The Harlot Countess Read online

  In this small room, she could pretend that passion had overcome her reason. Pretend that Simon hadn’t hurt her terribly all those years ago. Pretend that this burning fever for him was nothing other than a temporary biological condition to be dealt with.

  Without answering, she bent forward and pressed her mouth to his. He kissed her back, took her mouth as if it were necessary to his very survival. Spread the seam of her lips with his clever, wicked tongue. Demanding. Impatient. And Maggie melted against him, pliant and desperate to get closer. Her fingers threaded the smooth strands of his hair, holding on under the glorious rush of sensation.

  His mouth broke off, and he trailed kisses down her neck. “You stubborn, maddening female,” he said into her skin. “I want to have you properly, not in here like a footman—”

  Maggie rocked her cleft over his shaft with a roll of her hips, forestalling his words. The resulting pleasure pulsed in her core. “Simon, please. Now.”

  Simon groaned, his eyes searching her face. He gathered her skirts out of the way to expose her. “Take me inside, Maggie. Let me have you.”

  She hesitated, questions coming unbidden to her mind. Did he want . . . ? The mechanics weren’t unknown, of course, but she’d never . . . well, she’d never been the one on top. Should she merely—

  Without warning, he snatched her shoulders and twisted their bodies until she was on her back, Simon cradled between her splayed thighs. His eyes glittered, and she felt the blunt tip of him at her entrance as he lined up. In one smooth thrust, he drove deep, filling her completely.

  She squeaked and clutched at his shoulders. Though not a maiden, she hadn’t done this often. It hadn’t hurt, exactly, but the sensation had taken her by surprise.

  He dropped his forehead to hers. “I’m a cad. I took you too fast. But I could not . . . I’m sorry, Mags. Let me make it better.” Withdrawing slightly, he angled to slide back inside. “The servants . . . ?”

  She gasped, the deliciousness of that one small movement too much to take. “No,” she breathed, knowing Tilda well enough that her maid would not allow anyone to disturb them for any reason. “Again, Simon.”

  He complied, then murmured, “The way you feel around me . . . so tight.” Another rock of his hips, deeper this time. “God in heaven.”

  She couldn’t agree more. It felt less of an invasion and more of a merging. Like his body was leading hers to a destination they could only arrive at together. She’d never have guessed, would never have imagined, this bliss. How had she gone her whole life without feeling it until now?

  The pace increased, their ragged breathing filling the small drawing room as ghostly afternoon light filtered in through the glass. Simon filled her again and again, increasing the ache, until she whimpered and writhed beneath him. He teased her nipples, rolling and pinching them, drawing them deep into the lush heat of his mouth. When she thought she would die from the intensity of it, he reached between her legs and found the hard nubbin of flesh at the apex of her thighs, stroked. Once, twice, again, and she exploded in a burst of color and light, muscles clenching in a spectacular euphoria.

  As she floated back down and tried to catch her breath, Simon’s movements grew erratic. Then his head snapped back, and he let out a deep, feral growl, his body shuddering. He pulsed inside her and she held on, savoring the intense force of his orgasm.

  Relief washed through her. He’d given her pleasure and she’d returned it in kind.

  She was not frigid.

  Giddy with that knowledge, she wrapped around him. Strange to be fully clothed and feel so close to a man. She pressed a soft kiss to the rough skin of his throat, above his perfectly ruined cravat. Chest still heaving, he thrust one last time, and her channel, slick from his seed, offered no resistance.

  His . . . seed.

  Oh.

  Her husband hadn’t tried to prevent conception during their few couplings, but Jean-Louis had. Therefore, she knew what a man must do when a baby was not the intended purpose, and Simon had not done it. A riotous mix of emotions crashed through her. Everything from panic to fear to longing.

  Then back to fear.

  She did not want a child—not even one with eyes as blue as a Norwegian fjord she’d seen once in a painting. No, she most definitely did not. Having another man’s by-blow would truly confirm what the ton thought of her. She’d have to move away, give up her livelihood, give up Lemarc.

  And the spiteful women, the horrible ones who snickered behind her back, would win.

  It begged the question, why had Simon not taken care with her? Surely he remembered those precautions with his mistress. Because you do not matter to him. He thinks you no better than a trollop, as does everyone else. Her insides turned cold.

  She pushed at his shoulder, dislodging him. “Get up, Simon.”

  That roused him out of his postcoital befuddlement. “Oh, my apologies. I must be quite heavy.” He withdrew and sat back on the sofa. Maggie felt the sticky wetness between her thighs as she untangled herself and stood up. Damn it.

  She tucked her breasts back into her stays and gown. She couldn’t do the fastenings, of course, so she held the garment over her bosom. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Simon working at the buttons of his breeches. Her hair must look a fright but there was no hope for it now. She’d order up a bath the instant he walked out the door—which couldn’t come soon enough for her liking.

  He rose and adjusted his clothing. Despite the disheveled hair and ruined cravat, he was impossibly handsome.

  When she said nothing, he remarked, “Not much for tender words and a cuddle after the fact, then? Cannot say I blame you. This sofa is deuced uncomfortable for this sort of thing.”

  Though his tone was light, she clamped down on the furious retort burning in her chest. “Why did you not . . . withdraw?” No doubt she blushed, if the heat under her skin was any indication, but the question could not be ignored, no matter how uncomfortable the topic.

  He blinked. “To be honest, I forgot. It felt . . . rather, you felt . . . so perfect and I lost my head. But you needn’t worry if it comes to that. I’ll—”

  “Yes, and while I’m sure a bastard here or there is nothing to you, it makes a great deal of difference to me. Why is it men never think before rutting like a . . . like a . . .”

  “Careful,” he warned, his gaze gone colder than the North Sea in February. “I am feeling particularly indulgent at the moment, but I would not push it, Maggie.”

  Who did he think he was, giving her orders as if he were her father? Or, even worse, her husband. “Or else what, Simon?”

  He thrust his hands on his hips. “Really, you’re experienced enough to know what was happening here. And you enjoyed it every bit as much as I did. Need I remind how you begged?”

  No, he needn’t. Likely those memories would haunt her nightmares for some time to come. And the words only proved that he was no different from the others. Even after what had just happened, he still believed what everyone said, the vicious rumors and packs of lies.

  And that hurt.

  She took a ragged breath. “I am not some mistress to whom you may toss a few coins and send on her way. You assume because of my nickname I’ve legions of lovers, which could not be further from the truth.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I apologized for the carelessness on my part. Rest assured I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “Indeed, you’ll not, because what happened today shan’t be repeated.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  Because it was too wonderful. Too beautiful. Too much like everything she’d ever hoped for.

  It’s what you could have had, if he’d offered for you ten years ago.

  But he hadn’t. Simon had walked away, had turned his back on her when she’d needed him most. He never asked for the truth. Never once had he sought her out to hear what had happened that night in the Lockheed gardens. He’d cast her into the lion’s den without a sec
ond thought and she’d spent years crying herself to sleep at night, wondering what she’d ever done to deserve a life such as the one forced upon her.

  And when Hawkins died, she’d earned the most precious commodity a woman like her could ever have: freedom.

  No one would take that away—not even Simon.

  “It was a mistake,” she told him, lifting her shoulder with a carelessness she did not feel.

  His expression shifted, the stark planes of his aristocratic face turning hard. Dangerous. She took an unconscious step back as he stalked forward but then planted her feet. He would not intimidate her, by God.

  “A mistake?” he whispered darkly, prowling toward her. “The moans? The sighs? The way you wrapped your legs around my hips? Was that all a mistake, Maggie?”

  She opened her mouth to confirm it, but he continued, cutting her off.

  “The wetness pooling between your thighs said otherwise. The way you begged me to take you said otherwise.” He now stood much too close. She had to wrench her neck to look at him as he loomed over her. “You say you’re no doxy; well, I am no untried lad you can chew up and spit out. Nor am I an old man rutting with rheumy eyes and a withered prick. Believe what you must to be able to sleep at night, but what happened was no mistake.”

  Oh, he was intolerable. “It shall not happen again, Simon.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Take comfort, then, that I won’t force my attentions on you. There are any number of women who won’t cringe at the idea of me in their bed.”

  “Like your mistress,” she couldn’t help saying.

  Something flashed in his eyes, and she feared it might be satisfaction. “Why, you almost sound jealous, Lady Hawkins.”

  The idea of Simon and another woman doing what had just occurred in Maggie’s drawing room sickened and depressed her, but she’d be damned if she ever let him know. “Hardly. All of those women can have you, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Shoulders stiff, he took a step back and bowed. “I shall remember you said so, madam.”

  “Good afternoon, Mother. You look lovely, as always.” Simon bent to kiss his mother’s cheek.

  “I’ll overlook the fact you’re late because of that compliment—which, I’m sure, was your intention.” Still a handsome woman, the countess was tall and thin with features similar to his own. She looked much the same as she always did, in a high-neck violet gown. She put down her embroidery, an activity she only undertook when anxious.

  He’d gone home after Maggie’s in order to change, which had made him late for his afternoon appointment with the countess. He grinned at her. “I never could get anything by you.”

  “You still cannot,” she retorted. “Please, sit. I cannot strain my neck to converse with you.” She requested tea as he settled into a chair. When they were alone, she asked, “Have you been to your club today?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s that wastrel, Sir James!” his mother blurted, color high on her cheeks. “I heard the news last night. Lady Keller heard from Lady Peterson that Sir James lost all of their money. All of it! Sybil is utterly ruined.”

  Oh, Christ. “Wait.” Simon sat forward. “There is the money I set aside in her trust, is there not?”

  “I confess I do not know, but I suspect that shiftless excuse for a man found out about the trust and convinced her to turn it over. Lord Peterson saw James drunk at the hazard table inside a gaming hell, babbling on about his investments failing. He was playing with every last farthing they had.”

  “Unbelievable,” Simon muttered, slumping in his chair. “How can he be so stupid? But perhaps Sybil did not turn the money over to him. Surely she would not be so brainless.”

  His mother shook her head. “Women who love the wrong man are blind to sloth, stupidity, or spite. Precisely why those of our class should never be allowed to make their own matches.”

  “Seemed a good match at the time, though I wish I’d dug a bit deeper on him before we allowed it.”

  “It would not have mattered. Sybil was determined to have him. She’d have run off to Scotland if we tried to stop them.”

  That was true. Sybil had been madly in love with Sir James. Only sixteen at the time, Simon hadn’t understood the importance of his role as head of the family and had also lacked the experience to know what men of Sir James’s ilk were like. He’d had the title for a mere two years but hadn’t even finished school. Still, he wished he’d asked for advice or had James investigated because the man was an utter arse, through and through.

  And now Simon had to clean up the mess. Again.

  “I’ll go and see him this afternoon,” he told his mother. “No matter what has happened, I’ll not let Sybil suffer because of James’s stupidity.”

  The dowager’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank you, Simon. I knew when he ran through her dowry in less than three years the man would be trouble.” The tea tray arrived and she labored over it for a few moments. “Remember that Greek diamond mine he invested in? Failed to produce a single stone and all the workers quit.”

  He shook his head. “What about the fleet of merchant ships overtaken by pirates? Or the abandoned Russian coal venture?”

  “My favorite was the monkey-breeding scheme where all the animals turned out to be male.” They both chuckled, and the dowager covered her mouth. “Oh, it’s wrong to laugh, Simon. The man has absolutely no sense and he’s ruining Sybil’s future.”

  “I shall do what I can, Mother. Sybil will not end up on the streets.”

  She picked up her cup. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

  Simon liked to think so. He had worked hard over the last six years to carry on the Barrett family legacy in Parliament. The three estates he owned all prospered and were well-managed. True, he hadn’t married and started producing offspring, but he would someday. Just not anytime soon.

  Thoughts of offspring reminded him of this afternoon. Yes, he’d acted abominably. Should have withdrawn, spent himself anywhere but inside her. He never forgot with Adrianna or with any of his other lovers. His father’s mistress had borne the seventh earl two bastards, and Simon could still remember the day he’d learned of the existence of his half siblings. While it was not uncommon amongst the nobility, the revelation had confused and hurt him at the time, and Simon had vowed at nine he’d not sire any by-blows. And so far, to his knowledge, he hadn’t.

  No question, then, he’d erred this afternoon. But hell . . . pulling out had been the last thing on his mind at that precise moment. The feel of Maggie clenched around him had been heaven. The pleasure had ripped through him, roared up from the depths of his soul to obliterate everything else.

  All of those women can have you, as far as I’m concerned.

  Obviously Maggie hadn’t been similarly affected.

  She had every right to be angry, of course. His actions had been thoughtless. No doubt her other lovers were far more considerate.

  “You have the oddest expression on your face right now. What are you thinking?”

  Simon glanced at his mother and shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

  “Some days I fear you’ve grown far too serious, Simon.” She sighed, and he refrained from comment, reaching out to steal another piece of plum cake instead. “Have you by any chance run into Lady Hawkins since she returned from that godforsaken little town Hawkins dragged her to?”

  The cake turned to dust in his mouth. No chance his mother asked that particular question on a whim. Obviously word had gotten round about either his attendance at Maggie’s extravagant soirée or the dinner party at Colton’s.

  He swallowed, forcing the lump of dry cake down his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  She sipped her tea, sharp blue eyes identical to his own watching him over the rim of her cup. “And?”

  “And she seems well. Hawkins left her fairly well off, it seems, and she certainly loves to stir up attention for herself.”

  “Hawkins di
d not leave her well off,” his mother said. “A very modest jointure, I heard. The estate got the rest.”

  Interesting. He hadn’t paid attention to the gossip when Hawkins died, but the woman lived in debauchery and excess to rival a Bourbon king. How could she possibly afford it?

  “Were you kind to her?” his mother asked, and Simon nearly laughed. If he’d been any kinder, the two of them would’ve melted in a puddle of lust. Without doubt, it had been the most satisfying and intense encounter he’d ever had with a woman.

  He didn’t care for the way his mother was studying him. “Why on earth would I be unkind?”

  The countess sighed. “Because people often are, especially in our circles. She did not have an easy time with her debut, and the marriage to Hawkins could not have been much better. And I know you favored her.”

  Such a commonplace phrase for the profound depth of his former feelings for Maggie. He had followed the girl around like a beggar, desperate for any word or glance she might throw his way. Hell, he’d almost demanded Cranford’s seconds, ready to take a bullet to defend her honor.

  What a young, foolish idiot he’d been.

  Then Cranford had shown him proof, the letters from Maggie suggesting assignations. How much she looked forward to Cranford’s attentions. The truth had nearly crushed Simon. And there had been others, Cranford swore, other men to whom she’d given her favors. But Simon had been the fattest prize that Season, a prestigious title and more wealth than any other unattached man that year.

  It had all been a game to her. A game to win the husband too besotted to know better.

  And so he’d licked his wounds like any respectable twenty-three-year-old would: the day of her hasty wedding, Simon got stinking drunk in one of London’s most exclusive brothels. He’d stayed for three days, hiring enough women to keep him entertained round the clock. Madame Hartley, the owner of the establishment, joked as he left that he should have his cock bronzed in commemoration.