The Harlot Countess

by Joanna Shupe

  Not to mention Hawkins had been her first instead of Simon. Cranford would suffer, if only for that fact alone.

  “And what of your mistress?”

  Simon nearly stumbled at Maggie’s question. He could comment on the inappropriateness of the question, but such observations were pointless with Maggie. Boldness was never in short supply around her. “Adrianna, you mean. She’s an actress I met at Drury Lane. What else should you care to know?”

  “Is it true you visit her every Tuesday and Friday evening?”

  He did stumble then. He caught himself from falling and stopped to glower at her. “How in God’s name do you know that?”

  “Then it’s true.”

  He offered his arm once more. “It was true but no longer. Adrianna and I have parted ways.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I am coming to fear that sound out of your mouth. May we cease speaking of my former mistress?”

  “Who would have guessed you would turn out to be such a prude?” she teased.

  “Oh, you think so?” He leaned closer. “I’ll show you prudish in the carriage on the way home, madam. We’ll see who is laughing then.”

  She pursed her lips, her lids falling seductively. His cock leaped when she murmured, “I can hardly wait.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “See?” Simon pointed up at a small stone cathedral on the hill. “Église Notre-Dame d’Auvers.”

  They finished climbing the narrow steps and stood in front of an elegant church that did, in fact, resemble the great gothic masterpiece in Paris. She’d spent many hours sketching the original Notre Dame, so the comparisons in this smaller stone version were instantly obvious. The buttresses, the strange animals, the human figures, not to mention the apse and bell tower . . . absolutely remarkable, the similarities.

  Maggie had to laugh. “And here I thought you had lied.”

  He shook his head, saying, “I told you, no more lies.”

  “Yes, but you purposely misled me into thinking we were staying in Paris.”

  “No, that is what you assumed.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I should know better than to quibble with a man who can bend Parliament to his whims.”

  He put his lips near her ear. “Which is not nearly as much fun as bending you, I’m learning.”

  From the heat under her skin, she knew she’d turned scarlet. The rogue. She wandered closer to the building, grateful they’d enjoyed luncheon at a small café first. Her toes were nearly frozen by the time they arrived in Auvers-sur-Oise. Now that she’d properly recovered from their walk, this majestic structure demanded a sketch.

  “Here.” Simon thrust the case containing her supplies into her hand. “I can tell by the look on your face that you want to study it.” He dropped a kiss on her nose, then turned to leave. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Wait,” she called after him. “Where are you going?”

  He waved his hand. “Around. Never fear, I shall collect you before it grows dark.”

  She watched his broad shoulders disappear down the stone steps. Was he truly giving her the afternoon to herself?

  Excited, she carried her supplies to a small bench. The sun had peeked through the overcast sky, giving her a bit of warmth in the winter air. Remaining outside would not be possible due to the weather, but at least she could get a rough sketch done and then finish it inside.

  She removed her gloves and selected a piece of charcoal. The sketch-book came next. It was time to work.

  As promised, Simon found her in the late afternoon as dusk began to settle. She had moved inside the church hours before to stay warm. While there, she finished sketches of her surroundings and then resumed work on the landscape pieces.

  “And how was your afternoon, darling?” He slid into the row in front of her, skin pink from the cold, his piercing blue eyes searching her face.

  She stretched and rolled her shoulders. Lud, these wooden pews were not built for comfort. “Lovely. And productive. But I am ready to return to Paris.”

  His gaze slid away. “May I see what you are working on?”

  She clutched the papers to her chest. “Absolutely not.”

  A shadow passed over his face, and he went to stand. “Shall we?”

  “Simon.” She rose to touch his sleeve. “I never show my work to anyone until it is done—or at least I am reasonably satisfied with it. It is not personal.”

  “It isn’t another Winejester cartoon, is it? Causing a carriage accident on a rural road in France?”

  “Absolutely not. I am sketching Welsh landmarks.”

  He nodded and gestured to the door. “I shall wait for you just outside, then.”

  Something about his demeanor bothered her. He’d been so flirtatious and agreeable earlier. Now he seemed out of sorts. Was he truly worried she would draw Winejester again? She hadn’t put up a Winejester cartoon since the day she’d run into him at Mrs. McGinnis’s shop. In fact, the one she’d drawn after the Colton dinner party had found its way into the fire. With all that had happened between them, she did not feel comfortable with the characterization any longer. It smacked of disrespect and Simon—

  She dropped back on the pew, then winced at the pain shooting through her bottom. Goodness. She had sworn never to allow anything or anyone to interfere with her art. When had he become so important to her that she’d adjusted her plans? Granted, she no longer had just cause for revenge against Simon; he’d been duped by Cranford as well. But the bitterness, the anger, the hurt over all the unfairness thrust on her . . . it did not pain her quite as much.

  Strange. Perhaps it was Simon’s recent attentions. Or their fragile rapprochement. Art would always be the most important part of her life, but perhaps room could be made for other . . . pursuits. She bit her lip to keep from giggling. Giggling. She—the fearsome Lemarc, who had politicians and the ton quaking in their fashionable boots—nearly giggled. It was unheard of.

  Of course she wasn’t merely Lemarc; she was a woman, too. And this particular woman had learned that one particular man liked her laugh. He seemed to like quite a bit about her, the poor misguided fool. Unbelievably, she’d shown him the worst and he hadn’t run screaming.

  She quickly packed up her things and strode to the entrance. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, she saw him relaxing against the facade, booted heel propped up on the stone. Tall, athletic, well-proportioned, with a face so beautiful it made her heart hurt. She found herself smiling as she strolled over to him.

  He dragged his eyes down the length of her. “You are exceedingly happy for a woman who just spent three hours inside a church.”

  “It was quiet and I had enough space and light. How can I possibly complain?” He reached and took the case out of her hands, and she asked, “And how did you spend your afternoon?”

  “This and that. Nothing worth retelling. Watch your step,” he said as they began down the narrow stone set of stairs. The sun, now a burnished orange, had just begun to set, and there were lights glowing in the windows of the town below. The streets appeared deserted, with everyone likely off to enjoy pot-au-feu or a cassoulet with their families. Suddenly, she was starving.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and he remained quiet. When she took his arm, she said, “You should know there will not ever be another Winejester cartoon.”

  His brows rose. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. “I have decided to give him up.”

  “I wish I could say I will miss him. But whatever your reasons, I am grateful.”

  Since she did not care to tell him those reasons, she asked, “Are we to eat before we leave?”

  “About that,” he started. “We are not leaving. At least, not tonight.”

  Feet planted, she faced him. “What do you mean, ‘not leaving’?”

  “It is too late to travel back. So we shall spend the night here in Auvers. I’ve procured us a room.”

  “But it is barely dusk. We could make it back in a few hours. Wh
y not leave now?”

  He shook his head. “No. I do not want to travel in the dark. Not with you. It is not safe. We shall go back in the morning.”

  Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. This was a sudden development . . . or had he planned this all along? First he’d practically kidnapped her and now stranded her in rural France. “Was this your goal all along?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—and keep moving before we both freeze.” He took her arm and led her toward town. “I did not plan the carriage accident, Maggie.”

  “When you say you have procured a room, do you mean one room? Or two rooms?”

  He sighed, the burst a white plume in the cold air. “If you would prefer separate rooms, I can easily get another one.”

  She thought about it. “I have no ladies’ maid.”

  His mouth twitched. “This is true.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to do, then.”

  His teeth shone in the near darkness, a predatory smile that made her heart skip. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

  The following morning, Simon woke to a soft, feminine body pressed against his side. Maggie. He had to stifle a grin. Roses and a hint of vanilla. He would never tire of that smell. Twice he’d had her last night, and apparently his cock was putting in a bid for another round this morning. Of course, it might have a bit to do with her luscious bottom resting against his hip. How could she be so tempting, even while asleep?

  An overwhelming urge to wrap her in his arms, to protect her from the slightest bit of pain, stole through him. Ridiculous considering Maggie was the strongest woman he’d ever met; she needed no champion. But Simon found himself longing for the role nonetheless.

  Perhaps it was the disturbing news he’d learned yesterday that brought about these curious and bothersome emotions. The carriage accident had been deliberate. Once the vehicle had been brought to Auvers for repair, Simon had spent the better part of the day going over it with the two drivers, attempting to discern clues as to the culprit. Someone had damaged the axle and Simon would learn who was responsible.

  But for now, there were other matters that deserved his careful attention.

  Not all women were amenable to amorous encounters in the morning . . . but one never knew unless one tried. He aligned them carefully, Maggie’s back to his chest, his erection nestled between her full, plump buttocks. Then his fingers moved to her breast and set about rousing a nipple. It puckered quickly, almost begging for his touch as he teased it. Soon he ministered to the other, giving it the same treatment. Maggie’s breathing changed, no longer slow and deep but turning shallow. She’s awake.

  He bent to kiss and nip the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, something he happened to know she particularly liked. In no hurry, he played with her breasts, molding and caressing them, filling his hands with the soft, womanly shape of her. Creamy skin. Heavenly curves. A mouth to tempt a saint. He could not get enough of her, his erection now so hard it hurt.

  Unable to wait, his fingers found the slickness pooling between her legs. She gasped, her hand clutching at his hip to pull him closer. She’s ready. Lust swept through his belly and the need for her became essential, like breathing. He lifted her leg slightly, lined up, and entered her in one smooth thrust. She fit him perfectly. Hot. Tight. He gritted his teeth, stopped to take a moment. No sense in rushing it. He wanted to enjoy this. Then Maggie squirmed and pushed back, bringing him in deeper, and Simon was lost.

  It quickly turned into something less playful and more serious. His hips slapped against her delectable backside with each powerful thrust. When he felt his own climax threaten, he worked her tiny bud of pleasure in small circles, rhythmic and fast, until she dug her nails into his arm, moaning. Bloody hell, he loved the way she reacted to him.

  Her inner walls clamped down on him, and she gave a cry, her body shuddering. He tried desperately to hold out until she stopped shaking, to let her ride out her orgasm, but it proved impossible. Beginning at the base of his spine, the pressure built and he barely pulled out in time to spill on the sheets.

  Fighting for air, he dragged her close. The fire had died down overnight, so he gathered the coverlet and covered them both.

  “What a lovely way to say good morning,” she said, raising her arms and stretching back against him.

  “Mmm, I thought so. My favorite way, anyhow.”

  After a pause, she said, “Wake up with a woman often, do you?”

  He heard the edge to her voice. Pushing on her shoulder, he brought her around to face him. “No, Maggie, I do not. There haven’t been that many women in recent years and none who meant anything substantial.” That must have satisfied her because she closed her eyes and snuggled against him. “What about you? Have you never had a man in your bed come morning?”

  “Never.”

  “Ah.” So she did not care to keep her paramours overnight. Oddly enough, that tidbit pleased him. He liked knowing he was the first to hold her while she slept. His palm stroked the velvety softness of her hip. “They did not realize what they were missing, then.”

  She was so still, so quiet, he worried he’d offended her. Then her lids lifted. “There have only ever been three men. One was my husband and you are another.”

  A weight settled on Simon’s chest, pressing down on his lungs and making it hard to breathe. Thoughts swirled in his mind, things he’d said, assumptions he’d made. But the truth was right there in her clear, serious green gaze. No, this couldn’t be right. “Three?” he rasped.

  She lifted a dainty shoulder. “One would presume more with my nickname, but there have only been three.”

  “Myself and Hawkins. So who was the third?”

  Her lips compressed and he guessed the question made her uncomfortable. But he needed the answer. “Tell me, Maggie,” he urged gently.

  “An artist. You met him at the opera.”

  “Ah.” So he’d been correct. The proprietary way the man had touched Maggie hadn’t been Simon’s imagination. He hardly found this reassuring, however. Moving to his back, he folded his hands behind his head and fixed his stare on the ceiling. “No wonder you reacted so strongly when I told you I forgave you. You must have been ready to throttle me. I made terribly unfair assumptions about you.”

  “Yes, you did. And I did consider throttling you. Many times.” The silky glide of her hand swept up his belly and along his rib cage. “But I am glad I did not.” Her fingernail flicked at his nipple, and he drew in a sharp breath.

  “Stop,” he told her. “We need to discuss this.”

  “No,” she returned. “We most definitely do not need to talk.” She lifted up to place her mouth, lush and warm, over one of his nipples, laving it with her tongue and gently scraping it with her teeth. Pleasure streaked down his spine.

  “Maggie,” he groaned. She was attempting to distract him from the conversation. He started to unfold his arms, to reach for her, but her hands stopped him.

  “Stay there. Let me have my wicked way with you.”

  His pulse picked up. “As I just had my wicked way with you mere moments ago, I doubt I can be roused so soon after.”

  Her mouth began to travel over his ribs and down to his stomach, pressing deliciously soft kisses that had him shivering in anticipation. “Is that so?” she murmured before shifting to settle between his legs.

  His cock twitched as her warm breath gusted over the sensitive flesh. Memories of the way her mouth had taken him deep last night resurfaced. The slick, moist suction, her determination in keeping the perfect rhythm . . . That she, a proper lady, deigned to pleasure him with her mouth, seemed to like it even, had him nearly weeping in gratitude. He felt himself begin to swell.

  “Hmmm,” she said and licked her lips, her eyes flicking from his burgeoning erection up to meet his gaze. “And you doubted yourself.”

  His lids fluttered shut as she suckled on him, drawing his semi-erect shaft over her tongue. Heaven. Absolute heaven. “A man does require some recovery time,” he mumb
led. Then her nails gently raked the thin skin covering his bollocks and he bucked. Blood rushed to his cock at the exquisite torture. “But I never should have doubted you, apparently.”

  Several days later, Simon strode into the crowded dining room of his hotel, unsurprised to find most of the tables were occupied. Hôtel Meurice served both English and French fare, which made it a favorite with British travelers eager for a taste of home. His guests, he noticed, had already arrived. Excellent. The sooner this meal concluded, the sooner he could hie himself to Maggie’s house.

  Heat spread through his loins. The past sennight had been one of the best of his life. Each evening since returning from Auvers, he and Maggie had enjoyed dinner together and then retired to her chambers. He departed in the mornings before the household awoke, though she swore it unnecessary. However, he wanted to spare her any further gossip, at least until they could be married. Not that he’d asked her yet, but that was a mere formality. She cared for him, and under no circumstances would he let her go—not after he’d found her after all these years.

  Markham brightened when he saw Simon approach. “Winchester! Excellent timing. We’ve just ordered a bottle of claret.”

  “Markham has ordered claret,” Quint corrected. “I have ordered tea.”

  “Of course. And thank you for the clarification.” Simon lowered into the empty chair. “Glad you joined us, Quint.”

  “I suspect this may be my only opportunity to see you.”

  “Why’s that?” Markham asked. “I thought you both were staying in this hotel.”

  “One of us is,” Quint said under his breath.

  “Oh, ho. Did Winchester find a bit of sport here in Paris? Tell me”—Markham leaned closer—“are the Frenchwomen as forward as I’ve heard?”

  Simon thought of Maggie, who’d practically coined the word forward, and could barely prevent a grin. Though it was not lost on him how Markham had hoped to tumble Maggie himself, and the notion erased any mirth from the conversation. “I’d hardly be a gentleman if I talked after the fact,” he said as a member of the staff poured glasses of claret.