The Harlot Countess (14 page)

She gave an inarticulate sound as he began to focus on that one spot, the small bundle of nerves where a woman’s pleasure concentrated. He teased and tormented, using his mouth, his tongue, his hands, and even his teeth, to drive her to madness, listening to her moans and cries to determine what she liked best.

Her hands clutched at his head, fingers threading in his hair to hold him as he continued to work at her. Within seconds, her thighs began to quiver and her body grew tight. He shifted to slip a finger inside her channel and achieved the desired result. She gave a hoarse shout, limbs convulsing while her inner walls clamped down. He loved how she held nothing back, her reaction as honest and enthusiastic as he’d ever experienced. Loved it so much, in fact, his erection now strained against the bedclothes, demanding attention.

When her shudders finally ceased, he crawled up and covered her body with his own. With her flushed skin, tousled black hair, and drowsy, satisfied expression, she was exquisite. He brushed her hair out of her face.

“That was quite wicked of you,” she panted.

“My dear lady, I haven’t even begun to show you wicked.” He bent to suck the hollow behind her ear and rolled his hips, dragging his swollen cock, against her sensitive flesh. “Next time I’ll lie on my back, bring you on top of me with your feet at my head. That way we can both give pleasure with our mouths simultaneously.”

She inhaled and arched up, obviously in accordance with that plan. He grinned and palmed her breast. “Like that, do you? Shall I tell you what else I’d like to do to you?” He rolled her hard, smooth nipple between his fingertips.

“Simon,” she sighed, her lids fluttering closed.

“Perhaps I’ll show you instead.” Crawling down to her breasts, he shaped the luscious mounds with his hands. So lovely and plump. Perfect nipples that tasted like velvet. Lowering his head, he circled the puckered tip with his tongue. Her back bowed, pushing up toward his mouth, so he drew the bead inside and sucked hard.

She clutched him as he continued to lave the taut points of her breasts. When he had her writhing beneath him, soft mewling sounds in her throat, he rose up over her and slid inside. The warm, wet clasp fit him perfectly, and he closed his eyes against the surge of utter bliss. “Oh, Christ,” he heard himself rasp while struggling for control. He needed for this to last.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, pressing closer to urge him on, and instinct took over. Lust and need ripped through him, a force he was unable to resist—much like the woman beneath him. He drove deep again and again, his hips working, their bodies slapping together as he kept them joined. Her nails dug painfully into his back, her sweet gasps filled his ear. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down.

Suddenly she tightened, held her breath. He groaned, “God, yes. Take your pleasure, Mags.” She let out a shout and her silky walls milked his shaft. Pressure built in the base of his spine, spread through his bollocks, and he withdrew in time to spill himself on the sheets. The release went on and on, waves of incredible euphoria that wrung him dry. When it finally finished, he flopped down on the bed, shaken by the intensity and roughness with which he’d taken her.

He closed his eyes, gathered her against his side. He tried to catch his breath along with his sanity. Had it ever been like this with any other woman? If so, Simon couldn’t remember it. Feminine fingers dragged over his chest, exploring and soothing, and for once he remained silent. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t want her to suspect how raw he felt. The emotions coursing through him had no precedent. She’d reached in and flipped him inside out, and he wasn’t at all sure what to do about it.

“I should go back to my room,” she said, starting to pull away.

“Do not dare leave this bed.” He tightened his arm around her, pressed her close. “I am not finished with you yet.”

“Is that so?” She dragged the soft underside of her foot over his shin.

“Yes, that is so. Give me a moment to gather my strength.”
And my wits.

“Hmm. So if I get up and leave, you are too weak to follow me.”

He shifted to stare at her. “I will always follow you, Maggie. You’ll not get away from me this time.” And he realized he meant it. He’d lost her once; he would not let her go. No matter the past, he wanted her, and tonight was proof of how satisfactory it could be between them.

She bit her lip, her cheeks turning a pale rose color. He could not decipher whether he’d embarrassed her or pleased her. Perhaps both.

“What did you say to Cora? How did you gain her cooperation and trust?”

He relaxed at the change in topic. No need baring his soul on their first night together. The first of many, he vowed. “I told her she would be safe here, that no one would force her to do a thing against her will.”

“And she believed you?”

His hand caressed her back, slid down to cup one of her buttocks. “I can be very persuasive. Have you not learned that by now?”

She gave him a wry smile, gestured to the bedroom. “Considering where we are and what just transpired, I am well aware of your skills of persuasion.”

“As if you did not enter my bedroom first,” he teased. “I believe you seduced me, madam.”

Deeper color on her cheeks this time. “It’s ungentlemanly of you to remind me.”

He rolled them until he had her pinned beneath him. “Darling, it is a fact I shall never let you forget.” Without giving her a chance to comment, he kissed her, long and sweet. Then he kept on kissing her until she moaned and begged him to take her.

After they’d exhausted themselves, she curled against him, an arm thrown over his chest. Her breath gusted over his skin rhythmically, and Simon had never felt more content. What did the past matter when he had the woman in his bed now? The other men, the scandal, the lies . . . all forgotten. Tonight was what mattered. And tonight, he’d found everything he ever wanted.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered into her thick mass of hair.

As he drifted to sleep, Maggie resting in his arms, he contemplated all the naughty things he’d like to do to her in the morning.

By the dawn, however, she was gone.

 

 

“My lord, a Mr. Hollister to see you.”

Simon sighed and carefully placed his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. He’d come down early with the intention of hurriedly breaking his fast so that he might pay a call on Maggie first thing. A number of questions swirled about in his head demanding answers, starting with why had she skulked out of his bed in the wee hours of the night. He’d learned from Stillman she’d called for a maid to help her dress around half past four, then departed in her carriage after checking on Cora once more.

That she hadn’t stayed left a sour taste in his mouth, one not washed away by the morning’s flavorful coffee.

And now the Runner had arrived. Simon still planned to find Lemarc, of course, but he had other issues on his mind that were more pressing than hearing Hollister’s report. “Tell him to come back this afternoon, Stillman.”

His butler bowed and left, and Simon snatched his cup for a deep, grateful sip. Newspapers littered the table, unread. He’d stared at the pages, unseeing, while trying to make sense of Maggie. Last night, she had crept into his chamber and left by the same means the instant he’d fallen asleep. Had she regretted it, then?

No, he told himself. Surely not. Perhaps she had, for once in her twenty-some years, shown a care for her reputation. Servants did talk, and likely she hadn’t wanted to be discovered in his bed. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to alleviate some of the tension that had taken up residence there in the last few hours. Yes, that had to be it.

What she did not yet understand was that he planned to marry her. The Winchester rubies were even now waiting in his study, the finely crafted set that had been in his family for five generations. Each Countess of Winchester had worn them on her wedding day, and Maggie would be no exception, despite her past.

Stillman returned, an unhappy expression on his face.

“My lord, I apologize but Mr. Hollister is rather insistent on seeing you.”

Simon dragged a hand down his freshly shaven jaw. What could be so bloody important? After all, he’d read an update from Hollister only three days ago. Had he discovered Lemarc’s identity in the meantime? Seemed unlikely. Nevertheless, if he could finish this quickly he could deal with more pressing issues. He stood. “Fine. Show him to the study.”

He entered as Stillman and Hollister came down the corridor. Simon made his way toward the desk and did not bother to hide his impatience as he threw himself in his chair. “Well, Mr. Hollister. You’ve got me, so let’s hear your pressing news.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.

Hollister stepped in and bowed. His reserved, serious countenance positively glowed with pride. “I’ve found him, my lord. Or her, as the case may be.”

Simon froze. “
Her?
” He motioned for the investigator to sit.

“Yes, my lord,” Hollister said, lowering into the chair opposite the desk. “We’ve been following McGinnis’s errand boy. Henrik is his name. Parents moved here three years ago from Prussia, and he began working for McGinnis about a year after she first opened. Mostly he delivers packages, paintings, and the like, around town. Occasionally runs out for supplies. Then we noticed him taking a trip over to an abbey on Knightrider Street. Went in empty-handed but came out with parcels wrapped in brown paper that looked a lot like canvases and engravings.

“So we watched that abbey for a few days as well. Saw a woman going in, carrying some of the same wrapped parcels. Came out, no parcels. My man followed her back to her big house over on Charles Street.”

Simon frowned, thoughts beginning to tumble about in his throbbing brain. Charles Street?
No, it couldn’t be.
How? Why? Then it all clicked for him, the pieces falling neatly into place, and his breath caught. Good God. The landscape. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? He didn’t even need Hollister to finish, but shock had robbed him of the ability to interrupt.

“We got a name from there and started doing some digging. Turns out, this particular woman and McGinnis knew each other in a small town in Norfolk called Little Walsingham. She was the wife of some fancy nob who kicked off almost two years ago.” Hollister cleared his throat, carried on. “He left her a small amount of money, and we assume the widow gave a portion of this to McGinnis to start the shop. I have a friend at the woman’s bank, and he confirmed monies put in that account by McGinnis over the last two years, presumably for art sold as Lemarc. A nice bit of change, if you ask me.”

“Let me guess,” he bit out, his jaw tight. “Lady Hawkins.”

Hollister blinked. “Well, yes, my lord. Excellent guess. Your lordship may even know—”

Simon’s hand slapped the desk, rattling the inkwell and pen tray. Hollister paled but said nothing as Simon silently fumed. Oh, he’d been so monumentally stupid. This whole time, she’d been making a fool of him. Hot, roiling rage clogged his throat. Lord Winejester.
Bloody hell.
He wanted to hit something, someone. Anything.

She’d been humiliating him while he’d been mooning over her. Again. Christ, would he never learn?

The velvet box containing the Winchester rubies sat squarely on the corner of his desk, mocking him. No smarter at four and thirty than he had been at three and twenty. His father, a paragon of intelligence and fortitude, would be sorely disappointed in his son.
People will depend on you to do the honorable thing.

Simon’s eyes pinned Hollister to his chair. “How certain are you?”

“No doubt whatsoever, my lord. I’ve got proof, if your lordship would care to see.” Hollister gestured to a brown leather case resting on the floor.

Simon needed no proof. Deep down, he knew Hollister’s report to be true. The painting in her drawing room, her knowledge of technique . . . Oh, she must have had quite a laugh over this. It was all he could do to keep his seat, to not go tearing out of the house to demand answers. “No, that will be unnecessary,” he forced himself to say. “Nice work, Hollister. Send me a bill and make sure to include one hundred pounds as a bonus.”

The Runner beamed. “Thank you, my lord. And if your lordship ever requires anything else, just send for me.”

“I will. Thank you, Hollister.”

Simon waited until the investigator left before stomping to the front entry. “Stillman,” he bellowed.

The butler appeared from wherever butlers lurked throughout the day. “Yes, my lord?”

“Phaeton, Stillman. Now.” Spinning on his heel, he marched back to his study. There was one thing he needed to retrieve before he met the famous Lemarc.

 

 

Thus far, it had been an extraordinary day.

In her studio, Maggie had set to work on the landscapes for Ackermann, grinning like a simpleton all the while. Hard to recall a time when she’d been this productive. She felt relaxed and well rested, even though she’d had very little sleep. Her cheeks grew hot, the reason obvious. Last evening, well, she’d been in bed but most definitely not resting.

Simon had fallen asleep first, his patrician face boyishly handsome in slumber. She had watched him for a long time, content to merely drink him in. Full lips parted softly, his chest rising and falling. Blond lashes brushing the tops of his angled cheekbones. A thin layer of whiskers spreading over his jaw. How intimate, to see and feel those sharp hairs sprout on a man’s face. How
wifely.

With her entire being, she had longed to stay in the warm cocoon of his bed, their bare legs brushing one another in relaxed, postcoital doze. But it wasn’t real. The contentment was an illusion. He knew nothing about her, not really. In fact, he continued to believe all the untrue, hurtful things said about her. And no matter how tender, how loving he’d been last night, the pain of what had happened during her debut could not be undone.