Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  He was an arse. He’d all but accused her of thievery. Only minutes after they’d shared the intimacy of their bodies. And being with Emma had felt unequaled by anything he could recall. Her soft sighs. The way she’d looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes. It had been perfect before he’d opened his damn mouth.

  He was an idiot, but tomorrow he’d make it up to her.

  * * *

  The following day, Simon leaned back in his office chair, propped his feet on the desk, and opened the velvet-covered jeweler’s box. The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the blue topaz pendant that dangled from a gold chain. He brushed his thumb over the large stone. After leaving his boxing club this morning, Simon spent over an hour at Hancock’s, on the corner of Bruton and New Bond Streets, choosing the necklace for Emma, settling on this one because the brilliant stone made him think of her lovely eyes. Then he’d bought Emma a new parasol to replace her damaged one, Lily sheet music, and Nick a trundling hoop.

  He’d hoped to give Emma the necklace during their sitting this afternoon, but returned home to find a missive canceling their appointment. Once again, she stated she was baking bread. She was avoiding him.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  Harris entered. The smoke filling the corridor drifted into the room, along with the scent of burnt food.

  It appeared Baines’s most recent attempt at cooking was as futile as the others. Simon stifled a groan. He didn’t think he could force himself to eat another abysmal meal. This morning the toast resembled coal and the rashers were nearly as dark. In an effort to save not only his palate but his stomach, Simon had dined at a chop house for luncheon.

  Bushy gray eyebrows cocked high, Harris walked over to the desk and peered at the necklace. “Very nice, my lord. Is it for Miss Trafford?”

  “It is.” Simon snapped the box closed and slipped it into his top desk drawer.

  Harris pointed at the frilly pink parasol set on the corner table. “Is that for her, as well? Or are you to use it?”

  Simon ignored the question and the silly smirk on the butler’s face. “What is Baines burning?”

  “A beef roast.”

  “I think I shall dine at my club this evening.”

  “He’s called in the cavalry, my lord.”

  “Cavalry?” Simon asked.

  “Mrs. Flynn. After she finishes baking bread, she has agreed to help Baines resuscitate dinner.”

  It smelled beyond hope, but if anyone could salvage it, Mrs. Flynn could. Simon stood. “Was there something you needed, Harris?”

  “Yes, Baines wishes to know if you’d prefer béarnaise or port sauce?”

  “Whichever he decides, is fine.”

  “Very well, sir.” Harris strode to the door.

  “Do you know if it is Mrs. Flynn’s half day?” Simon asked.

  Harris turned around. “I believe so.”

  Perhaps if he invited Emma and Lily to dine with him, Emma would accept, and he could give her the necklace. Simon removed a piece of parchment from his paper tray, penned the invitation, and handed it to Harris. “Please deliver this to Miss Trafford and wait for her reply. I’ve invited her and Lily to dine with me.”

  The butler’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Miss Trafford and her sister? How domestic, my lord. Are you finally considering taking a wife?”

  Marriage? Lord, no. So few of them were successful. He need only look at his own family. His father’s and Julia’s marriage had been a sham. And what of poor Huntington’s union? A disaster. No, he didn’t intend to marry. Marriage wasn’t something one should take lightly, like his stepmother had. It required commitment. Love. He shook his head.

  * * *

  As Mrs. Flynn enthusiastically mixed flour, yeast, and water into a glutinous glob in the hot and humid kitchen, Emma dragged her sleeve over her forehead to wipe away the perspiration prickling her brow. They’d been making bread for nearly two hours.

  With a sigh, she kneaded the mixture on the wooden board. The moist dough stuck to her palms like glue. The scent of yeast, which at first seemed pleasant, had lost its appeal over an hour ago.

  Fast footfalls thundered on the stairs. With a broad smile, Lily stepped into the room. “Em, Mr. Radcliffe has bought Nick a trundling hoop. Do you want to come and see it?”

  It shouldn’t surprise her that he’d bought the boy a gift. Simon might try to hide it, but he was kind. She thought of how he treated his two manservants and the extra money he’d given her when he’d purchased her painting of the family in the park.

  “Em, do you wish to see it?” Lily repeated.

  Was Simon outside, as well? She both craved seeing him and feared it. The task at hand suddenly seemed a godsend. “I wish I could, but”—she lifted her flour-incrusted fingers and wiggled them—“as you see, at present I’m engaged in helping Mrs. Flynn make bread.”

  Lily scrunched up her face. “Why would you ever wish to do so?”

  Indeed. She’d asked herself the same question, repeatedly. She knew the answer. She wished for a distraction—something to steer her mind away from what she’d engaged in with Simon last night. An impossible task. Her body still hummed. Her lips tingled. And a tiny pulse beat between her legs when she recalled the pleasure of Simon’s body joining with hers. But all of it was tempered by the fact that she’d lied to him.

  “I thought making bread today would be enjoyable.” Foolish thought, that.

  “Not for those who must eat it,” Lily mumbled.

  The child was right. Emma’s loaves always ended up hard as bricks on the outside and too mushy on the inside.

  “Now you go on outside,” Mrs. Flynn said. “And leave your sister be.”

  After Lily left the room, Emma glanced up at Mrs. Flynn. “She’s right. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

  “That means you can only improve. And you will.”

  Obviously, the fumes from Emma’s paints and turpentine were affecting the woman if she thought Emma would ever be a skilled baker. Emma pressed her fingers knuckle deep and continued to work the sticky dough.

  “It’s too wet, dearie,” Mrs. Flynn said. “Add a bit more flour.”

  Emma scooped a measure of flour out of the crock and dumped it over the dough. A cloud of golden powder drifted into the air. Coughing, she turned her face into her shoulder and sneezed.

  The housekeeper snorted.

  Emma’s own laugh took hold of her. She licked at the flour on her lips and dusted off her face.

  Still chuckling, the older woman opened the oven and took out several baked loaves. Mrs. Flynn’s bread looked perfect, symmetrical, and golden in color. They were most likely light and airy inside. Emma’s, on the other hand, looked misshapen, crusty, and all around unappealing. Lily would insist they give them to St. George’s parish as alms for the poor. But with their money dwindling, they couldn’t afford to do so. Perhaps Mrs. Flynn would use Emma’s to make bread pudding.

  Lily’s fast footfalls pounded on the stairs again. She dashed into the kitchen and waved a piece of paper in the air. “Mr. Radcliffe has invited us to dine with him tonight.”

  Emma’s heart stuttered in her chest. “At his house?” The words came out like a squeak.

  “Of course at his house. He says he wishes you to experience Mr. Baines’s cooking firsthand.”

  Even though nervous about seeing him again, she couldn’t help her smile.

  “Don’t worry, dearies,” Mrs. Flynn said. “I’m going to help him cook the meal.”

  “Can we go?” Lily anxiously shifted from one foot to the other. “His pinched-faced butler is awaiting your reply.”

  A wide grin took up the lower half of Mrs. Flynn’s face. “Say yes, dearie.”

  She would have to see Simon sooner or later, and seeing him with her sister would be safer. And it might be the perfect opportunity to place his ring somewhere in his house so he’d find it. Or perhaps it was time she trusted Simon and
told him the whole story about that night in his house. “Tell him we would be honored.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Simon paced the floor of his bedroom and let out a slow breath. Why was he nervous? It wasn’t as if he’d never dined with a beautiful woman before. Though he couldn’t recall ever inviting one’s sister. Not true. There was that one time in France, but they’d been twins, dancers, and his reasoning a bit wicked.

  He stepped in front of the mirror in his dressing room, buttoned his blue silk waistcoat, and straightened his gray tie, a shade lighter than his trousers. The only thing good about Baines taking over the kitchen was the tranquility of dressing without the valet hovering over Simon like a doting nursemaid.

  Releasing another slow breath, Simon shrugged into his charcoal-gray coat and stepped out of his bedchamber. The pleasing scent of savory and sweet cooking filled the air. God bless Mrs. Flynn. As Simon took the last step into the entry hall, the knocker sounded against the front door. Harris, standing by it, reached for the handle.

  “I’ll get it.” Simon waved the butler away and rushed forward.

  The man blinked. “Really? I must say, sir, you appear as anxious as a cat about to be bathed. Are you sure you’re not more enamored with Miss Trafford than you realize?”

  “Go away!” he snapped, realizing the man touched on an emotion Simon didn’t wish to examine.

  The butler grinned.

  Trying to control the scowl on his face, Simon opened the door. Lily peered at him with a mischievous expression, while Emma offered a slow, hesitant smile.

  A place close to his heart clenched.

  His gaze drifted over her blue silk gown. Unlike the high-collared dresses she normally wore, this gown revealed more of her luscious skin. He wanted to drag Emma upstairs and nibble every inch of her soft, rose-scented body.

  As if she could read his wicked thoughts, her pink cheeks darkened.

  “Hello, Emma, Lily. Welcome.” He moved aside and they stepped into the entry hall.

  Emma, still looking uncomfortable, held her sister’s hand like a lifeline. “Good evening, Simon. We thank you for the invitation to dine with you.”

  “I should be thanking you. Mrs. Flynn is a godsend. My house hasn’t smelled this good since . . . Well, I cannot recall it ever smelling this wonderful.” He winked. “But don’t tell Baines that.”

  Lily turned and saw Harris standing behind her. The child jumped back and squeaked.

  Simon bit back a laugh and motioned to the drawing room. “Please have a seat. I’m sure dinner will be ready shortly.”

  Inside the room, Lily stopped in front of one of the chairs and rubbed her finger over the embroidered flamingos, then giggled. “You like birds, Mr. Radcliffe.”

  Those damnable chairs. “Not particularly.”

  Emma shot her sister a stern glance. “Lily, please sit.”

  Exhaling a heavy sigh, Lily strode to the settee. The child squealed with delight as she passed the table with Simon’s copy of Inspector Whitley’s Crimson Lord. She snatched it up, plopped down on the cushions, and started flipping the pages. “Did you read it, Mr. Radcliffe? Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Wonderful wasn’t the word he would use to describe it. “Whitley certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”

  Lily nodded enthusiastically.

  “Good gracious.” Emma peered at him, the pensive expression on her face replaced with mirth. “Don’t tell me you’re reading that drivel, as well.”

  Simon grinned. “I was curious.”

  Harris stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready.”

  Lily sprang to her feet. “Good, I’m starved. Can I bring the book with me?”

  “No, you may not. Please leave it here,” Emma said.

  Simon offered Emma his arm, and she rested her hand on it. A jolt of warmth shot through his body. Strong. Powerful. Disconcerting.

  As they stepped down the corridor, Emma leaned close to him. “Simon, after dinner I need to speak with you.”

  That pensive expression returned to her face. His gut tightened. “Is something wrong? We can step into my office and you can tell me now.”

  She nibbled her lower lip. “No, we will talk after dinner.”

  Something was definitely troubling her. Perhaps she was still worried over her brother.

  Lily scrunched up her nose when they stepped into the dining room.

  Understandable. The wainscoting was a putrid green and the upper half of the walls were done in pink and orange stripes. He’d have it painted. He could ask Emma to suggest a color. Simon frowned. What was he thinking? He owned a lovely home on Curzon Street. Did he intend to stay here?

  “You sure like pink, Mr. Radcliffe, and this green looks like pea soup,” Lily said, drawing Simon from his thoughts.

  “Lily,” Emma chastised.

  Simon chuckled. “No, she’s right. It does look hideous. What color would you both suggest?”

  “I like emerald, and Emma’s favorite color is blue.” Lily glanced nervously at Harris as the butler pulled out a chair for her.

  “Is blue your favorite, Em?” Simon asked, thinking about the necklace he’d purchased for her as he pushed her chair in.

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Yes.”

  The door to the dining room opened and Baines walked in carrying a silver tray and soup tureen.

  Hopefully, Mrs. Flynn had made whatever was in it.

  Emma leaned close and grinned. “You look almost as green as the walls.”

  “You think yourself a wit. You won’t be laughing if Baines made it,” he whispered, returning her cheeky expression.

  “Oh, now you have me frightened.”

  “You should be,” Simon replied with a laugh.

  Baines lifted the lid and the scent of rosemary and thyme floated through the room.

  “I think that smells like Mrs. Flynn’s herb soup,” Emma said, a hopeful tone in her voice.

  Baines nodded. “It is, miss, but I added a few additional spices to it.”

  Everyone seated at the table stiffened.

  Without thought, Simon slipped his hand over the white tablecloth and grasped Emma’s fingers briefly and gave them a squeeze. Somehow sitting next to her felt right, even with Lily staring at him like she wanted to stick her fork in his hand.

  * * *

  The warmth of Simon’s fingers grasping Emma’s made her heart beat a little faster. She’d experienced the same flutter when he’d answered the door. Guilt continued to plague her over lying to him. She slipped her finger into the pocket of her gown and clasped the warm metal of Simon’s ring. After dinner, she would tell him everything—trust him. If he cared for her, he’d understand. Her stomach knotted. It was a leap of faith, but she needed to take it.

  Baines stepped next to her with the tureen. Emma pulled her hand from her pocket to ladle herself some soup. “It smells wonderful, Baines.”

  Smiling proudly, the man finished serving, set the tureen on the sideboard, and exited the room.

  “You try it first,” Lily said to Simon.

  Tentatively Simon dipped his soupspoon into the creamy broth and brought it to his mouth. The tense expression on his face eased. “It’s delicious.”

  Lily tasted it. “Mmmm.”

  Emma lowered her spoon into the soup. Raised voices in the corridor stilled her hand.

  “See here, miss, you can’t go in there. The master is entertaining,” Harris said in his stiff baritone.

  “We’ll just see about that, we will, you clodpoll,” a woman screeched. The sound of glass shattering rent the air, followed by fast-moving footsteps.

  Simon paled. Mumbling a blasphemy, he stood with such force, his chair toppled backward. With a white-knuckled grip, he caught it before it crashed against the floor. The dining room door burst open. A redheaded woman, wearing a costly gown of sea-green silk with layers of tasseled fabric, stood on the threshold.

  “Vivian,” Simon said.
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  Lily sucked in an audible breath. Her hand clutched Emma’s arm. “She’s not dead,” she mumbled.

  No, not dead, and the woman’s hurt expression, anger, and obvious confusion clearly stated Simon had not severed his relationship with the redhead. Emma’s stomach rolled. A strong wave of nausea followed. She’d been foolish once again.

  The woman, whom Simon called Vivian, set the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead. “Simon, what is going on? That lummox at the door tried to stop me from coming inside and . . .” The woman’s gaze shifted to Emma before falling back to Simon like a pendulum. The redhead’s shoulders stiffened, and her eyes shot daggers. “Is this why you sent me on holiday? You rutting dog! Has this scrawny light-skirts taken my place? A bloody dancer, no doubt!” The woman looked at Lily. “And this one’s no more than a child!”

  Heat colored Simon’s high cheekbones. His hand flexed. “You think I would touch a child?”

  As if oblivious to his anger, the woman continued, “Where are my things? Have you packed them away?” Before Simon could answer, the woman plucked the ladle from the soup tureen and threw it at him.

  He sidestepped. The ironstone utensil clacked against the wall and tumbled to the floor. Soup splattered around the room.

  Emma lifted her napkin and wiped her cheek.

  Grinning, Lily used her sleeve. “This is better than one of Inspector Whitley’s books.”

  Something bumped Emma’s leg. She peered under the table to find the cat cowering beneath. Kismet’s ears were plastered down on his head. His hair stood up straight on his back. The animal made a mad dash out of the room and past Harris, who stood gaping like a beached fish.

  It seemed like a comedy—a farce one would see on a rowdy East End stage, yet the unsettling sensation that Emma had been nothing more than a diversion to Simon while his lover was away rendered laughter impossible.

  Mrs. Flynn and Mr. Baines appeared in the doorway. Their startled gazes traveled from Simon to the enraged woman, then to Emma.

  Without a word, Simon moved to the redhead, set his hand on the woman’s back, and ushered her to the doorway. Mrs. Flynn, Baines, and Harris parted like the Red Sea before Moses.