The Harlot Countess Page 9

  “No, my lord. Her ladyship is still engaged. Perhaps your lordship would care to wait in the salon?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He gave her his coat and snatched up the paintings. “I am acquainted with them both. Lady Hawkins will not mind if I intrude.” A bold lie, if he’d ever heard it—not that he cared.

  Having been here a few days prior, he knew precisely where to go. The servant followed closely behind. “My lord,” she called, but he walked quickly, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest providing him additional speed.

  Seconds later, he threw open the drawing room door, stepped in. Maggie’s head shot up and she gaped, while Markham rose and saluted Simon with his teacup. “Welcome, Winchester. Care to join us?”

  Of all the wretchedly inconvenient timing.

  Maggie watched with dismayed interest as Simon strode farther into the room, a stack of small canvases in his hands. She’d barely begun discrediting Simon’s upcoming proposal to Lord Markham when the earl himself strolled in. Surely Simon wouldn’t stay, would he?

  She observed him from under her lashes. Long legs wrapped in tight buckskin breeches, tall, black boots, wide shoulders framed in a sapphire-blue topcoat. He was every bit as breathtaking and imposing as ever. And just as it had done at eighteen, her silly heart stuttered at the sight of him. She forced her eyes elsewhere.

  “I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he said smoothly.

  “Nonsense,” Lord Markham returned and lowered into his chair. “You might well be interested in this conversation.”

  Simon wasted no time in joining, the lout. After placing the canvases on a table, he made himself comfortable. “Is that so?” He lifted an eyebrow and shot Maggie a look dripping in sarcasm. “By all means, continue. I am trembling with anticipation.”

  Did he think she was wooing Markham—or allowing Markham to woo her? Likely yes, since he believed her bedchamber to be filled by a never-ending stable of able-bodied lovers. She straightened and did not attempt to hide her displeasure. “Would you care for tea, Lord Winchester? Since you intend to stay, that is.”

  “No, thank you, Lady Hawkins. Though your offer is most generous.” His tone implied entirely the opposite, and she longed to pick up a saucer and toss it at his head.

  “The lady was just explaining—” Lord Markham started.

  “My lord,” Maggie interrupted. “I am certain Lord Winchester has more interesting topics of conversation in mind than our boring matter.”

  “Indeed,” Simon drawled, “I am certain I do not. Pray continue, Markham.”

  Markham’s gaze darted between her and Simon, and then he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the lady was telling me about your—”

  “Estate. We’ve just been discussing your estate,” she blurted.

  Markham blinked rapidly but did not contradict her, thankfully. “Why, yes. That’s so. Quite.” Maggie relaxed, relieved Markham hadn’t given her up. Simon would be furious to learn she was actively working to thwart his idiotic proposal.

  “My . . . estate.” Simon stripped off his gloves and began drumming his fingers on the edge of the chair, his expression cool and disbelieving. “Truthfully, I am impressed. To be clear, which of the four estates in my care were you discussing?”

  Four? Her mind scrambled for a name. “Winchester Towers. But let us move on to other matters. I dislike carrying on serious discussions in a crowd.”

  “Surprising, since you certainly prefer crowds for everything else.”

  Her breath caught. Then Winchester’s comment from last evening—I only play games when there aren’t quite so many players. I don’t care to be one of many—came back, and anger heated her blood, boiled inside her like a rising tide. His insults were unjustified and tiresome. She wanted to lash out, to hurt him as he’d hurt her. A petty and childish wish, to be sure, but it was very, very real. Only sheer force of will—and Markham’s stupefied presence—kept her from giving Simon the tongue lashing he so sorely deserved.

  His proposal would fail. She would see to it. Tethering a woman to a man who had abused her, even for financial gain, was wrong. She’d seen women who had suffered cruelty at the hands of men, and most of them wanted to forget the entire experience. An annual stipend would only reopen old wounds again and again. Perhaps another Winejester cartoon was in order, one in which the character rose to even greater heights of buffoonery. Yes, he may think he’d bested her . . . but Maggie would not lose in the end.

  “I like crowds,” Markham put in to fill the silence.

  “I do as well,” Maggie echoed, grateful for the distraction.

  More drumming, busy digits registering annoyance. “I have matters to discuss with the lady, Markham. Perhaps your visit has concluded?”

  Markham gaped. Simon outranked him, and arguing would be fruitless. Maggie, on the other hand, did not care for anyone coming into her home and making a guest uncomfortable. “You overstep, sir. Lord Markham is welcome to stay as my guest.”

  Simon’s lips flattened. “Fine. Let us have a long chat together. I so rarely get the chance to pay social calls.” He shifted deeper in his chair. “How is your wife, Markham? I assume she’ll be coming up for the start of the Season. Perhaps the two of you could join me for dinner at Barrett House. I’m certain she’d love to hear all you’ve been up to in her absence.”

  Chapter Eight

  Markham fairly scurried out the door, much to Simon’s satisfaction.

  “I cannot see how that was necessary,” Maggie snapped, placing her cup and saucer on the table.

  “Did you honestly believe I would sit and watch while the two of you flirted with one another?”

  Her jaw dropped. “I was not flirting with him. We were discussing other matters.”

  “He wants to bed you, Maggie. And it’s not as if you weren’t flirting with him last night.”

  “Jealousy does not become you.”

  He gave a dismissive sound. “I am hardly jealous. I don’t care if you want to bed Markham—though I would urge you to set your sights higher. He’s not exactly known for prowess in the bedroom.”

  Her creamy skin turned a pretty pink, and he found himself entranced. Sweet Bartholomew’s bollocks, she was beautiful. When she blushed, the traces of cynicism and distrust vanished and he saw the girl he remembered: an intoxicating combination of youthful innocence and a fortitude beyond her years. Strong, stubborn, and unafraid. Everything he’d ever admired in her. Desire slid down his spine, wound its way through his guts. God, he wanted her. Desperately.

  “Allow me to guess,” she said tartly, smoothing down her skirts and avoiding his eyes. “Someone like yourself, perhaps?”

  “If you are so inclined. I would most definitely enjoy your efforts at seduction.” He couldn’t prevent his voice from dropping to a low, husky pitch. “And I can guarantee you’d enjoy the results.”

  Her gaze snapped to his and he saw the confusion there, not that he could offer any explanation for his remark. One man just finished flirting with her, and now here Simon did the same. But he liked to think the comparison ended there. Other men might lust after Maggie, thanks to her exotic beauty or legendary reputation, but Simon knew her. Knew how she bit her lip when she was confused. The deep, rich sound of her laughter when she found something amusing. The stubborn set to her chin when she argued.

  “I think not,” she returned, though the hitch in her voice suggested otherwise. “Did you bring those paintings to show me?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, I did. These are Lemarc’s bird paintings I purchased the other day.” Standing, he moved the tea tray to another side table. Then he retrieved the paintings and began placing them in front of Maggie.

  “Only eight? I thought there were nineteen in the set.”

  “Excellent memory. There are nineteen and Quint has the rest. I can have them sent over, if you wish. But I thought these might be a good start.”

  He purposely slid onto the sofa, close to her, the outside of his
knee brushing against her skirts. “What do you think?”

  “I like them,” she replied.

  Chuckling, he said, “Not precisely what I meant, but I’m glad you approve. Quint has used these eight to pinpoint a general location for where they were painted.”

  He felt her stiffen. “That’s . . . remarkable,” she said, a strange note in her voice.

  “It is, indeed. There is one that caused him no small amount of trouble. I wonder if you can spot it.”

  “Oh.” She held up her hands. “I know nothing about birds, I’m afraid. Why do you not tell me instead?”

  This close, he could study each of her features. Green irises, clear and sharp, were locked on his face. The pouty, soft lips that beckoned a man’s mouth and tongue. A straight, delicate nose and graceful jaw. It was impossible to miss the pulse that fluttered at the base of her throat or the rapid rise and fall of her chest. God, he was mad for her. And the knowledge that he affected her every bit as much had lust tightening in his groin.

  Her lips parted, the pink tip of her tongue darting out to moisten the plump flesh, and blood rushed to his cock, filling it in sweet, steady pulses. It took everything he had not to pounce on her.

  A silky tendril of black hair curled by her temple. Without thinking, he reached up to drag the ink-colored strands between his thumb and forefinger. Soft, like velvet. What he wouldn’t give to have that luxurious curtain of hair surround them while she rode his shaft.

  As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, color dusted her pale skin once more, an enticing blush he could not resist. He felt himself leaning toward her. “Maggie,” he whispered. “In the name of all that is holy, stop me now.”

  Instead of blistering him with her razor-sharp tongue, she lifted her face and met him halfway, giving him the approval to kiss the bloody hell out of her.

  Approval he promptly took advantage of, capturing her mouth fiercely and with no hesitation. He wanted to be gentle, to build slowly, but he couldn’t. He’d waited a lifetime to taste her. And it was even better than he’d imagined. Her lips were soft, her breath sweet and hot, and he found himself deepening the kiss. Hard to believe this was Maggie, yielding to him. Kissing him back with unexpected fervor. But now that he had her, the fires of hell couldn’t pull him away.

  He could feel her trembling and realized his own hands were none too steady as well. And when his tongue touched hers, it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. Sweet, she was so sweet. Her mouth warm and lush, her tongue wicked and slick. His erection throbbed, harder than it’d been in ages. Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her. He came back again and again, a never-ending thirst that her kisses both eased and worsened at the same time.

  Reason and good sense dictated this as a terrible idea. He shouldn’t have started this madness. It was the afternoon, for God’s sake. They could be caught at any moment—there were servants milling about, possibly listening at doors. Had he lost his everlasting mind?

  But heaven help him, it wasn’t enough. Lust clawed at his insides, a swirling, living animal that craved satisfaction. He pressed her into the back of the couch, trying to get closer. Damned clothes. He’d give his considerable fortune to feel her naked skin next to his. To roll her underneath him and slide into the wetness between her thighs.

  His palm covered her breast, cupping it, shaping it, stroking the taut nipple through her clothing. Her back arched, lifted to him, as she made a needy sound in her throat. Urgently, he dragged the bodice of her dress down, reached past the layers of cloth until her small breast spilled out. He broke off from her mouth and bent his head to see her. Gorgeous. A hard, pink-tipped nipple surrounded by a dark areola, a lovely contrast to her creamy white skin. Simon wasted no time in running his tongue over the taut bud, laving and licking, before drawing it deep in his mouth. He heard her sharp inhale and felt her fingers thread through his hair to hold him in place.

  As if retreat was a possibility.

  He knew she’d had many lovers and, right then, he did not care. It made not a whit of difference because none of those men had waited as long for her as Simon had. Dreamt about it as often as he had. Not one of them craved her down to their very souls. In fact, he’d never lusted after a woman with this much delirium. And now that he had her, with her body soft and pliant under his hands, he planned to pleasure her until she shouted his name. Only his.

  So he used his teeth, scraping lightly, biting gently, until she whimpered. He loosened what fastenings he could, clawing at the laces of her dress, and then tugged the fabric down farther to give the other breast the same attention. She moaned, and he didn’t stop until she began writhing restlessly next to him. Her nipples were taut and eager, straining against his tongue, and unbelievably sweet.

  Rising up, he reclaimed her mouth, drinking her in . . . surrounding himself with her. Her small hands slid up under his coat to clutch at his sides as she kissed him back. God, he needed to touch her—and wanted her to touch him in return.

  He drew up her skirts, his fingers trailing up her thigh. She shivered—whether from the sensation or the cool air, he couldn’t say, but he didn’t stop. He would unlock all her secrets, find out what made her shudder and shake if it killed them both.

  Liquid heat met his touch at the entrance to her body. Everlasting hell. She was wetter than he’d dared hope, and the undeniable proof of her desire made his gut clench. He held off, however strong his need to thrust deep into that slick heaven. No, he didn’t want to lose himself just yet.

  “Simon,” she breathed, breaking off from his mouth as he slowly slipped a finger in her tight channel.

  He bent to nibble her throat, kissing down to the hollow between her collarbones. “Yes?”

  “Oh,” she gasped when he added a second finger. She was snug. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow imagining that hot silk squeezing his cock. Somehow he forced himself to stay on task.

  He happened to notice her hands gripping the cushion, as if she were afraid to let go. That wouldn’t do at all. He much preferred active participation from his lovers rather than a woman who’d lie back and take it. Hell, if he wanted passivity in a bed partner, he’d marry.

  Maggie had passion inside her. He’d seen countless examples, in fact, from glimpses during her youth to more recent skirmishes. And he meant to have it. Now.

  “Lift your breasts for me,” he told her, continuing to work her with his hand, gliding in and out. “Hold them up.”

  She hesitated only a moment, then shifted to cup the undersides of her mounds, plumping them. The sight nearly made him spend in his breeches like a lad. He rewarded her by laving a nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it between his lips. He flicked it, stroked it, worshipped the tip of her breast with every bit of his concentration; then he moved to the second and began all over again.

  She was panting, head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure. He’d never seen anything more lovely in his life. When he felt her inner walls tighten, he stilled his hand.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, writhing. “Simon, you must . . . oh. Do not stop, please.”

  He could finish it now, could use his thumb on the bud at the top of her cleft to send her over the edge. But he had to have more. He needed her complete surrender, to own her, body and soul.

  “Come here,” he said, settling against the back of the sofa. Wrapping his hands around her small waist, he lifted her up and swung her over his lap, her knees astride his hips.

  Ebony hair disheveled, emerald eyes gone dark, her lips swollen and rosy from his mouth . . . He’d put that look on her face, he thought smugly. “Touch me, Maggie. Put your hands on me. Any place. Anywhere at all. Just touch me.”

  Maggie knew precisely what he meant. She hadn’t much experience with men, but there was one place they all wanted to be touched and, by God, she couldn’t wait to touch him there, either.

  What had happened to her? In the last quarter hour, she’d gone from resenting his presence to falli
ng under his spell like Persephone après the pomegranate seeds. Hardly her fault—talents such as Simon’s, she supposed, were not to be underestimated. No other man had ever incited a wicked burn in her belly. Or made her skin itch with need. She hadn’t expected it, and yet it seemed she’d waited a lifetime for it. She was consumed, overwrought. Indeed, she had every intention of following through on what was likely to happen on this tiny sofa.

  She snaked her hand between their bodies, covered the hard shaft evident in the tight buckskin. He sucked in a breath, and she traced the thick, straining length of him with her fingertips.

  “Maggie, please,” he pleaded through gritted teeth. “I am past the point of teasing.”

  Hmm. Though her body throbbed, her heart beating so hard that blood roared in her ears, she thought he deserved to be tormented a little. She scooted back to sit on his thighs. Slowly working the buttons on his breeches, she peeled back the fall to reveal his shaft. Long and rigid with springy, dark blond curls at the base, his erection was more impressive than the two she’d seen before. With a fingertip, she traced the smooth, silky head.

  If only she could see all of him in the gray afternoon light. She’d seen enough sketches of the bare human form—both male and female—and had even drawn a few unclothed models in Paris. The hard angles on a man were so different from the soft, roundness of a woman. Protruding hip bones, sharp ribs, the ripple of sinewy muscle under skin . . . they combined into something capable of great power and strength. It would be nice to see how Simon compared—from an artist’s perspective, of course.

  Still, one must make do with what one had. She swiped her thumb over the tip, fascinated, and heard his groan.

  “I want to take you to your bed,” he growled. “Lay you down and strip you bare. Please, Maggie. Will you let me?”

  No, she nearly shouted, the answer swift and absolute. Stolen moments in her drawing room were one matter. Taking him to her chamber, undressing, allowing a man in her bed—at this hour, no less—was entirely something else. And it wasn’t the servants she worried about; it was her sanity.