The Harlot Countess Read Online Free PDF Page B

now being trampled underfoot by the dancers. “Magnificent,” Julia said. “It’s almost a pity to ruin them.”
    Simon shot Colton a look over Julia’s head. Knowing each other since boyhood meant no words were necessary, and Colton instantly offered his arm to his wife. “Well, lovely or not, shall we dance?”
    Maggie’s lips curved when the duke and duchess departed. “That was nicely orchestrated, Lord Winchester. Dukes at your command. Parliament at your feet. I am anxious for your next triumph. Shall I call back the crowd?”
    “Not very subtle of me, but I did wish to speak with you. If you had not refused to see me this week . . .”
    “Yes, I have no doubt this is the last place you wish to find yourself this evening.”
    Absolutely correct, though he would never admit it. “You would be wrong. I’ve been quite entertained, in fact.”
    “Then I shall consider tonight a success.”
    “From what I’m told, all your parties are successful. Is it true you once had actual tigers?”
    Her green irises sparkled like emeralds. “A bit of an exaggeration. One tiger and he was quite tame. Most of the guests were disappointed, I think.”
    The uniqueness of her beauty struck him, as it always had. Pitch-colored, glossy hair. Creamy skin without a blemish or mark. Full, pink lips. There was no woman on earth like Maggie. He’d known it the first time he clapped eyes on her—as had any number of other men, if the rumors of her numerous affaires were true. “The duchess was correct. You are quite beautiful this evening.” His tone was sharper than it ought to be when paying a compliment, and he nearly winced.
    Her look turned measuring. “Thank you, though I might catch my death if I do not change out of my wet clothes.” She picked up the skirts of her dress, showed him the soaked fabric. Instantly, he was transfixed by the vision of her shapely leg covered in damp, transparent silk. His blood began to simmer. He wanted to feel her, to hold her . . . to run his tongue over the smooth knob of her ankle. A monumental mistake, if he allowed it, though desire was hardly ever logical.
    Nevertheless, what came out of his mouth surprised even him. “Reminds me of the time I taught you to ice skate. Do you recall, at the Serpentine? The hem of your dress became damp and you nearly froze.”
    She blinked up at him. “I haven’t thought of that outing in quite some time. That was a . . . nice day.”
    “Yes, it was.” The urge to touch her worsened, a strange ache at the fond memories. “Will you dance with me?”
    “Oh, I never dance.”
    “Why not? You like to dance. At least, you did.”
    She lifted a shoulder. “Dancing bores me to tears. Besides, it’s the sort of thing done at respectable parties.”
    “Oh, the horror,” Simon drawled.
    Her lips thinned. “Mock if you must, but I am no longer the girl you once knew—and I have no desire to become her ever again.”
     
     
    The moment stretched and Maggie realized with humiliating alacrity she’d said far more than she’d intended. Simon’s eighth-generation, noble brow furrowed as he considered her words. Blast. Well, too late to take it back now. Unfortunately, she had her father’s temper as well as his creativity, and Simon had angered her over dancing, of all things. Honestly, who cared if she danced or not?
    She had revealed too much. Blame his handsomeness, the distraction of looks so blond and aristocratic they could be sculpted out of fine Roman marble. His tall frame, elegantly turned out in a dark blue coat and matching breeches, drew every feminine eye in the room. And the way her pulse sped up at the sight irritated Maggie beyond measure, as she should be the one woman to know better.
    Why had he mentioned the afternoon of skating? She would rather not remember the Simon of her debut, the charming man who seemingly could accomplish anything. He’d been so gentle that day, so solicitous, and had given her every bit of his