by Joanna Shupe
This was the first moment they’d had to themselves since the doors opened over two hours ago. The masquerade was a smashing success, judging by the enthusiastic crowd. Maggie sipped her champagne and looked at Lucien. “Mark Antony? Where?”
“There. On the far side, between the palm tree and Joan of Arc.”
She turned in the location he indicated, whereupon her gaze locked with piercing blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean. She sucked in a breath. Simon. He wore a gold mask, but she would recognize him anywhere, his intense stare causing prickles all down her limbs. Dear God, what was he doing here?
Pointedly turning away, she told Lucien, “He is no one important. Just a man I once knew.” And loved. And worshipped with my mouth. The unwelcome thought caused a fluttering deep in her belly.
“I do not know why you bother lying to me.”
“Maggie is lying about something?” asked Henri, Lucien’s longtime lover, as he joined them. “Is it to do with your lack of costume, Luc? I told you she would be disappointed.”
Henri, one of the most popular stage actors in Paris, was fashioned as Hamlet, his favorite dramatic character, while Lucien had refused to dress as anyone other than himself. He claimed to hate masquerades, seeing them as nothing but an aristocratic nuisance. Truly, her mentor could be such a stiff neck at times.
“No. It has to do with the way Mark Antony watches over our fair Cleopatra.”
Henri followed Lucien’s nod and proceeded to give Simon a once-over. After Henri took a long look, he pursed his lips and leaned in to whisper a rapid stream of French to Lucien. Maggie couldn’t catch all of it, but Lucien chuckled and told Henri to stop.
“What did he say?” Maggie asked Lucien.
Lucien’s lips twitched. “That Mark Antony has beautiful legs.” He waved a hand absently. “And some other nonsense. So is it he? Is this your English lover, finally come to his senses so that he may sweep you off into the night?”
“Nothing of the kind,” she lied. “My English lover is taller. And more handsome.”
“C’est impossible,” Henri said in a stage whisper to Lucien.
But Lucien ignored the comment to keep his perceptive gaze on Maggie. “Non, I am certain it is he. The question is, what will you do about him?”
“We are about to find out,” Henri announced. “The Roman invasion is upon us.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Simon wove his way through the guests toward her. A white short-sleeved tunic fell above his knees, a loose belt hanging at his waist, with a purple toga draped over his shoulders, the edges held together with a silver clasp. He wore the ensemble well; he appeared tall and lean, as appealing as any Roman statue she’d sketched, with the precise amount of power and arrogance. Her heart beat hard and fast beneath her ribs.
To her dismay, Lucien and Henri disappeared, leaving her quite alone in the crowded ballroom. She considered fleeing, but Simon would likely catch her. Better to face him down now, when they were surrounded by hundreds of people.
“Cleopatra,” he greeted her, bowing and holding a fist over his heart as a Roman might.
So they were to play roles. “Antony,” Maggie returned. “And here, me without my asp.”
He straightened and regarded her thoughtfully. “You are much too stubborn to choose death at your own hand, I believe.”
“But Antony killed himself first. Shall we try it and find out?” she said sweetly.
His mouth hitched. “How I have missed you, my dear Cleopatra.”
“Really? I must say, I am surprised. I would have thought you relieved to see the last of me.”
“You would be wrong. Will you walk with me?”
Something squeezed in her chest at the idea of being alone with him. Panic, she reasoned. “Why? I think whatever needs to be said is best conveyed here.”
A blond eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Afraid?”
“Of strangling you with your tunic? Quite. And taunts are beneath you.”
They were beginning to draw an audience, with several of the guests nearby now listening to the conversation with unconcealed interest. Simon noticed and reached out to grab her hand, pulling her along beside him. “Come along, my warrior queen. Let us explore the gardens.”
Where they would both freeze. She dug in her heels. “No, follow me.”
Plucking a fresh glass of champagne off a tray, she sipped the crisp, sweet liquid while leading him toward the back hall. She had no clue what Simon wanted, but hadn’t they said enough during their last conversation? He’d said he missed her. She nearly snorted. Even if it were true, that was hardly a reason to follow her to France.
If he’d come expecting her to apologize for Lemarc, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d no sooner apologize for her art than she would present herself at Almack’s on a Wednesday evening.
Lucien appeared in her path, his boyishly handsome face etched with concern. “Is everything well? Do you need me?” he asked her quietly in French.
“I am fine. I’ll only be a moment,” she returned in English and continued on.
Behind her, Simon and Lucien had a quick exchange she was too far away to overhear. No doubt Lucien was warning Simon not to upset her, which was so like the Frenchman. Lucien had few friends but fiercely protected each one. Of course, he would have no recourse against the powerful Earl of Winchester, who could get away with what he pleased short of murder. Nevertheless, it touched her Lucien cared enough to try.
Simon caught up as she reached the threshold to the music room. “Have you seen the display?” she asked him.
“No. I’ve been occupied.”
“Then, come along. You must see the artifacts from ancient Egypt I have on loan just for the occasion.”
They entered the room, which had been transformed into a miniature collection of Egyptian art. Tables formed a semicircle with screens set up behind them. The screens had all been painted with various Egyptian themes and landscapes. The tables displayed the sculptures Lucien had procured through his web of collectors expressly for the masquerade. Maggie had laughed until her sides ached when the objects were unpacked; no display could have been more perfect for a woman with her reputation.
A small number of guests, mostly men, mingled throughout the room. A few women tittered and pointed, clearly embarrassed by the subject matter. She felt Simon’s subtle recognition as they drew closer to the first table.
“Are those . . .” he started. “Ah, fertility statues. I should have guessed.”
“Very good. Most of these are variations on Min,” she said, pointing to the stone carving of a dark man with a fully erect penis in one hand and a flail in the other. “The Egyptian god of fertility.”
There were close to thirty wood and stone carvings, each with large, proud phalluses the Egyptians believed carried virility. Simon said nothing, merely continued around the tables slowly while examining each piece. He would be disappointed, of course. No doubt he’d use the opportunity to chastise her for disregarding propriety and decency. What he didn’t understand was that she had no plans to be like the rest of Society. She couldn’t do it. Give up Lemarc and take up stitching by the fire, awaiting her husband’s return from a night of drunken carousing? Unthinkable.
There had been a time when she’d dreamed of being a proper wife to a man with good connections and an even better fortune; but now she knew the world contained so much more. She would not give up the freedom to do as she pleased.
“And this one?” Simon pointed to a wooden statue of a half crocodile, half hippopotamus, her large, swollen belly protruding below bare breasts.
“Taweret. Goddess of childbirth and fertility.” She studied him for a hint of reaction but couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “The carving is quite well preserved. You can still see the pattern of the scales on the tail.”
“Why did you bring me in here?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the tables. “Did you hope to shock me, Lady Hawkins, or perhaps arouse my b
aser instincts?”
Chapter Fourteen
Her jaw fell before she could stop it. “A-Arouse you?” she sputtered. “Do not be ridiculous. I merely thought you should see them.”
“Pity.”
He did not sound appalled. Or bothered. Which irked her beyond measure. He seemed . . . amused.
While she mused over his lack of reaction, he picked up her hand and drew her behind the screens, toward the dark recesses of the room. “Simon, where are we going?”
“Now it is your turn to follow,” he said, tugging her to a far corner where the pianoforte rested, gathering dust. In the semidarkness, she could not see his features clearly so her other senses heightened in compensation. The brush of her skirts against his legs. The familiar smell of him, citrus and a hint of tobacco. He stood so close they were nearly touching, his large presence enveloping her. Her mouth went dry.
She had replayed their evening at Barrett House in her mind so often that she could recall almost every detail. Every glide of his hand. Every nibble of his lips. Her body had been his canvas, and with expert strokes and bold sweeps he’d created something that hadn’t existed before. Something only his masterful eye had seen the potential for. She had been transformed.
But it would be a mistake to allow lust to cloud her thinking, no matter how extraordinary it had been between them. There was too much at risk.
Did he plan seduction in this corner? If so, she needed to quickly dissuade him of the idea. Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she asked, “Why have you come to Paris? To inform me in great detail on how you plan to ruin Lemarc?”
His fingers tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, the small touch making her shiver. “No more lies between us,” he said. “You deserve honesty from me, and I should like you to do the same. I was unbelievably angry with you, but I never had any intention of revealing Lemarc.”
She knew the feeling well. Fury still simmered in her blood when she recalled their final exchange.
“But I now understand why you created Winejester and made a fool of me,” he continued. “I am willing to put it behind us in order to move forward. I have forgiven you.”
Had he really . . . ? A thrum of disbelief pounded in her ears. “You have forgiven me? You . . . you insufferable man.” Gad, he should be on his knees, begging her pardon and renouncing all his cruel words and deeds. Granted, as an earl, he’d probably never apologized to anyone in his life—but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. Disappointment burned in her chest, sharpening her tone as she stabbed a finger at his chest. “It hardly matters that you have forgiven me, Simon, because I haven’t forgiven you. And it’s unlikely I ever shall. Return to England. You are wasting your time here.”
He caught her hand against the hard plane of his breastbone, his brows lowered in confusion. “I’ve already explained Cranford duped me with the letters. And believe me, I mean to get an explanation as soon as I can locate the man. But you’ve made me pay time and time again for my sins with those cartoons. Can we not get past it and move for ward?”
How could she begin to explain all the ways he’d hurt her over the years? At the very least, he continually assumed the worst of her. Cranford was merely a small drop in the vast well of all that stood between her and Simon. “I would not even know where to begin. I cannot forget what’s happened and it’s doubtful I’ll ever forgive you.”
He shook his head. “I do not believe that. The woman in my bed at Barrett House was anything but bitter and resentful. I want honesty from you, Maggie,” he said, his tone entirely too reasonable. “I’ve had precious little in all the time we’ve known one another. Do you not think I deserve the truth?”
“Honesty?” she hissed and snatched her hand out of his grasp. “You do not want honesty. If you had, you’d’ve found me after the scandal broke in order to find out what happened. Instead, you closeted yourself off at Madame Hartley’s for the better part of a week in a drunken orgy.”
His face slackened in surprise. “How the devil did you—?”
“Maggie,” a gentle voice interrupted as a hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find Lucien at her side. “The two of you,” her friend said, looking between her and Simon, “you are attracting an audience. Perhaps you should retire to somewhere else in the house, non?”
Near the screens, a number of faces were not-so-discreetly turned toward the back of the room. Blast. Well, the guests certainly could not complain about a lack of entertainment this evening.
“No need,” she told Lucien. “We’re quite done here. Lord Winchester was just leaving.”
That had not gone well.
Simon scrubbed a hand over his jaw and watched Lucien escort Maggie toward the lights and revelry of the masquerade. He forced down his frustration, heaved a sigh. He’d erred tonight, no question. Perhaps he should have discussed his approach with Quint before their arrival. Well, too late now. He’d have to repair the damage—after he figured out what had made her so angry in the first place.
And how had she learned of his infamous sojourn at Madame Hartley’s all those years ago? Colton? Julia?
He rejoined the party. There would be enough time to think while standing watch over her. He wasn’t comfortable with her out there, unprotected. Some of the male guests had been overly attentive, hovering near her. Simon didn’t like it.
He found Quint as soon as he stepped into the ballroom. A waltz played and dancers crowded the floor, some using the proximity for more than dancing. An overweight Nero leered down at Boudica, his palm firmly on her buttocks.
“Back from your defeat at Actium, Mark Antony?” Quint drawled before lifting a teacup to his mouth.
“Hardly. Merely a minor setback.”
“Not from what I heard. Half the damn place is tittering about it.” Quint replaced the empty cup in the saucer and handed it off to a passing jackal footman. “So, what is your next plan of attack?”
“I am not sure. I hadn’t expected her to be so . . .” He couldn’t quite put it into words, all that anger, bitterness, and hatred. How to chip away at such a mountain of female pique?
“I suspected. God knows I cannot offer insight into the female brain. They all want to be wooed. And talked to. It’s . . . boggling.”
Wooed. Hmm.
“Do you plan to stay?” Quint asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re worried with all this debauchery around her,” Quint deduced. “Can’t say I blame you. Well, I’m off to find the very pretty Margaret Cavendish I saw earlier. I’ll see you in the morn.”
“Wait, who?”
Quint sighed, no doubt appalled. While Simon wasn’t stupid by any means, not many could rival Quint’s rapid intellect. “Duchess of Newcastle under Charles the Second. Poet, playwright, et cetera. Read a book once in a while, will you?” The viscount strode away, melting into the sea of ostrich feathers and tricorns.
Simon turned his attention back to Maggie. She stood on the far side of the room, near the open terrace doors, surrounded by a small circle of guests. Smiling and laughing, she had entranced those around her, if their rapt expressions were any indication. Simon could hardly blame them; her vibrancy had been one of the traits that had initially drawn him to her.
He sipped champagne and watched the men fawn over her. She didn’t encourage them, exactly, but participated enough to give a man a glimmer of hope. Long looks, meaningful smiles, small touches . . . she made sure to give attention to each man in the group. Simon’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t exactly jealousy. No, it was much more complex than that. He felt proprietary toward her, like he wanted to stand on a chair and announce to the room that she was his.
One man, dressed as Don Quixote, reached to open the terrace door. Maggie started for it, and Simon’s back stiffened. Was she truly so reckless as to allow a man to escort her outside, alone, where any number of things—
“Enjoying your evening, Winchester?”
His attention was briefly pulled
away from the terrace to the man hovering an arm’s length away. “Indeed. And you, Markham?”
“Oh, yes. I daresay this exceeds any of her parties in London. Though you wouldn’t know, seeing as how you never attend the Harlot’s parties.”
“Do not call her that,” Simon said sharply.
Markham’s eyes rounded. “What? Why the devil not? She’s referred to herself as such many times in my presence. I cannot see that it’s offensive if she’s adopted the name as well.”
Simon clenched his jaw. How could he explain it without appearing a lovesick fool? He regarded the closed terrace doors. Had she gone outside? If so, to what end?
“And we are on rather intimate terms,” Markham boasted in a conspiratorial tone.
“What?” Every muscle in his body drew tight. Had she and Markham. . . .
“Well, not yet. But I do have high hopes, especially since she’s decided to woo me into joining your opposition.”
Simon’s jaw nearly fell open. Maggie, woo Markham? To the opposition? As far as Simon knew, she used Lemarc to undermine politicians and their causes—namely his. He’d never realized she would go to these lengths, of actually campaigning to thwart this upcoming legislation.
“Anyway,” Markham continued, “perhaps we should meet here in Paris, discuss your proposal in more detail.”
A few weeks ago, Simon would have leaped at the chance to bend Markham’s ear. The proposal needed all the support it could garner, and Markham was renowned for allowing his vote to be swayed by an evening of cards and spirits. But there were more important matters on Simon’s mind than politics at the moment. Like an answer as to what Maggie was doing on the terrace.
Still, an outright refusal wasn’t how the game was played. And few played it better than Simon. “Indeed, we should, Markham. I’m at the Hôtel Meurice. Why don’t you join me one evening for dinner?”
Markham’s chest expanded, pleased with the invitation. “Very good. Next week, perhaps. Did you see the collection?” He chuckled, then stopped short. “Oh, my apologies.”
