Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  A waltz sprung to life and drifted upstairs.

  Simon gave a slow shake of his head, as though amazed. “She’s a prodigy.”

  “She is.” Without thought, Emma set her hand on his arm. “I must thank you, Simon.”

  A frown darkened his already intense face. “For what?”

  “I believe it is having such a finely tuned piano that draws her to play it again. Or nothing more than hearing you play so well that makes her long to play with comparable skill.”

  “But I told you, I wasn’t the one who sent Mr. Marlow.”

  “Really? Then you must be a psychic, sir, for I do not believe I revealed the piano tuner’s name.”

  A slight smile curved up one side of his mouth. “Ah, got me.” He extended his hand to her. “Then, as my thanks, I request this dance.”

  She didn’t wish to dance with him. To feel his body close to hers for any length of time was unwise, yet she set her hand in his. He curled his fingers around her right hand, and placed the palm of his other hand on her back. Gazes locked, Simon slowly led her around the room with a skill she should have realized he would possess.

  As they danced, the waltz Lily played picked up tempo.

  Simon wrapped his arm tighter around Emma’s waist, pulling her closer to him. She luxuriated in the heat coming off him and the strength of his arms holding her. He spun her so fast, she slid her hand over his nape to keep in time with him.

  The corners of his lips turned upward.

  A laugh escaped her mouth.

  The hard, powerful muscles of his shoulders flexed under her hand. Her skirt brushed against his legs, while the tips of her breasts touched his chest—a light brushing that made her nipples peak under her corset. The contact was decadently delicious.

  His steps slowed. They suddenly stood perfectly still as if chiseled from marble. The music seemed distant compared to their breaths coming fast, mingling in the scant air between them.

  Under her palm, the muscles of his shoulder bunched and moved as though breaking free of the constraints that momentarily froze him. Simon lifted his hand and drew the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. The urge to draw the tip into her mouth, as he had her finger, nearly overwhelmed her. She now understood Adam’s weakness when Eve offered him the apple. Wanting what you know is forbidden might be the greatest test of all. Sin, seduction, recklessness. The words drifted through her mind like the sweet song of the devil tempting her. Before she could stop herself, her tongue lightly touched the pad of his thumb.

  The sight of his eyes widening added to the heat warming her nerve endings. She enjoyed shocking him—knew it was a rarity, and the knowledge that she’d done it thrilled her.

  His large hand cupped the back of her neck, and he dipped his head. The silky texture of his lips brushed hers. The contact grew firmer, more possessive as he coaxed her lips open. His tongue slid sensuously against hers, tangled, and withdrew.

  She whimpered, longing for more.

  His tongue returned—slid against hers. This kiss hungrier than the last.

  Her legs felt weak, her head dizzy, and her desire immeasurable. She centered her senses on the feel of Simon’s mouth—the way it moved against hers. How his tongue withdrew, then plunged again, along with the warmth of his body touching hers. The scent of his spicy skin, added another layer to the overpowering sensations. Like that night in his dark house, she couldn’t stop herself from arching into him, a silent request for more of his tantalizing touch.

  His hand on her waist slid up to capture the weight of her breast as his mouth trailed a path over her neck, nipping and kissing. His breath fanned against her ear. The sharp pinch of his teeth bit into the tender flesh of her lobe.

  She bit back a moan. Realizing the music had stopped and Lily could walk into the room, Emma jerked back. She spun away from Simon and pressed the pads of her fingers to her tingling lips. Dancing with Simon Radcliffe might be as dangerous as playing with matches in a hayloft. She gave herself a hard mental slap. Hadn’t her time with Charles shown her that she was too easily seduced? Yet, Emma had never wanted Charles like she wanted Simon. Never felt such a hunger claw at her. The kisses he’d bestowed on her had never made her heart beat erratically. And their joining . . . Goodness, the man had done nothing more than lift her skirt, undone the fall of his trousers, and thrust himself into her. The pain had brought tears to her eyes. He’d not even kissed her during the act or touched her breasts like Simon had just done.

  The warmth of Simon’s hand settled on her back. Emma fought the desire to close her eyes and lean back against the solidity of his hard-muscled chest. She took a deep breath, and without looking at him, she stepped out of the room and into the corridor.

  “I think you should go, Mr. Radcliffe.” Though her voice started off firm, his name quivered on her lips.

  “Emma—”

  “Please, Simon.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded.

  She watched him make his way down the stairs and listened to the sound of the front door closing.

  A mere fifteen minutes later, the clopping of horses’ hooves drew her to the window. Simon’s carriage stood in front of his residence. He strode out and onto the pavement. For a moment, he stared across the street.

  Did he intend to march back over?

  Her chest grew tight. Tense seconds passed. He climbed into his carriage and the vehicle drove off.

  The air in her lungs swished out. Relieved, she finished cleaning her tools and made her way downstairs. On the marble-topped table in the entry hall lay the post. Two bills. With the mail clutched in her hand, Emma walked into the morning room. Slumping onto a chair, she tossed the bills aside and leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and recalled what had transpired after Simon and she had danced a short time ago.

  What had she been thinking, letting him touch her so intimately? She wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew was that being in Simon’s arms while they’d danced had felt perfect.

  * * *

  Simon leaned back in his seat in the Royal Court Theatre in Sloane Square. After leaving Emma’s town house, he’d stepped into his own residence only to get a whiff of whatever Baines was burning in the kitchen. Hungry, along with disgusted by the turn of events during the afternoon, Simon had headed to his club in search of a half-decent meal and an evening of entertainment.

  He feared if he lounged about his residence in Bloomsbury, he would spend the remainder of the day staring at Emma’s town house while he pined for her like a lovesick lad. What had happened? He still wasn’t sure. One moment they’d been dancing, and the next kissing. And not because he wanted to whittle information from her, but because he couldn’t help himself.

  Blast it all! What addled him? While he kissed her, his cock had grown as hard as an anvil, and he’d realized he’d once again lost the train of his thoughts—become derailed from his quest to find out the truth.

  It appeared that once a fool, always a fool.

  Seated next to him in the box, Caruthers laughed at the antics of a performer on the stage, drawing Simon from his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder at Huntington, who lounged in the back row, looking glum-faced. Who could blame the man? It seemed all eyes were on him, not the stage. Huntington’s marriage had been an unhappy one, but how could they think he killed his wife?

  As if Caruthers’s thoughts ran parallel to Simon’s, the man turned around in his seat and gave Huntington a sympathetic look. “Do you wish to leave?”

  Huntington shook his head.

  Caruthers frowned. “Bastards. The ton isn’t happy unless they have something to gossip about.”

  “I don’t wish to discuss it.” Huntington’s voice was firm, unbending. He looked close to losing his patience. Caruthers knew to clap his mouth shut. The marquess had a devil of a right hook, and the man looked primed to using it at the moment.

  Caruthers nudged Simon’s shoulder and pointed at the box opposite theirs in the theater. “Hey
, old chum, isn’t that your stepmother sitting with Lord Jarvis?”

  Christ, yes. Simon grunted a confirmation. So the witch had not returned to the country. Her blond hair was piled loosely on her head, making her look younger than her true age, and the blue gown she wore displayed her breasts to their full advantage.

  “I’d heard Lady Adler was back in Town,” Caruthers said. “If I might say, she’s held up quite well.”

  Unlike both Huntington and Westfield, Caruthers was unaware that Julia’s malicious lies had caused the rift between Simon and his father, though his friend knew Simon held little affection toward the woman.

  Simon’s gaze shifted to the man sitting beside Julia. Lord Jarvis was in his sixties and in poor health. The widower had only one heir. If Simon’s memory served him right, the boy would be close to seventeen. Was the woman up to her old tricks? Would she alienate this man from his son, suck the boy into a state of trust, only to accuse him of the unspeakable at a later date? Then drain Jarvis’s coffers dry?

  A knot tightened in his gut. He’d bet his last farthing Jarvis was her next plump pigeon—a way to pay off her gambling debt. Simon’s hands curled into tight fists.

  The curtain on the stage fell and the gong announced the intermission.

  Caruthers stood. “I’m in need of refreshment. Either of you blokes want anything?”

  Simon shook his head.

  Huntington, who looked like he’d not slept or eaten in days, briefly opened his eyes. “Nothing for me.”

  “Suit yourselves,” Caruthers said, and left.

  Across the theater, Lord Jarvis stood, leaving Julia alone in the box.

  Simon jerked to his feet.

  He knocked Huntington’s foot with his own. “I need you to accompany me.”

  Bleary-eyed, the marquess stared at him. “Where?”

  “Do me a favor, James. Don’t ask questions.”

  His friend and business partner stood and straightened his damask waistcoat.

  As Simon made his way to the other side of the theater, Huntington quietly followed him. When they neared Julia’s box, his friend asked, “What do you intend to say to her?”

  The man might be sleep deprived, but he was one of the most astute men Simon knew.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Just don’t toss her over the balcony.”

  Simon’s gaze swung back to his friend. He would never do such a thing, but the idea of sending Julia to the devil still contained an unwise appeal. Probably why he’d asked Huntington to accompany him. No, he knew the true reason. He feared in such a public place, Julia might rip her own bodice and accuse him of molesting her, then ask for a sizable amount of funds to not scream and draw all eyes to them. With the gossip, along with the fact his father had cast him out, the ton would believe her. Simon opened the door to the box, and he and Huntington stepped inside.

  Smiling brightly, Julia turned around in her seat. Her beatific expression fell upon seeing him.

  “You bloody witch,” Simon said. “Are you determined to ruin another family just to pay off your debts?”

  Her cheeks flushed before a catlike gleam lit her eyes. “I have no idea what you refer to, Simon.”

  “I’ll tell Lord Jarvis what you’re up to.”

  “Do you think he’ll believe you? I’ll tell him the same thing I told your father. That I scorned your advances. Who do you think Jarvis will believe? A man who doesn’t follow society’s rules, or me?”

  Curse her. She hasn’t changed.

  Julia’s gaze shifted to Huntington. “Must the marquess stand here while we discuss this?” The woman had the nerve to look down her nose at Huntington like he was no better than rubbish.

  “Yes.” Simon drew in a slow breath. “I might reconsider paying your debt, Julia.”

  One of her delicate eyebrows lifted. She knew there would be a stipulation.

  “Yes, my dear stepmother, there is a catch. If I pay off your marker, you must agree to leave Great Britain. I don’t care where you go. Be it France or America. But if you ever return, I will make the loan payable immediately.”

  “You can’t ask that of me. What about the dowager house?”

  “What about it?”

  “It is my home.”

  “And it sits on my land.” The reason he rarely went to his country house.

  She fisted her small hands. “I won’t do it.”

  He couldn’t allow her to ruin Lord Jarvis’s life, nor the man’s son’s. “I will include a yearly stipend.”

  Julia’s eyes widened. “How much?”

  “Five thousand.”

  A smile lit her face. “I’ll do it for six thousand.”

  “I’m reducing the offer to four.”

  “What?” she hissed like the snake she was.

  “If you ask me for an increase again, I’ll reduce it to three.”

  She blanched. “B-but—”

  “You have five seconds to accept, otherwise the deal is off the table. Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

  “Damn your eyes. Yes, I’ll go to France.”

  Simon forced his expression to remain bland. He opened the box’s door, eager to be away from the witch. “My solicitor will draw up the contract and be in touch. Once you sail for Calais, the marker will be paid and the funds for this year sent to you. But remember, the ten thousand pounds will be set up as a loan, payable on your return to Great Britain. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes. I’ll sign your damn papers. Better than bedding another old man.”

  As Simon and Huntington made their way back to their box, the marquess peered astutely at him. The man cocked one of his dark brows. “Why did you pay her debt? You have every reason to hate her.”

  Simon thought of Emma and her sister and what it meant to care for the members of one’s family. The bond he’d not experienced in over a decade. “Because I don’t wish Jarvis’s son to be cast aside when Julia sets her plan for the young heir in place. I’m all too familiar with how that feels.”

  Huntington clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s gather Caruthers up and get the hell out of here. I think we both deserve to get pissing drunk.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sound of hail hitting Emma’s bedchamber window woke her. The tapping against the glass stopped. Good. She dreaded the thought of venturing into the attic to empty the buckets placed under the leaks in the old roof. She pulled the counterpane tighter about her shoulders and closed her eyes.

  The noise started again. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  It didn’t sound like hail. She tossed off her bedding and slipped from the warmth. As she padded to the window, the cold of the wooden floor seeped through the threadbare rug and added to the chill traveling down her spine. She parted the curtain slightly and peered at the clear moonlit sky, then below at the street. A tall figure with a top hat stood on the pavement like an apparition rising from the low-clinging fog.

  Her heart skipped a beat before it strummed hard against her ribs.

  The man tipped his face up, allowing the moonlight to travel past the brim of his hat to disperse the shadow on his face.

  Simon? His arm moved and another scattering of what might be pebbles tapped against the windowpane.

  What madness bedeviled him? She drew in a slow breath, grabbed her white cotton wrapper, and slipped her arms through the sleeves. Avoiding the treads that creaked, she made her way down the steps and inched the front door open.

  Her unexpected houseguest swept off his hat and gave a flamboyant bow. “Emma.”

  “What are you doing out here, Simon?”

  “Taking an evening stroll.”

  His breath smelled of spirits. Was he drunk? “It is far from evening.” She peered over his shoulder to Mrs. Jenkins’s residence across the street. Thankfully the windows remained dark. “You will wake Mrs. Jenkins and draw attention to yourself if you don’t lower your voice and return home.”

  “Home,” he echoed. “Somehow, at t
he moment, it doesn’t appeal to me as much as the warmth of your house.”

  For a second, his harsh face looked vulnerable. And then the softer expression vanished, making her question whether it had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

  A light appeared in one of Mrs. Jenkins’s third-story windows.

  Lud. The gossipmonger was awake. Emma seized Simon’s hand and pulled him inside. She closed the door, barring not only the tattler’s view, but the glow from the streetlamp, leaving the entry hall bathed in only the streaks of moonlight streaming through the transom above the door.

  In the dim space, shadows cut across Simon’s angular face to highlight the dark stubble shading his firm jaw. How she’d love to paint him like this, his face dark and troubled. It seemed a glimpse into the real man—the man who not only frightened her but warmed her insides and made her daydream wicked thoughts.

  “Em, you shock me, dragging me inside your house.” His thumb swayed against the thin skin of her inner wrist. “Is it the cloak of darkness that makes you more daring?”

  A chill crept down her back. Did he refer to that night? The already heavy beat of her heart escalated. He might suspect her of being the woman who’d kissed him, but he had no proof. She needed to remember that.

  “I have no idea what you speak of.” She released his hand. “I think you are inebriated, sir. I have pulled you inside because Mrs. Jenkins is awake. That tattler will whisper words of impropriety if she sees you at my door this time of night.”

  “Ah, smart move. We can’t have the old bat telling stories, can we?”

  Emma should be vexed at him, but she smiled. “No, we cannot.”

  She peered down the corridor at the steps that led below stairs to not only the kitchen but Mrs. Flynn’s bedchamber. Thank goodness, the woman was a sound sleeper, but if Simon woke Lily there was no telling what her sister would say or do.

  “Is everyone asleep?” he asked.

  Of course they were. It was nearly two in the morning. Emma pressed her index finger to the warm surface of Simon’s lips. “Yes. Now shhh. I don’t wish you to wake my sister.”