Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  His mouth parted, and his tongue touched her finger before he gently bit the tip. Like the last time he’d done the same thing, heat exploded in her belly.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  She did, but she’d not admit it to him. She shook her head.

  “Let’s try it again and see, shall we?”

  “Behave,” she chastised, trying to sound stern even though her body craved his touch. Needing to distance herself from him, she spun on her bare feet and moved to the morning room. Emma parted the shutter an inch and peered at Mrs. Jenkins’s house. The light still glowed from one of the gossipmonger’s windows, silhouetting a figure standing before it.

  The squeak of the floorboards and the warmth coming off Simon like a hot grate alerted her to his presence behind her. Goose bumps prickled her skin.

  “Trapped like a fox during the hunt,” he said, his breath touching the crown of her ear.

  Did he mean him or her? She turned around. A foolish move . . . only inches separated their mouths. Terrified of what she would do, Emma scurried by him. He needed to leave. And fast, before she did something reckless. She grabbed his hand and led him down the dark, narrow corridor to the rear door.

  “You’ll have to go out this way,” she whispered, releasing his hand.

  He leaned against the wall in that lackadaisical way that made him look harmless when he was anything but. His dark gaze traveled the length of her body. Her nipples peaked. She grabbed the open edges of her robe and wrapped the fabric tighter about herself to hide his effect on her body.

  With a determined glint in his eye, Simon stepped close and set his broad palms on the wall behind Emma—one on each side of her shoulders.

  That heat his body exuded engulfed her again—a near tangible flame. He smelled spicy and male, more enticing than one of Mrs. Flynn’s desserts.

  “I’ve thought about kissing you all day, Em.” Slowly he lowered his head.

  The scent of brandy teased her nose. And curse her for wanting to taste it on her tongue. He pressed his lips to hers. A gentle kiss that turned urgent as his mouth moved hungrily against hers. Molten heat flooded her body. Everywhere. As if of their own volition, her hands lifted to his shoulders. She forced them to return to her sides. Was he playing a game of seduction again, trying to lower her defenses?

  He pulled back. “Come now, Emma, I know you can do better than that.”

  “You are drunk, Simon. You cannot come into my house in the middle of the night and kiss me so wickedly.”

  “Wicked?” he repeated, as if she’d laid down the gauntlet and challenged him. “Really, my dear Emma, that kiss didn’t even skirt the edge of wickedness. Now the kiss we shared that night you snuck into my house . . . now that was wicked. Two strangers. In the dark. Do you ever dream about it, darling? I must admit I do.”

  He didn’t sound intoxicated anymore. No, he sounded quite sober. The dark, almost predatory look in Simon’s eyes set the nerve endings in Emma’s body on alert.

  “Tell me you don’t think of it. What is one more lie between us?”

  “I don’t know what you refer to.”

  “Really? Let me see if I can refresh your memory.” He lowered his head and set his firm lips against hers, coaxing them open as he deepened the kiss. He tasted of liquor and desire. His mouth skimmed over her cheek. His tongue touched the rim of her ear.

  She heard her own whimper. The place between her legs grew damp. And, not for the first time, Emma wanted this man to teach her everything he knew about carnal pleasure—to dislodge the memory of her and Charles’s encounter, which lacked tenderness and had only inflicted pain. As if drawn by an undeniable force, she slid her hands over his hard chest.

  She would have sworn his muscles quivered under her touch, but most likely that was nothing more than an illusion brought on by her own need and the fog of desire clouding her head. While his tongue continued to stroke hers, his left hand settled on her waist and skimmed upward. The tips of his fingers left a trail of heat on her back, while his thumb traveled over the front of her ribs until he reached the underside of her breast.

  Don’t stop. Please. She whimpered in frustration.

  As if he understood her discontent—her need—his thumb swayed against the thin material of her nightgown, stroking her peaked nipple. Her breasts grew heavy, tingled.

  His mouth shifted to her ear. “Do you like that?”

  What a wicked question. She shouldn’t answer him. “Yes.”

  She felt his smile against her neck. His hand cupped the weight of her breast and squeezed. Gently at first, before applying more pressure. Her bare toes curled against the wooden floor.

  This was wrong. Well, at least it was wrong to stand so close to the basement stairs. If Mrs. Flynn came up the steps, she’d see them. Emma might not be thinking straight, but she was lucid enough to know the precariousness of the situation. The housekeeper would take a frying pan to Mr. Radcliffe’s head.

  “This way,” she whispered. She took his hand in hers and pulled him back into the morning room off the front entry hall. Quietly she closed the double doors and locked them. With the front shutters drawn, only scant moonlight cut into the dim room.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Simon stood close, watching her. What was he thinking? God, what was she thinking? She should have asked him to leave, not dragged him into this room, but ever since the first time they’d kissed, she wanted Simon to show her what it felt like to be loved properly.

  As if submerged and coming up for air, her conscience buoyed to the surface. Intent on opening the door and sending him on his way, Emma grasped the handle.

  Simon’s fingers settled over hers, stilling her movements.

  Then it all happened so fast. She was in his arms again. His mouth on hers. Almost frantically, she slipped his coat off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it, then his fingers gathered the front of her robe and drew the garment down her arms. The soft material brushed against the backs of her calves as the robe fell to the floor. Cool air filtered through the thin material of her nightgown—a welcome reprieve from the heat scorching her skin. She worked at the buttons of his waistcoat. It landed on the rug, adding to the pile of garments by their feet.

  “If we don’t stop, Emma . . .” His voice trailed off. His jaw tensed.

  She didn’t want him to stop. She got on her toes, pressed her open mouth to his neck, and tasted the salt on his flesh.

  “Good Lord,” he mumbled. He lifted his fingers to the buttons that lined the front of her nightgown, but hesitated.

  Did he feel the heavy beat of her heart? Construe it as fear? It wasn’t. She was beyond analyzing her thoughts. Goodness, every kiss, every touch, every stroke made her desire him. She wanted this. And that knowledge freed something within her. She’d let Charles take her innocence because she’d been frightened after Papa’s death. Grief, and the uncertainty of her siblings’ lives and her own, had sent her into a place she thought too dark to find her way out of by herself.

  Perhaps she’d never truly loved Charles. Only gravitated to him because he seemed an anchor in a chaotic storm, allowing her to confuse her grief with another powerful emotion. But this act between her and Simon was something she craved.

  Fear didn’t precipitate it, and that understanding empowered her. She gave a slight nod of her head.

  It seemed all he needed. He undid the buttons of her nightgown. The soft cotton brushed against her skin as it slithered over her shoulders, hips, and legs, landing in a puddle by her feet. Simon’s hungry gaze traveled the length of her naked body.

  “You’re lovely,” he mumbled. “Perfect.”

  She wasn’t perfect. But she didn’t wish to contemplate whether his words were false flattery aimed at one goal.

  He lifted his shirt over his head. Moonlight settled on his taut skin to reveal the muscles that shaped his masculine form. As an artist, she’d always thought the male body lovely. She’d studied it. Simon�
��s eclipsed any she’d seen on canvas or in life. He was beautiful in every conceivable way, honed smooth, and contoured as though set on Earth by a master sculptor. Once again, she was struck with how she wanted to paint him. Not sitting in a chair with his fine bespoke garments, but in dim lighting, his body unclothed, and moonlight reflecting off his skin.

  His hands shifted to the fall of his trousers.

  Emma stifled the nervous laugh working its way up her throat. Instead, she concentrated on the intensity of Simon’s eyes and the way the muscles in his shoulders flexed as he removed the garment.

  He tossed his trousers, along with his drawers, onto a nearby chair. Her gaze dipped to the rippled muscles of his abdomen. Then lower to the thin line of hair that trailed below his navel to a bush of hair and his jutting manhood.

  Gracious me. She swallowed. She might not have seen Charles’s shaft before he’d ruthlessly thrust it into her, but she doubted it had been so large. A sudden fear overcame her. Would it hurt again?

  She’d little time to contemplate it all. Simon pulled her into his arms. Her breasts pressed against his firm chest—a tantalizing meeting of skin on skin. Each point of contact an overwhelming heat that dissolved her questions, leaving only desire.

  With her face cupped in his hands, he set his lips to hers and gave her a deep, intoxicating kiss. His hands traveled down her body, cupped her bum, and lifted her. The hardness of his erection nudged the spot between her legs.

  One minute they were standing, the next lying on the threadbare carpet. It didn’t offer much softness, but that seemed of little consequence to either of them. There was a frenzied need to their movements, as though if they didn’t hurry some catastrophe would forestall them.

  A burst of lightning lit the sky outside, sending an illuminating flash between the edges of the shutters. The streak of light touched Simon’s skin, making him glow as if an illusion. Would she awake in a tangle of sheets to find this was nothing more than a dream?

  No, the scent of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, and the heat between them was more than a dream could conjure. This was neither dream nor illusion, and in the morning she would suffer the consequences of her actions, but she didn’t care. She was already ruined. Really, what difference could this make? Except she was about to allow the enemy to have his way with her, but Simon seemed too far removed from that part of him she feared. It appeared they’d both laid their differences aside for this one glorious moment of passion.

  Lying on his side, he pulled her next to him. Simon stroked the tip of one of her breasts with his tongue before drawing the pebbled peak into his mouth. He made a noise—appreciative in its tone, like a gentleman experiencing the finest brandy on his palate.

  Unable to help herself, she watched his mouth moving against her flesh. A low moan eased from her lips. The desire to touch him overwhelmed her. “May I touch you?”

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” He cupped her hand and placed it on his hard length.

  She slid her hand down the silky shaft to the base.

  Simon’s eyes drifted closed. The muscles in his neck tightened. She doubted the fierce expression on his face reflected pain. No, he enjoyed her touch as much as she enjoyed his.

  While she touched him, his palm ran over her inner thigh and settled on the most private part of her body, where she was wet. A pulse thrummed where her legs joined. She arched into his hand. Her breaths came fast.

  Shifting, he settled between her legs. The firm pressure of his hips spread her thighs wider. His dark gaze held hers, and she felt the tip of him pushing into her. Slow at first, as if he thought it would hurt her, but there was no pain, just a stretching, and then he was in her. Hard and thick. There was no burning like last time. Only a fullness that seemed perfect.

  For a minute, he stared at her. Did he know the truth? That she was already ruined?

  His mouth came down on hers. Fierce. Demanding. Was there anger in the act? No, she didn’t believe so, just desire. She felt the play of muscles in his shoulders as he cupped her bum and lifted her slightly. He moved his hips, then pulled back, never breaking the contact, and then filled her again in a slow, erotic way that built up anticipation for the next stroke of his hard flesh. She arched against him, drawing him in farther.

  He moaned, a low, primal noise, and pressed himself so tight against her, the pulse between her legs exploded. Once, twice, three times, gaining intensity. The odd sensation left her breathless. The intensity slowed, leaving her both sated and drowsy.

  His once slow movements picked up speed. He drew back and thrust forward. Uttering a blasphemy, he pulled out. His warm seed spilled on her thigh.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice raspy. He reached for his coat, withdrew a handkerchief, and cleaned her.

  Thank goodness Simon had enough sense to think of that. Charles had pulled out a sheath of some kind. Anger stirred in her. The bastard had set out to sleep with her. She would not think of it now—not let it ruin the contentment Simon’s lovemaking had caused within her.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the room. Beside her, Simon lay on his back, his eyes open, his breath labored.

  Rain begun to tap against the windowpanes, and she suddenly realized how cold the air was. She wanted to cuddle up to Simon and absorb the warmth coming off his body. As if he was thinking the same thing, he pulled her into the crook of his arm. She set her head on his chest. The beat of his heart was fast, like hers, yet everything within her felt calm, relaxed.

  For long minutes they lay together, their bodies warmed by each other’s. Content, Emma fought the urge to close her eyes and drift off to sleep.

  Simon’s stomach rumbled.

  “Hungry?” she asked with a small laugh.

  “Famished. Baines is a dreadful cook.”

  “That bad?”

  He chuckled. “Yes.”

  Simon appeared to be a man accustomed to only the best. So why did he continue to eat Baines’s terrible cooking? “Are both your manservants related to you?”

  Simon grinned. “No, but I must admit I care for the two old coots like family.” He moved as if to touch his ring and, not finding it there, visibly stiffened. He ran his index finger over her bare arm. “I need to ask you something.”

  Emma knew what it was, and, for a moment, her heart stopped.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The beat of Emma’s heart, which had slowed after their lovemaking, resumed with a wicked force. She knew what Simon wished to ask her. Are you one of the thieves? She could all but read the question in his eyes. The problem was, she didn’t know if she trusted him. Their joining had been fueled by a rash desire that neither had wanted to deny—not love, and surely not trust. That might be a bridge they never ventured across.

  Simon shifted sideways. His gaze locked on her. “Do you remember when I told you about my ring having been stolen?”

  Finding it nearly impossible to talk, she nodded.

  “The thieves who broke into my house across the street, hit me unconscious and took it. I’ve been on a mission to find those responsible.”

  “A mission?” she echoed, stalling for time as she pondered what her response would be. If she told him the truth, would he forgive her? She wasn’t sure.

  “Yes.” His sensual lips thinned into a straight line. “I need to know. Were you somehow involved, Emma?”

  The vulnerability in his handsome countenance tore at her. Tears pressed at her eyes. Lying to him went against every fiber in her being, but the fear inside her overshadowed all else. She’d trusted Charles and that was the most foolish decision of her life. Would trusting Simon be as reckless?

  She forced a carefree laugh. “Me? You believe I entered your home and stole your ring?”

  “I’ve considered it.”

  The tautness in his face reminded her of the man who’d entered her house an hour ago, not the one who’d just made love to her. Emma took a deep breath. In truth, she hadn’t taken it.
Lily had. “I swear to you, I did not steal your ring, Simon. I swear on my sister’s life.”

  His eyes widened.

  Yes, that got his attention. He realized she loved Lily—knew she wouldn’t say such a thing if untrue.

  “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

  Unable to draw a breath through the guilt clogging her throat, she nodded again.

  * * *

  If ever Simon had wanted to believe someone, it was now as Emma stared at him with an innocent expression on her lovely face. More than once, he’d questioned his belief she was involved. Westfield was right. Simon needed to admit that his evidence against her was practically nil. So why had he all but convicted her? Had he wished for a reason to explain the damnable attraction he felt for Emma?

  The sound of someone moving down the stairs pulled him from his thoughts.

  “Emma! Are you downstairs?” Lily called out.

  Eyes huge as saucers, Emma scrambled to her feet. “Yes, dear. I’m . . . reading.”

  The footsteps drew closer. The handle turned. “Why is the door locked?”

  Simon tugged on his trousers as Emma slipped on her nightgown and hastily buttoned it. “I must have turned it by mistake. Go back to bed. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “I’ve got two pairs of socks on my feet, and I’m still freezing,” Lily said. “May I sleep with you? I promise I won’t take my socks off and rub my cold toes on your legs in the morning to wake you up.”

  “Yes, climb into my bed. I’ll be up shortly.” Emma slipped her arms through the sleeves of her wrapper.

  Lily’s slow yet heavy footfalls echoed as the child made her way back up the steps.

  Emma turned to Simon. “Can you let yourself out the back door?”

  “Yes, of course.” He snatched his shirt off the floor. As Emma dashed by him, he couldn’t resist clasping her hand and pulling her warm body against his. Reluctant to leave, he kissed her for a long moment. When he released her, unshed tears filled her eyes, but before he could say anything, she pulled her wrapper tight about her body and dashed from the room. Simon fought the urge to follow her and ask what was wrong, but he knew the answer.