Read Online Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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Alice said, taking the dark dress and hanging it up. “If you want to be noticed, mum, you put on the green velvet without a fichu, and you let me do something with that hair.”
“My hair?” Maggie’s hand went protectively to her hair, twisted back in its usual severe knot. “My hair is impossible, Alice, but I won’t let you cut it.”
“Trust me a little, Miss Maggie. Cuttin’ it is the last thing we’ll be doing.”
She led Maggie by the hand over to the vanity and Maggie sat, willing for some reason to take risks she’d denied herself for more than a decade.
***
“Good God Almighty.” Lucas Denning’s soft, appreciative whistle sounded from beside Hazlit. “Would you look at that?”
Hazlit followed Deene’s gaze to the steps leading down to the ballroom.
“Jesus God.”
Maggie Windham prowled down the staircase, a shimmery brown silk paisley wrap dangling from her shoulders and soft green velvet clinging to her curves. The dress was decent, though the décolletage was gratifyingly low from a male perspective. What made the whole ensemble so riveting was… that hair.
She’d piled much of it high in a soft coil on her crown, adding to her height, making her even more striking. But the rest of it, oh, the rest of it… It came down around her shoulders in curls and riots, dropped down her back in an ongoing cascade of auburn, and swished around her hips—her curvaceous, womanly hips—to tease against her fundament as she moved.
It was daring, different, and yet, not quite indecent.
Hazlit’s hands ached at his sides, though whether he wanted to get a fistful of her hair or spank her, he couldn’t say.
“I’ve taken a sudden notion to appreciate mature females,” Deene was saying. “Though if her brothers ask, I’m being protective in their absence. Hold my drink.”
And that, the simple fact of Deene’s unthinking response to a gorgeous woman, saved Hazlit from making a similar fool of himself. He supposed he’d make a little different fool of himself later in the evening, after Maggie had had her fun and left a trail of broken hearts all over the room.
When the buffet had been served and a violin soloist had performed along with the quartet, Hazlit understood Maggie was waiting for him to come to her. Her glance swept the room occasionally, as if she were merely surveying the attendees, the same as anybody would do on a social evening. When her eyes passed over him, they kept on moving. No telltale nod or widening of the eyes.
Self-possessed, was Maggie Windham.
So he let her stew, made his own plans, then resigned himself to a late evening.
It was a particular pleasure when she climbed into the dark confines of her coach and sat back with a deep sigh, all without realizing he was sitting in the shadows across from her. She rapped on the roof three times, and the coach pulled away with the horses at a sedate walk.
“Did you have fun, Miss Windham?”
She didn’t scream, which was a point in her favor, though her hand disappeared into her reticule.
“You might hit me at this range, even in the dark,” Hazlit said. “But I really wish you wouldn’t. In such a situation, even a gentleman might be forced to take desperate measures.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hazlit. Not quite a pleasure to see you.”
“You hired me, Miss Windham. Were we to communicate exclusively in notes written in disappearing ink?”
“No.” Her ungloved hand emerged from her reticule. “I meant I can’t quite see you.” She took off her other glove and stuffed them both into her bag. “I suppose it makes sense you’d prefer to meet in private. I wasn’t sure whether to approach you, since you insist on determining the time and place you meet with a client. You did not look to be enjoying yourself.”
“You did.” How could peevishness creep into only two syllables?
In the dark, her teeth gleamed in a smile.
“I did. A little bit, I did. There are advantages to being on the shelf,
“My hair?” Maggie’s hand went protectively to her hair, twisted back in its usual severe knot. “My hair is impossible, Alice, but I won’t let you cut it.”
“Trust me a little, Miss Maggie. Cuttin’ it is the last thing we’ll be doing.”
She led Maggie by the hand over to the vanity and Maggie sat, willing for some reason to take risks she’d denied herself for more than a decade.
***
“Good God Almighty.” Lucas Denning’s soft, appreciative whistle sounded from beside Hazlit. “Would you look at that?”
Hazlit followed Deene’s gaze to the steps leading down to the ballroom.
“Jesus God.”
Maggie Windham prowled down the staircase, a shimmery brown silk paisley wrap dangling from her shoulders and soft green velvet clinging to her curves. The dress was decent, though the décolletage was gratifyingly low from a male perspective. What made the whole ensemble so riveting was… that hair.
She’d piled much of it high in a soft coil on her crown, adding to her height, making her even more striking. But the rest of it, oh, the rest of it… It came down around her shoulders in curls and riots, dropped down her back in an ongoing cascade of auburn, and swished around her hips—her curvaceous, womanly hips—to tease against her fundament as she moved.
It was daring, different, and yet, not quite indecent.
Hazlit’s hands ached at his sides, though whether he wanted to get a fistful of her hair or spank her, he couldn’t say.
“I’ve taken a sudden notion to appreciate mature females,” Deene was saying. “Though if her brothers ask, I’m being protective in their absence. Hold my drink.”
And that, the simple fact of Deene’s unthinking response to a gorgeous woman, saved Hazlit from making a similar fool of himself. He supposed he’d make a little different fool of himself later in the evening, after Maggie had had her fun and left a trail of broken hearts all over the room.
When the buffet had been served and a violin soloist had performed along with the quartet, Hazlit understood Maggie was waiting for him to come to her. Her glance swept the room occasionally, as if she were merely surveying the attendees, the same as anybody would do on a social evening. When her eyes passed over him, they kept on moving. No telltale nod or widening of the eyes.
Self-possessed, was Maggie Windham.
So he let her stew, made his own plans, then resigned himself to a late evening.
It was a particular pleasure when she climbed into the dark confines of her coach and sat back with a deep sigh, all without realizing he was sitting in the shadows across from her. She rapped on the roof three times, and the coach pulled away with the horses at a sedate walk.
“Did you have fun, Miss Windham?”
She didn’t scream, which was a point in her favor, though her hand disappeared into her reticule.
“You might hit me at this range, even in the dark,” Hazlit said. “But I really wish you wouldn’t. In such a situation, even a gentleman might be forced to take desperate measures.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hazlit. Not quite a pleasure to see you.”
“You hired me, Miss Windham. Were we to communicate exclusively in notes written in disappearing ink?”
“No.” Her ungloved hand emerged from her reticule. “I meant I can’t quite see you.” She took off her other glove and stuffed them both into her bag. “I suppose it makes sense you’d prefer to meet in private. I wasn’t sure whether to approach you, since you insist on determining the time and place you meet with a client. You did not look to be enjoying yourself.”
“You did.” How could peevishness creep into only two syllables?
In the dark, her teeth gleamed in a smile.
“I did. A little bit, I did. There are advantages to being on the shelf,
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