Confusion clouded his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wrote the poem,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m M.E.Desmond. Or rather, I was, for I have not written a poem in some years now.”
“You cannot be.” He searched her face, looking for an answerhe apparently found. “My God. You’re deadly serious, aren’t you?”
“Margaret Emilia Desmond,” she said simply.
“Bloody hell.” Simon stared at her with an inscrutableexpression. “When were you planning on telling me, Maggie?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I don’t writepoetry any longer. It hardly seemed important.”
“You don’t write any longer? Why the hell not?”
She hadn’t anticipated that sort of response. Crossing herarms over her bodice in a defensive gesture, she met his gaze withoutflinching. “I’m no good at writing poems. It was a childish fancy, nothing more.”
“A childish fancy?” He held the book to his heart, and shecouldn’t be certain if it was an unconscious act or an intentional one. “Surelyyou can’t be serious, Maggie. These are some of the finest poems of our age.”
She frowned at him. “Flattery is the worst sort ofcompliment.”
He frowned back at her. “I’m not flattering you, by God. Iwouldn’t.”
Maggie thought about that for a moment and had toacknowledge the kernel of truth his words held. He had never been a man ofgreat charm. He was handsome and seductive, powerful and attractive in ways shecouldn’t entirely comprehend, it was true. But he had never paid her the sortof odious obsequiousness others had in the past. “Very well,” she allowed. “Butyours is merely one opinion. The only reason I was able to publish this volumeat all is that my father is very wealthy and he paid a publisher a handsome sumto do the deed. I dare not fool myself into thinking I am a true poet.”
“Rubbish. Others have read your work and admired it as Ido.”
They had? She didn’t dare to hope. After she had discoveredthat her father had bought her way into the world of poetry and literaryaspirations, she’d sworn to never write another word other than the occasionalletter.
“What others?” she asked, even though she knew she ought notto entertain any such thoughts. From the time she’d first been enrolled inschool—the one-room schoolhouse of her youth rather than the private tutors andfinishing school she’d later endured—she had wanted nothing more than to be apoet. But she had given up that dream, knowing it to be a fruitless one.
“Lord Egglesfield, for one,” he told her, his tone grave.“And lords Ridley, Cavendish and Tyndale as well. Mr. Tobin also.”
Dear heavens. While she hadn’t heard of all the peers hementioned, she had certainly heard of Mr. Jonathan Tobin, for he was anextraordinarily talented poet in his own right. It baffled her that such adistinguished group of men had deigned to read the scribbling of her youth. Andadmired it.
She fanned her flushed cheeks with her hand. “Mr. Tobin? Youknow him?”
He scowled. “Yes, and he’s ugly as a bear.”
Did she sense jealousy? A small smile flirted with her lipsas she contemplated him. “Why have I never heard any such kind words regardingmy poetry?”
“No one knows who M.E. Desmond is,” he pointed out, onceagain the soul of common sense. “Tobin is given to fat as well.”
“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her smile blossomedinto a grin as the last bit of what he’d said permeated her whirling mind.“I’ve seen an engraving of Mr. Tobin. He didn’t appear at all plump to me.”
“Fat as a hog,” Simon snapped, his lips compressing in hisirritation.
“I thought him rather handsome.” She couldn’t resist pushinghim.
He caught her round the waist and pulled her flush against hishard chest. Somehow, even his glower was charming. “I’m going to have to punishyou for that.” His mouth swooped deliciously near to hers, his hot breathcascading over her lips in temptation. “Why did you not tell me about yourpoetry?”
She struggled to focus on his words rather than his sinfulmouth. “When was I to have told you? You scarcely even spoke to me until LadyNeedham’s.”
“You’ve had ample time since then.” One of his hands slidaround her waist and then upward to cup her breast over the fabric and corsetbarrier separating them.
She arched into him, unable to help herself from seeking outthe exquisite sensation of his touch. “I didn’t think it mattered. As I’vesaid, I haven’t written in years. I’m no longer a starry-eyed girl led by sillydreams.”
Simon was intent, his gaze as seeking as his wanderinghands. “Why?”
Maggie wasn’t entirely certain what he was asking of her.She swallowed, barely holding on to her wits. “Why should you care so much?”
