by Joanna Shupe
They ordered and discussed nothing of import until the food arrived. Based on experience, Simon knew serious discussions were best carried out with full bellies and quenched thirst. So they listened to Markham rattle off a litany of detail regarding how he’d spent his time in Paris. Quint asked polite questions while Simon tried to keep his mind from wandering. Not so easy considering he’d introduced Maggie to a new position for lovemaking, one she’d now declared a favorite. The memory was so vivid, so enticing, he was grateful to be covered by the table.
“Do rejoin us, Winchester,” Quint said as their meals were delivered.
“My apologies,” Simon told both men. He really must stop recalling the picture of Maggie’s delectable backside as he pushed—
“Must be that bit ’o French fluff you’re thinking on,” Markham said. “Though I am surprised. Half of Paris speculated you were tumbling the Harlot.”
Simon carefully placed his knife and fork on the edges of his plate and leaned forward. “Markham, if you speak of the lady in such a disrespectful manner again, you and I shall be meeting on a French field at dawn.” He ignored Quint’s heavy sigh from the opposite side of the table, continuing to focus his attention on Markham.
Markham blinked, his fleshy jowls quivering. “Damn me. It is Lady Hawkins, ain’t it? The rumors are true.”
Simon resumed eating. “My romantic endeavors are hardly anyone’s concern.”
In the ensuing silence, the other man’s disposition changed, Markham’s jocularity vanishing as quickly as the roasted pigeon on his plate. Lips compressed into a tight, thin line, it was clear he was unhappy. No secret why. Markham had made his intentions toward Maggie clear—he’d hoped to bed her. But Maggie had not returned his interest. That could hardly be Simon’s fault, could it?
Quint cleared his throat. “I wonder if we’ll see more rain.”
Markham, still devoting his attention to his meal, grunted in response. Simon and Quint exchanged a look. Damnation, this was going badly. He needed Markham’s support; the man had a small contingent of followers in Parliament and could wield considerable influence over them.
By the time their plates were cleared, Markham had turned downright surly. Still, Simon knew he had to try to win him over.
“Shall we discuss my proposal, Markham?” Simon suggested. “You may tell me your reservations and we’ll try and work through them.”
Markham finished off his claret, set the glass on the table. “Quite unnecessary. All my questions have been addressed.” He pushed back from the table and straightened his frock coat. “And I shan’t be supporting you, Winchester.”
Simon clenched his jaw. “And may I ask why not?”
“The reasons hardly matter. But I will do everything in my limited power to ensure you fail.” He turned and toddled off without a backward glance. Stupefied, Simon watched him go. Could petty jealousy have caused Markham’s shift in attitude?
“Well, it seems the Harlot just cost you your first vote.”
Simon pierced Quint with a hard stare. Quint held up his hands. “I meant no disrespect. I hold the lady in the highest esteem. But it’s clear Markham hoped to win her affections and cared little for the fact you’d beaten him to it.”
“It’s absurd, especially when the lady has never shown him the least bit of favor.”
“Not precisely true, if you will recall Colton’s dinner party.”
Simon drummed his fingers on the table, unhappily recalling how she had encouraged Markham that evening. That she’d done it as merely a way to irritate Simon did not lessen his annoyance.
Quint said, “I know you do not want to hear it, but are you prepared for what your association with her may cost you? You’ve worked years to get where you are. Think of all you might accomplish, if you are careful.”
“No one other than Markham will give it a moment’s thought.”
Quint’s brows lifted. “Are you so certain of that? It is one thing to have the usual mistress quietly tucked away over on Curzon Street. It’s altogether different to be linked to the most scandalous woman in Society, widow or no.”
“I plan to marry her,” Simon snapped.
Quint appeared even more surprised. “And you think such an alliance won’t reflect on you either socially or politically? You are fooling yourself. Are you prepared to let her throw those types of parties at Barrett House?”
Simon had to admit, Quint had a point. He hadn’t given much thought to Maggie’s lifestyle and if she planned to change it once they married. But if she would have him, sleep next to him every night, bear his children . . . he’d let her do whatever she damn well wanted. He’d be proud to stand at her side. “Yes,” he told Quint honestly.
Quint toasted Simon with his teacup. “Then I wish you luck.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie rolled over when something dragged slowly over her bare skin. A deep inhale filled her head with the scent of orange and sandalwood and just a hint of tobacco. Simon. She fought the cobwebs to come awake, aware that a very good reason awaited her. Then the mattress dipped and his warmth wrapped around her, strong arms pulling her near.
“Are you awake?” he asked into her ear. Rough end-of-day whiskers teased her skin.
“Hmmm,” she answered, wriggling into the delicious male heat and strength behind her. “Almost.”
He chuckled. “Very well. Let us see if I can hasten your progress.”
Maggie smiled, even though he could not see it. His presence in a room turned her positively giddy. Good thing she’d given him a key to the house. His lips found the top of her shoulder, gentle kisses whispering over her flesh like the silky bristles of a paintbrush. “How was your dinner?”
“Disappointing.”
There was an edge in his voice that caught her attention. Turning, she searched out his eyes. “You were to dine with Lord Markham, no?”
“Yes. Quint came as well.”
“And that made it disappointing?”
“No. My evening is unimportant. I’d rather we spent our time together on more worthwhile pursuits.” His hand swept over her bare hip and up her rib cage to settle on her breast. He squeezed gently, plumping her. “I am so very glad you didn’t bother with nightclothes.”
Momentarily distracted, she enjoyed the sensation. Then she asked, “Were you able to sway Markham, as you’d hoped?”
He bent his head to swirl the tip of his tongue over her nipple. She moaned and arched up. Though tingles shot all over her body, she forced herself to stay on task. “Are you attempting to evade my questions?”
His lips closed over the taut tip and he drew it inside the lush heat of his mouth. Sweet heaven. Her lids drifted shut and she threaded her fingers through his silky hair. Everything inside her began buzzing, a heady thrum of desire only Simon could produce. But he had not fooled her.
After enjoying his attentions for a few more minutes, Maggie sucked in a deep breath and pulled away. Simon’s bright blue eyes had gone sleepy and dark, her very favorite. She bit her lip and tried to ignore how much she wanted him to ravish her. Soon, she promised herself. There was one issue to address first. “Simon, tell me. I know you are distracting me in order to avoid answering.”
“Markham will not be voting for my proposal. I was unable to convince him.” He angled his head to resume his ministrations to her breasts, but she tightened her grip to stop him.
“Why do I sense there is more?”
“May we discuss this later?” He rolled his hips, the hard length of his shaft urgently pressing into her thigh. “I want you, Mags.”
“Simon,” she admonished.
“Fine.” He flopped back and folded his arms behind his head, displaying the lines of his upper arms nicely. “Markham carried a tendre for you, madam, and seemed to resent that your affections were engaged elsewhere.”
“Meaning with you.”
A brief nod. “With me.”
She thought about that. Markham, a tendre? They had n
ot spent much time together, but she had encouraged him at Julia’s dinner party to irritate Simon. And then there was the meeting to discuss Simon’s proposal. A pang of guilt slid through her belly. Many women flirted and pretended interest to get what they wanted; she’d seen it time and time again over the years. But she hadn’t ever done it, not before Markham, and the results did not sit well with her.
More to the point, how had Markham learned of her and Simon? This . . . connection between them began only recently. Who else knew?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“How did Markham know about us?”
“Apparently half of Paris wagered on it.”
Maggie gaped. “You jest.”
“Hardly surprising. You are one of Society’s favorite topics to speculate on, after all. Even still, half of Paris might be an exaggeration. I’d say more like a third.”
She pushed his chest. “Be serious.”
“Darling.” He reached out to cup her jaw, and the strength and comfort in that simple gesture warmed her down to her toes. “Who cares what anyone thinks? You’ve certainly not worried before, so do not let us start now. Everyone was bound to find out eventually, and I, for one, do not give a damn about the gossip.”
His sincerity calmed her somewhat, but did he not see? Markham refused to support Simon because of her. How many others would there be? How many of Simon’s causes would be thwarted because of their association? His political influence would wither as long as the two of them were linked. A mistress would be acceptable, but a lady tainted by scandal and impropriety was another. Quite irresponsible on both their parts to think this liaison would not cost him.
At some point, if they continued, he would come to resent her. She was certain of it. He’d look back at all he might have accomplished if not for her—and that would kill her. For him to regret the time they spent together, to wish she were someone other than herself, would crush the part of her soul that had yearned for him all these years.
He wrapped her hair around his hand and gently tugged her down, drawing her away from those morose thoughts. His other hand steadied her above him. “Do not fret over Markham, Maggie. There are plenty of other ways to get what I want.” He shifted her on top of him, the hard planes of his body melding against her softness in all the best places. “And right now, what I want is you.”
She studied his face, saw the raw honesty and desire there, and her heart turned over. Emotion swelled inside her, an emotion she’d never expected to feel, and she quickly kissed him so he would not see it. He growled and settled her legs astride his hips, and she rocked over the heavy, hard length of his erection. They both shuddered.
“Besides,” he said against her mouth, “you hated my proposal. I should think you’d be glad to see it fail.”
No denying she did not agree with his idea. But she did not want to see him fail, not because of her. “I know you think your proposal shall protect ruined women who might otherwise be cast aside, forced to earn their livings by less than desirable means. But think about what you are telling her to endure: a tie to the very man who abused her. For the rest of her life, a reminder every year of what she suffered. Think of me. If Cranford had followed through on what he intended—” She paused as Simon’s face darkened. “Wait, let me finish. If Cranford had taken me against my will, I might be forced to accept his money. Even such an insubstantial thread would be untenable. No woman would want any tie to the man who’d hurt her in that manner, not even for money.”
His mouth settled in an unhappy line. He stared at her, and she could see his brain arguing the emotion against the logic. He’d been so sure of his position, but hopefully she could make him understand the other side.
“I could kill Cranford for hurting you.”
She traced the slight dent at the end of his chin with her fingertip. “As could I. And I’d rather starve than accept one farthing from him.”
He stroked the small of her back and ran his hand down over her buttock. “Starve?”
“That is how strongly I feel, Simon. Do not pursue this piece of legislation. There are other ways, better ways, to offer assistance to women in need.”
His face softened. He rose up to kiss her quickly, one hand sliding up into her hair. “Whatever you want, darling. You may help me redraft another proposal. A different one this time.”
“You would allow me to help you?”
“Of course.” He slid a hand between her legs and began to tease and torment. She gasped at the rush of sensation, and he said, “I will always listen to you. Like right now, I want to listen to you say my name in that particular way where . . .” He twisted his fingers to hit the precise spot he wanted.
“Simon,” she sighed.
“Yes, just like that.”
A few afternoons later, Maggie and Lucien stood in her studio. Lucien had brought along some paintings to show her. A long, involved conversation regarding technique ensued.
“Lucien, these are stunning. Truly.” Maggie bent to inspect the detail a bit further. “The unusual angles and the movement you’ve captured here are breathtaking. The thin brushstrokes . . . it must have taken forever. I love it.”
“I doubt they will sell.”
“When have you ever cared about whether your work will sell or not?”
He shrugged, his overly long, brown hair brushing his shoulders. “I do not care for notoriety, as you do, but even I must admit money is helpful.”
“How positively enterprising of you,” she teased. “I must be rubbing off on you.”
“You have done very well, ma chère. I cannot be prouder of you.”
She threw her arms around him for a hug, something she happened to know he hated but tolerated from her. “That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me,” she whispered into his cravat. “And I could never have done it without your help and guidance.”
He patted her back awkwardly and made a dismissive sound. “I did very little. The talent is all your own.”
Pulling back, she wiped at the moisture forming in her eyes. “Are you attempting to make me cry?”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Tilda appeared, a square, brown parcel in her hands. “My lady, a delivery boy just dropped this off for you.”
“Thank you, Tilda.” She accepted the parcel, felt the ridges with her fingers. A canvas. She carried it to a table and began unwrapping the paper.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“A painting.”
The heavy paper opened and Maggie withheld a seaside scene. One of hers, actually—but not quite hers. Yes, the scene was hers, but the shading was not the same. Also the strokes were from a fatter brush, and the hues were a bit darker. Close, but not an exact match of the landscape she’d once painted—though likely no one would know it but her. The work was that good. And there was her—Lemarc’s—signature at the bottom, which appeared almost correct even to her. Was this an attempt at duplicating a Lemarc? Who in the name of Hades had done this?
“It’s a copy of one of my paintings,” she told Lucien.
He peered down, studied it. “It is good. I think if I did not know you so well, I might believe it.”
“Why would someone bother copying me?” Turning her attention to the letter included within, she skimmed Mrs. McGinnis’s clear handwriting. The more she read, however, the more her discomfort grew. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.
“Maggie, you are as white as flour. What did she say?”
Staring down at the painting, she willed air into her lungs. “I am being blackmailed.”
“Mon dieu!” Lucien ripped the paper from her hand and began reading for himself. No doubt he would be equally horrified by the contents of the letter.
Someone had uncovered her identity as Lemarc, hired a forger—a damn good one by the looks of it—and was now circulating drawings throughout London. But not ordinary drawings—no, these pieces were aimed directly at the Prince Regent and his father,
King George III, who was rumored to be on his deathbed. Hateful drawings meant to incite controversy, such as the inference that Prinny would bankrupt England when his father died, or that he suffered from the same mental deficiencies as the king. The most damaging one, according to Mrs. McGinnis, showed the carnage of Peterloo from the year before—where soldiers had ruthlessly squashed a rebellion in Manchester, killing many protesters—and urged the middle class to take up the cause of political reform once more, to not let their countrymen die in vain.
Someone was attempting to get Lemarc arrested for sedition.
Agents from the Crown had already paid a visit to Mrs. McGinnis, asking for personal information about Lemarc. The shopkeeper hedged and told them she didn’t know Lemarc’s true identity, but a meeting might be arranged when the artist returned from the Continent. Even though that appeared to pacify the agents for the moment, Mrs. McGinnis was frightened—with good reason. If they discovered she had lied to protect Maggie, the shopkeeper could be implicated as well. The only way to stop it, according to the forger, was for Maggie to hand over two thousand pounds annually—an absolutely outrageous amount of money.
“Did you see the other letter? The one Madame McGinnis said is on the back of the painting?”
Lucien’s voice snapped Maggie back to reality. She’d forgotten about the other letter. Flipping the forged painting over, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it. Her given name. Swallowing, she lifted it off the canvas, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table.
Dear Lady Hawkins—
Surprised? I wanted to send you this painting as proof of my own painter’s abilities. He’s quite good, wouldn’t you say?
If you want the drawings to cease, I require two thousand pounds in two weeks’ time. Otherwise, I’m afraid Lemarc may find himself (herself ?) in a spot of trouble with the authorities. Instructions for delivery will be left with Mrs. McGinnis.
It was unsigned. Lucien, who had read over her shoulder, exclaimed, “Two thousand pounds! That is ridiculous. This scheme, who is behind it?”
