Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Lily, this would be a good time for you to read your book of sonnets before you practice the piano.”

  “As if forcing me to play the piano isn’t cruel enough, now you wish me to read drivel. Even if disposed to such tedium, I wouldn’t leave you alone with Mr. Radcliffe. I shall remain here and keep a keen eye upon the scoundrel.”

  Emma set her hands on her hips. “You will greet the gentleman with due respect. Your manners reflect us, and so far you have been most discourteous.” She leaned closer to her sister and whispered, “Not to mention criminal.”

  Footsteps moved up the treads, along with Mrs. Flynn’s cheerful chatter. Little currents of nervous energy exploded within Emma. With her hands pressed to her abdomen, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them, Mrs. Flynn and Mr. Radcliffe were stepping into the room.

  As usual, his charcoal-gray coat and cuffed trousers in a slightly darker shade, amplified his impressive physique. Today, he wore a grayish-blue waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and a gray silk neckcloth tied in a four-in-hand knot.

  Mrs. Flynn, whose nephew worked for Nick Minister and Sons, had mentioned this morning that Mr. Radcliffe’s garments might be from that very tailor. Emma glanced down at her simple dress. She looked the pauper’s daughter next to him, but he had dressed to have his portrait painted, whereas she had dressed to do the sketching.

  “Mr. Radcliffe is here.” The housekeeper beamed gaily at the man as he stepped past her and into the room. Emma remembered how he’d left Mrs. Vale’s guests swooning in his wake. It appeared he’d tried some of his mesmerizing charm on the housekeeper today. Had none of them noticed that the man’s easy smile rarely touched his eyes? He’d watched them like a constable seeking out his culprit. Or was it her guilt that made her feel this way?

  “Mr. Radcliffe, how are you?” she said, attempting to keep the tone of her voice steady.

  His intense gaze locked on hers.

  A shiver trailed down her spine.

  “Well, madam, and yourself?”

  “Fine.” If she didn’t count the fluttering in her stomach, her sweaty palms, or the thundering in her chest.

  “Miss,” the housekeeper said, her cheeks a rosy pink. “Mr. Baines told Mr. Radcliffe he has never had such delicious lemon tarts in his whole life. Is that not true, sir?”

  “Yes. In fact, he said one would be hard-pressed to find any comparable in all of Great Britain.”

  Mrs. Flynn pressed her hand to her large bosom. “Bless his heart. Perhaps, miss, you and Mr. Radcliffe will wish to partake of some lemon tarts with your afternoon tea?”

  Mr. Radcliffe’s gaze, the scent of his skin, along with his very presence, unsettled Emma’s composure. How could she bear to sit and eat pastries and drink tea with him? She forced a smile. “Yes, Mrs. Flynn. Thank you.”

  The man’s attention shifted to Lily, and he smiled. “Hello, Lily.”

  Her sister folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.

  Emma shot the child a warning look.

  Lily sighed, and then swept into a deep curtsy befitting the Queen. “Mr. Radcliffe, I hope the day finds you well. I want to observe Em sketching you, but I must read a book of sonnets instead.” She offered him a tight-lipped smile before asking, “Do you like sonnets, sir?”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “Ah, I fear I have no great affection for them. Will you forgive my shortcomings?”

  The pinched expression on Lily’s face vanished, and she nodded. Whether Lily thought him a murderer or not, Mr. Radcliffe’s dislike of fourteen-line poems written in iambic pentameter caused him to grow a bit higher in her esteem.

  Lily spun toward the door, stopped at the threshold, and pivoted back. “If you need me, Em, just scream and I shall come running with Mrs. Flynn’s rolling pin in hand.”

  Mrs. Flynn made a scoffing noise. “Come running? Rolling pin? What silly nattering, child. Can you not see Mr. Radcliffe is quality?” The housekeeper pinched Lily’s ear between her pudgy fingers and tugged the child from the room.

  “Ouch! Mrs. Flynn, you’re hurting me!” Lily complained while the beefy-fingered woman dragged her down the stairs.

  The smile on Mr. Radcliffe’s lips disappeared as his gaze returned to Emma. Then, as if forcing himself to be congenial, mayhap even flirtatious, it quickly reappeared. “So, we are to be left alone?”

  There was something dark and foreboding in his tone.

  A slight chill moved through her body.

  “Yes.” It would be for the best. She couldn’t have Lily chatting about murder and mayhem. She pointed to a chair she’d set before one of the windows. “I thought we could do a portrait of you sitting, unless you desire a different pose.”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “If you will be seated, we will begin.”

  His fingers were long, and she immediately noticed the band of lighter skin on his right pinkie.

  As if noticing the direction of her gaze, he said, “I normally wear a ring. Sadly, it was recently stolen.”

  The steady pattern of her heart skipped a beat. “How terrible.”

  “Yes, for those who took it. I intend to find out their identity and make them pay.”

  The way he peered at her reinforced her belief he suspected her. How? Her stomach lurched, but she forced a carefree smile. “I wish you well in your hunt, sir.” She hoped her lie sounded authentic. “If it is of importance, and you recover it, I can add it into the portrait at a later date.”

  “Mark my words, Miss Trafford. I shall find those responsible. Do everything in my power to do so. When I was a lad, something of great value was taken from me. And I swore after that I would never allow anyone to take anything from me again without retribution. When I find the thieves, they will regret ever crossing my path.”

  The threat in his voice was as clear as a cloudless sky. She needed to find a way to get the ring back to him—make him believe he’d actually misplaced it. Trying to swallow the fear working its way up her throat, she motioned to the chair. “Please be seated.”

  As he sat, the material on Mr. Radcliffe’s trousers tightened over his thighs. The memory of him sitting on her, those muscular limbs imprisoning her, caused the anxiousness already filtering through her body to be on high alert. She swallowed, picked up a pencil, and motioned to the canvas. “Today I’m going to be sketching your likeness. Please lift your chin, just slightly? Yes, yes, that’s fine.”

  As she drew him, his dark eyes studied her every move. Her palms grew moist again, and the pencil slipped in her hand. Had anyone ever stared so intently at her? No. Not even Charles when he had asked for her hand and professed his love for her. Not even when he’d taken her innocence.

  “Mr. Radcliffe, see that painting on the wall?” She pointed at a landscape of the Thames she’d painted from the Chelsea Embankment. “Try to keep your gaze directed on the painting.”

  “I’d much rather look at you, Miss Trafford. Really quite fascinating the way your blue eyes move as you study me and sketch. Such intensity . . . I feel quite exposed, as though even my soul is disclosed.”

  That made two of them. “I assure you, sir, I am only studying the angles of your face. You shall be relieved to know your soul remains quite obscured from my view.”

  A slow grin turned up one side of his mouth. “Would it be wicked of me to admit that fact relieves me?”

  She didn’t doubt that. She had a feeling, though a gentleman, Mr. Radcliffe was no saint. Especially since she’d learned he wasn’t married. The redheaded woman who’d disappeared wasn’t his wife. Wicked man. What would the two old biddies who resided next to him think if they knew the truth? If she told Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Vale, would they shun him? Would shame force him to leave Bloomsbury? No, she doubted that. He was on a mission to find his ring and have the thieves arrested, and she feared he cared little what others thought. Goose pimples prickled her skin.

  As she sketched him, she marveled at his chiseled features�
��a strong jaw, dark, perceptive chocolate-colored eyes, topped by trim brows. Everything about him, including his wide, sensual mouth, which at times looked almost cynical when he smiled, was masculine.

  The sound of feet trudging up the stairs broke into Emma’s concentration. She finished sketching the hard, masculine angles of Mr. Radcliffe’s jaw and looked up. Mrs. Flynn stood in the open doorway holding a freshly polished silver tray instead of the painted tin tray they normally used. The woman must have hidden it from Emma when she’d brought nearly everything of value to a pawnbroker.

  “I brought the tea and lemon tarts, miss.” The housekeeper turned her smiling brown eyes on Mr. Radcliffe.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. I’m sure Mr. Radcliffe welcomes the opportunity to stand and stretch his legs.” Emma had noticed his restlessness—the movement of his fingers, the rolling of his broad shoulders, along with the shifting of his feet. Such movements were not unusual in those required to sit for extended periods. But Mr. Radcliffe’s restlessness reminded her of a large cat who sat for brief moments before the need to prowl—or worse, pounce—took hold.

  Emma set her pencil down, and the housekeeper placed the tray on the table between the two brown upholstered chairs.

  Mr. Radcliffe stood and rubbed the muscles in the back of his neck. “I must say, Mrs. Flynn, the scent alone is enough to make a man’s mouth water.”

  The woman beamed at him as she exited the room. Emma had to give the man credit, he excelled at flattery and sending a rosy hue to women’s cheeks.

  He moved to stand by one of the chairs and waited for Emma to be seated.

  She willed her hands not to shake as she sat and poured the tea. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Neither.” He took the cup and saucer from her. His warm fingers brushed against her cold ones. “My goodness, Miss Trafford, your fingers are like ice.” He set his tea down and reached across the table. The heat from his hands engulfed hers while his thumb swayed slowly back and forth over the nerve-filled skin of her wrist.

  Her breath caught in her lungs. This was improper, yet if he didn’t watch her so fiercely, she would have closed her eyes and savored the feel of his caress. What a silly thought. She pulled her hands out of his grasp.

  “The tea will help.” She took a slow breath and set a dessert dish with a tart before him.

  Humor sparkled in his dark eyes. He knew he unsettled her. What type of game did he play? Did he think he could bring her to a place of complacency, and then get her to admit all? Surely, he thought her more intelligent than that. She filled her cup and added milk.

  Taking a sip of the hot beverage, she peered at him over the edge of her cup. He lifted a lemon tart off the plate and took a bite. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his lips. He’d kissed her with that mouth in a way she’d not known—with his tongue. If he kissed her now would he taste like lemon custard? Distracted by her wayward thoughts, she took a sizable gulp of tea. Scorching liquid scalded her throat. A cough racked her body.

  “Careful, love. It’s hot.”

  Love? Her stomach fluttered. She squelched the sensation. Most likely, he called the serving girls in pubs by such an endearment. It meant nothing to a wicked man like him who appeared to be free with his affections. For a brief moment, she thought of Charles before shoving his image from her mind’s eye.

  “Baines is right, these are tasty. You’re not going to have one?” He placed the remaining piece of tart in his mouth, motioning to the plate laden with a half dozen more pastries.

  The thought of eating the sticky filling in front of him amplified the butterflies already fluttering in her stomach, and she doubted her singed palate would be able to discern the flavor. “No, I already had one earlier today.”

  Casually leaning back in his chair, he pinned her with his dark eyes. “So, Miss Trafford, how long does this process take, from sketching to the last stroke of your brush?”

  “If you’re diligent with your sittings—a few weeks. And I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know, you won’t be required to sit for me as the portrait nears completion. Have you ever sat for a painting before?”

  “Once, when I was quite young. It was a long, drawn-out affair.”

  “Perhaps it only felt that way. I’ve painted my siblings, and anything exceeding five minutes seems a trial for them.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She stood, and he followed suit. “If you don’t mind, I’ll return the tray to the kitchen. You are most welcome to walk about the studio and stretch your legs.”

  “I am indebted for such leniency.”

  She grinned. “You make me sound like some cruel gaoler.”

  “Cruel?” he echoed. “No, a woman with such an angelic face cannot be anything but compassionate.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a wry expression.

  Warmth heated her cheeks. “I shall be back shortly.”

  * * *

  As soon as Emma Trafford stepped from the studio, Simon moved to the large armoire. He’d seen a leather artist folio inside the cabinet yesterday, yet she’d chosen to show him old works that were far less refined than the paintings hanging on the walls.

  What are you hiding, Emma? Might there be a drawing of the man who’d conked him over the head?

  He glanced over his shoulder, and then opened the wooden doors. The shelves held glass jars of pigment, art supplies, and several paint-spattered cloths folded neatly. On the bottom shelf lay the older sketches and on the top shelf the leather folio. He lifted it down and opened it.

  The drawings were mostly of children. He stopped at one, a sketch of three girls laughing as they circled ribbons around a Maypole. The children’s faces conveyed exuberance—a sense of contentment and gaiety. The sketch was intricately detailed; he could all but hear their laughing voices and the song they sang as they danced about.

  He flipped through the remaining sketches. The last one caught his eye. A woman, round with child, sat on a wooden bench. She held a parasol in one hand, while her other hand rested on the swell of her abdomen. He shook off the odd feelings the drawing evoked, snapped the binder closed, and quickly set it back on the shelf. The only men he’d seen in the sketches were Miss Trafford’s father and brother.

  Restless, he stepped into the corridor. Someone a couple of floors below pounded on a piano. The instrument sounded out of tune, and the pianist played with as much finesse as a drunk using his toes. He took the stairs to the first floor and moved toward the racket.

  Miss Trafford’s sister sat at a piano in the drawing room. The child lifted and lowered her hands onto the keys with great force.

  “What are you playing?” he asked, raising his voice above the clamor.

  With a gasp, Lily peered wide-eyed at him. Thankfully, her fingers froze in midair, relieving the imminent possibility of ear bleeding.

  “Bach,” she replied.

  Good God, the composer must be rolling in his grave.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone. It is most disconcerting.”

  “You shouldn’t play the piano like that, it’s even more disconcerting,” he replied.

  The briefest of smiles touched her lips before disappearing. She tipped her chin in the air. “I don’t wish to play, but Em insists I practice for an hour every day.”

  “And you play like that to dissuade her?”

  The corners of her lips twitched again, confirming his suspicions.

  “Apparently your sister is either tone deaf or has a firm constitution.”

  The child exhaled a heavy breath. “Indeed, I’ve been playing like this for what feels like forever, and Emma still insists I continue. Do you play?”

  How long had it been since he’d played? Not since a gathering at Caruthers’s country house several months ago. He’d regaled the mostly drunken crowd with broadside ballads and ditties about sailors bedding lasses with ample bosoms. “A bit.”

  “Then play something.” Her tone implied disbelief.r />
  “Another time, poppet. Your sister is most likely wondering where I’ve wandered off to. I need to return to her studio.”

  Lily’s hand slid to something lying under the skirt of her dress.

  Probably a rolling pin. God, the girl was a character. Shaking his head, Simon stepped out of the room, then pivoted back. “Your brother hasn’t visited lately from school?”

  “Not since Easter. But he might return home any day. And he is muscled and strong. Nearly as broad as you. No, he is larger.” The child bit her lower lip. “One should be very frightened of him because he looks like that painting of Zeus. Not the one with that naked woman next to him, but the one where he is holding a scepter.”

  Simon tried not to laugh. In her odd way, Lily was as entertaining as a farce at the Vaudeville Theatre. “He sounds quite terrifying. I’m most interested in meeting him. I shall let you get back to your . . . playing.”

  He climbed the steps and had reached the studio’s doorway when Emma darted out of the room and barreled straight into him.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Emma collided with Simon, he clasped her waist to steady her.

  She glanced up, a panicked expression on her face.

  “Looking for me?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

  “Um, yes. When I returned and found you gone . . .”

  Did she think he’d left the studio to search for his ring? The idea had crossed his mind.

  Her delicate hands lifted to his chest as if to push him back, yet as their eyes locked, she froze.

  Once again, holding her seemed familiar. Too familiar. Like a dream that replays in one’s mind over and over. Though, unlike a dream, the scent of roses filled his nose, while the skin underneath his clothing grew warm where her palms touched him. His gaze shifted from her lovely blue eyes to her mouth. If he kissed her, would it confirm a memory, perhaps more tantalizing than reality? As if pulled by gravity, he leaned forward.

  Her eyes grew wide. A small lump moved in her throat. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

  His damnable body reacted. Bloody hell. Not wishing her to realize the effect she had on that brainless appendage between his legs, he released her and stepped back.