.
What she should do, what any sane woman would do, she thought as she moved closer to his door, was demand he redo her laces and then send for her carriage. But as her fingers wrapped around the door handle, she knew full well she wouldn’t.
The partition opened soundlessly and she peeked into what turned out to be a bedchamber. The soft glow of flames bounced off the corners of the massive room, revealing large, masculine furnishings. It was precisely the kind of room she expected—
A soft grunt caught her attention, and her eyes swung to the immense four-poster bed.
Her mouth fell open. Simon, bare as the day he was born, had stretched out on top of the coverlet and he was . . . touching himself. His shaft, specifically. He gripped it, stroking up and down, the muscles in his arms shifting as he worked. Eyes closed, face slackened in pleasure, his hand continued a regular rhythm, pumping from root to tip.
Lord above, he was beautiful.
She watched, fascinated, helpless to look away. There was no extra flesh on him. Flat stomach, broad shoulders, heavy, muscled thighs that bunched and twitched under the strain. Light golden hair dusted his upper chest, forearms and legs. He was breathtaking. She longed for her pencils and sketch papers in order to capture the essence of the purely selfish, purely spellbinding action.
The desire she’d felt in the other room paled in comparison to the inferno now raging inside her. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts as he stroked, the pressure clearly building. Top to bottom, then back again. Stronger now, moving faster. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Dug her toes into the carpet to keep from rushing forward. She’d never wanted to touch anyone so badly in all her years. Her limbs nearly vibrated with the force of remaining still.