Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  She shoved that unsettling thought aside. “Um, yes. I really should return home.”

  “Really?” There was a smile in his voice as if he could read her thoughts—knew what his touch had done to both her body and mind. He shifted closer, erasing the sliver of air between them.

  Her heart beat fast, yet a frenzied anticipation swirled within her. She fought the desire to wet her lips.

  The weight of his hand settled on her waist, each finger a separate point of contact. Heavy. Possessive. “I’ve been thinking of last night. Twice I wanted to kiss you, and twice we were interrupted. Have you thought about it, Emma?” He didn’t wait for her response. His mouth touched hers and moved against it.

  Heart still pounding against her chest, she parted her lips, inviting him to kiss her the way he had on that dark night in his residence, with a hunger that had left an undeniable mark on her memory—a wicked craving she’d never experienced before.

  His tongue stroked hers.

  More heat traveled through her body, reminding her one could get scorched playing with fire, and burned by one’s own carelessness. Simon Radcliffe was on a mission. He would turn her life upside down, destroy her, if she let her guard down. Yet, she wanted to touch him again—to experience the feel of his hard body once more. She slid her palms up his shoulders. One hand continued its journey upward until her fingers combed through the hair at his nape, each strand warm and silky.

  Uttering a deep moan, he cupped the back of her head, while his tongue continued its erotic slide. His right hand shifted upward until his palm rested against the side of her breast.

  Her nipples peaked. Her breasts tingled.

  A knock rapped against the door, and Emma jumped back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As the drawing room door opened, heat warmed Emma’s cheeks. On wobbly legs, she took another step away from Simon.

  His two elderly servants peeked around its edge.

  “I’m going to strangle both of them,” Simon mumbled, shooting both men a lethal look as they stepped fully into the room.

  Thank goodness Lily wasn’t here. If she’d heard Simon, her sister would once again start raving about him being a murderer. And by the unfiltered expression on his face, at this moment, Emma feared him quite capable of the task.

  Ignoring Simon’s glower, the stoic-faced butler held up a brown medicinal bottle. “Witch hazel for Miss Trafford’s injury.”

  Emma peered down at her uninjured finger. The heat on her face traveled to her ears. “How thoughtful, but it feels much improved. Though I thank you for your kindness.” And your timely entrance. Simon might brand the men as interfering, but Emma believed Harris and Baines to be her saviors—fairy godfathers protecting her from her own foolishness.

  Without saying a word, Simon strode to the window and shoved the lower sash upward. Either he was in need of fresh air or contemplating throwing both men out of it.

  Though they seemed aware of their employer’s discontent, the two servants appeared reluctant to leave the room. Were they worried about her virtue?

  “Are you sure?” the butler asked, returning his regard to her.

  “Yes, thank you.” She peered at Simon’s broad-shouldered back, remembered the feel of her hands on him, the exquisite heat of his body, and his knee-weakening kiss. “Mr. Radcliffe, I must take my leave.”

  He spun away from the window and stared at her as if commanding an explanation.

  She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Flynn and Lily must be wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

  He nodded. “Then I will see you in a couple of hours for my sitting.”

  She didn’t wish to spend the afternoon with him. Not after that kiss. Her body still hummed with something she could only describe as need, as though she’d been given only a sip of water after an arduous trek and needed more to quench her thirst.

  “Sir, I fear I must cancel our sitting this afternoon.”

  His already dark expression turned stormy.

  Emma had a feeling very few, if anyone, crossed this man’s path when he stared at them as he did her now. She forced an amiable smile. “I must help Mrs. Flynn make bread.”

  One of his dark eyebrows arched as if he knew it a blatant lie.

  “Then you must go.” The cool tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Good day.” She nodded at him and his two servants, then strode to the door.

  “Miss Trafford?” Simon said.

  She turned around. “Yes.”

  “Will you resume working on my portrait tomorrow?”

  She heard the challenge in his voice. Hopefully by tomorrow her foolish desire would be gone and her melting brain returned to normal. “Of course.”

  “Then I will see you then.”

  As she stepped out of Simon’s house, Emma could feel him watching her. Trying not to run like a scared rabbit, she crossed the street and entered her house.

  Mrs. Flynn stepped into the entry hall. “Where’d you rush off to, dearie?”

  “I needed to speak with Mr. Radcliffe.”

  The housekeeper cocked her head toward the sound of the piano keys being struck, one at a time.

  “Did he send that stuffy piano tuner here?”

  “He said no.” She was almost sure he had. Simon appeared capable of lying without even a hint of deception on his face. She needed to remember that, along with the fact that he was searching for whoever had broken into his house and stolen his ring.

  “Then who sent him?”

  “I believe he did.”

  A wide smile blossomed on the housekeeper’s face. “I told you, dearie, he is quite taken by you.”

  Emma touched her still tingling lips. Realizing the action, she lowered her hand. “If he sent Mr. Marlow here to tune the piano, it is only because he seeks salvation for his ears.”

  Mrs. Flynn made a noise of disbelief. “Whatever the cause, I still say he’s infatuated.”

  Pish. The man was up to no good. Most likely trying to confuse her and force her to lower her guard and confess.

  “Did you see Mr. Baines?” Mrs. Flynn asked, breaking into Emma’s thoughts.

  “I did.”

  Pink heightened the woman’s cheeks.

  How lovely it would be if Mr. Baines returned Mrs. Flynn’s regard. Though Lily, Michael, and she would miss the older woman dearly if the housekeeper got married and left. But Mrs. Flynn deserved happiness, and Emma wished that for her, more than anything.

  “Do you intend to bake bread today?” Emma asked.

  “Yes. Just about to start.”

  “I think I’ll help you.”

  “Really?” The woman’s eyes widened.

  “Yes.” Truthfully, Emma would rather paint, but perhaps if she helped it would ease her conscience about lying and distract her from what had transpired between her and Simon.

  A twinkle sparkled in the woman’s brown eyes. “We could send a loaf to Mr. Radcliffe, so he might see how skilled you are in the kitchen.”

  “Ha! I am not skilled in the kitchen and we both know that.”

  “Since the gentleman is in possession of a fine carriage and not one, but two manservants, he can hire me if he marries you, but it would serve you well to at least impress him with a few basic dishes.”

  Marry? Emma doubted Mr. Radcliffe was hunting for a wife. He was hunting for a thief, and mayhap a little enjoyment on the side. And she had been foolish enough to give it to him.

  * * *

  Simon watched Emma enter her house. He rubbed the knot in his neck. He’d known sending the piano tuner to her house would have her knocking on his door. He’d wanted to gain her trust. His kiss was meant to send her off balance. Instead he’d not only scared her away, he’d enjoyed the escapade.

  He slammed his fist against the window jamb, rattling the glass panes. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? She would not thwart him. He would find out the truth. But what truth did he seek when he kissed her? Her guilt or innoce
nce? Or nothing more than the press of her lips on his?

  “Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat.

  He turned to see both Baines and Harris staring at him. He’d forgotten they stood in the room. “Go away,” he snapped, trying not to scold them. He slumped into the flamingo-patterned chair by the window and waved them off like the pesky flies they mimicked.

  “Are you to luncheon at home today, sir?” Harris asked.

  “I am preparing lamb with rosemary and potatoes.” Baines puffed out his chest like a proud peacock.

  It will probably taste like cowhide. He needed to insist they hire a cook. Simon flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve while scouring his mind for the best way to word his request. He glanced back up. Baines appeared ready to explode with excitement.

  Damn. Why he didn’t wish to disappoint the man was beyond his comprehension. There was definitely something in the water in Bloomsbury. Something sinister, if it was turning him into a milksop. “Yes, that sounds . . . tasty.”

  “Very well, sir. Very well,” Baines said, his voice elevated with pleasure. “When Nick returns with the fresh rosemary, I’ll start seasoning the meat.”

  Simon’s stomach made a noise.

  “Ah, you are hungry,” Harris said.

  He didn’t think it was hunger that made his stomach rumble—more likely fear.

  “He didn’t eat very much at breakfast,” Baines said.

  Not true. He’d eaten the two sweet buns Nick had brought him from the bakery, but he couldn’t tell Baines that.

  “I shall start preparing the meal, posthaste. Come, Harris, you can help me.”

  The butler sighed, but followed Baines from the room.

  Simon closed his eyes and thought of the kiss he and Emma had just shared. That damned appendage in his trousers twitched and grew hard. Get a grip on yourself, man. It was a bloody kiss, nothing more. Though as tantalizing as the one he’d shared with his thief. His whole body had warmed like a heated grate. Merely a coincidence?

  The front door opened and slammed closed. Nick stepped into the entry hall, carrying what looked like a bouquet of pine needles. Most likely it was the rosemary Baines waited upon. Without noticing Simon, the lad dashed by the drawing room’s open doorway.

  “Nick,” Simon called out.

  The boy’s heavy footfalls stilled, then returned. Nick entered the drawing room and slipped off his flat cap. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”

  “After you give Baines the rosemary, I wish to speak with you.”

  Nick crushed the cap in his hands and shuffled his feet. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

  “Not at all. I wish to give you something.”

  Relief flashed across the lad’s face. He nodded. “Be back in a wink of an eye, sir.”

  Simon stood and retrieved a copy of The Crimson Lord, one of the Inspector Whitley mystery books Lily enjoyed. Simon had sent Baines to buy two copies. One for himself and another for the lad.

  Nick dashed back into the room.

  “Baines tells me you are a quick study. That you’re progressing quite rapidly with your reading.”

  The lad grinned. “I am, sir.”

  “I heard Lily speak of this author.” Simon handed him the book. “I thought you might enjoy it as well.”

  “The Cri-Crimson Lo-ord.” The boy blinked. “This is for me? Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Simon leaned back in one of the chairs in his drawing room and grinned at a passage in The Crimson Lord. Surely, the penny dreadful wasn’t meant to be humorous, but the way Inspector Whitley solved everything with just a quick glance at the evidence was more than amusing.

  He lowered the book and glanced at Nick sitting on the other chair reading his copy. Nick’s expression contradicted Simon’s. The boy nervously bit his lower lip and flipped a page.

  A noise outside the window caught Simon’s attention. Lily, wearing a light blue cotton dress, matching hair ribbons, and flat-heeled button boots, squealed with excitement as she and two other girls rolled their trundling hoops up the street.

  Nick lowered his book and glanced outside. The lad’s expression reflected how he desperately wanted to join in the fun.

  “Have you ever rolled a hoop before?” Simon asked.

  Nick blanked his expression. “Nah, that’s for babies.”

  “Really? I’ve always wished to try my hand at it. What do you say we see if Lily will let us give it a go?”

  Excitement sparked in the boy’s eyes, even though his face retained its bland countenance. Simon moved to the entry hall and stepped outside. Nick followed. As they approached the children, Lily glanced up and stopped. The two other girls continued up the street and turned onto Theobald’s Road.

  As he and Nick approached the chit, her blue eyes widened. She grabbed the trundling hoop and held it tight, as if fearing Simon intended to snatch it away.

  “May Nick give it a go?” Simon asked.

  The boy’s shoulders sagged, as if Simon was forcing him to try something against his will.

  Without uttering a sound, Lily held the wooden wheel and stick out to the lad.

  A small, nearly imperceivable smile settled on the boy’s face. He glanced at Simon. “If you insist, sir, I’ll give it a try.”

  Nick placed the wheel on the pavement and smacked it with the end of the stick. It rolled a mere three feet, wobbled, and toppled over.

  “You’ve got to give it a start with your hand.” Lily moved over to Nick and took both items back. She tossed the hoop. It flew a few inches off the pavement before it rolled. She tapped it firmly with the stick as she ran beside it. “Don’t use the end of the stick; hit it with the middle. The pressure must be even. Too much to one side or the other and it will wobble and fall.”

  Nick jogged next to Lily as she rolled the hoop.

  “Here,” she said, handing the stick to him. “Give it a go.”

  Nick hit it where she’d instructed, and it moved farther up the pavement.

  “That’s it. That’s it!” Lily yelled, running beside the lad.

  Though Simon couldn’t see the boy’s face, he could imagine the child’s smile. Nick grabbed the hoop as he neared the crossroad and turned around. Indeed, a large smile lit up the child’s face. Nick offered the toy back to Lily. She shook her head and said something. Nick’s smile broadened even more as he set the toy back to the pavement and started rolling it to where Simon stood.

  Mrs. Jenkins’s front door swung open. “Be careful of your shins, Mr. Radcliffe! Those hoops are a menace!”

  Silly old interfering crow. It wasn’t even metal, and Nick maneuvered it like a champion. An odd, almost paternal, feeling tightened Simon’s chest.

  The children’s footfalls and giggles grew louder. Bright-eyed, Lily and Nick smiled at each other as though they were longtime friends.

  “Now your turn, Mr. Radcliffe,” Lily said. “Nick told me you wanted to give it a go. You’ve never rolled a hoop either?”

  “No, I can’t say I ever have. And I doubt I’ll be as skilled as Nick.”

  “You won’t know until you try, sir,” Nick said.

  “True.” Simon shrugged out of his coat and folded the garment over the wrought iron fence in front of Emma’s house. He unclasped his gold cufflinks, slipped them into his trouser pocket, and rolled up his sleeves.

  Nick handed him the toy. With a flick of his wrist, Simon tossed the trundling hoop; it landed several feet in front of him, wobbled, but didn’t fall.

  “Hit it,” Lily screamed.

  He did as instructed, and the wheel picked up speed. The children’s fast footsteps, pounding on the pavement, and their laughter filled the air as they ran behind him. A smile turned up the corners of Simon’s lips. He neared the crossway.

  “How do I turn it?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Slowly,” Lily replied. “Take it off the curb and into the street. Make a wide turn, otherwise it will topple. You can
do it. You’ve got enough momentum and no carriages are coming.”

  Simon gave it another firm tap with the stick. It moved at a fast clip off the curb with a little hop and wobbled, but didn’t fall.

  “Turn it. That’s it. Hit it again,” Lily instructed.

  He did and it picked up more momentum.

  Lily laughed, the sound infectious.

  Grinning, Simon glanced up. Mrs. Jenkins stood on her step, her face puckered as if she sucked a lemon.

  Harris stood at the door of Simon’s residence, gaping. “Sir, you are in your shirtsleeves.”

  “Indeed, I am.” Simon passed the gawking pair with the children running alongside him.

  “That child has corrupted poor Mr. Radcliffe,” Mrs. Jenkins huffed.

  Simon laughed. The old prune would have an apoplexy if she knew his true identity. He had half a mind to stop and tell her, so he could watch her faint dead away. He looked at the children’s smiling faces and spoke in a low voice, “Ignore the gargoyle, she wouldn’t know fun if it bit her in the ar . . . um, toe.”

  Lily’s mouth gaped, then she giggled.

  Nick burst out laughing.

  At the end of the street, Simon grabbed the wheel before it flew into the crossroad. Grinning, he swiped his arm across his forehead. “That was dashed fun.”

  Nick nodded, braced his hands on his knees, and took several labored breaths.

  Air sawing in and out of her lungs, Lily tucked a long blond tendril behind her ear, which had fallen from her braid. “Capital job, Mr. Radcliffe! You’ve got the hang of it, and you’re fast.” She took a couple more winded breaths. “You’d drub Timmy Johnson in a race, and he’s the fastest hoop roller in all of Bloomsbury.”

  “You would, indeed, sir,” Nick added.

  Simon handed the hoop and stick back to Lily. She set it on the cobbles and rolled it as they headed back. As they neared the Trafford town house, he noticed Emma standing on the pavement.

  Lily sighed. “We’re in trouble.”

  “It appears so. What offense have we committed?” Simon rolled his sleeves down.