“And how did you know that?”
“I opened Mrs. Flynn’s carpetbag and saw everything you went to hock still inside,” Lily explained.
The child was incorrigible. “I had the situation well in hand. I didn’t need to be rescued.”
Next to her, Simon snorted.
She faced him. “Mr. Wolf would have let me paint him in lieu of some of the payment if you hadn’t barged in.”
Mrs. Flynn gasped. “You were going to paint that wicked man?”
“Wouldn’t be the first wicked one I painted.” She shot Simon a pointed look.
He leaned close. His warm breath touched her ear. “You did more than paint me, Em,” he whispered sotto voce.
Her cheeks heated. She glanced out the window.
After weaving through the crowded streets of London, the vehicle pulled up in front of her residence. Simon stepped out and offered his hand to Mrs. Flynn and Lily.
Emma stood to exit.
Simon climbed back inside, closed the door, and locked it.
Her pulse quickened. “What are you doing?”
“You and I need to talk.”
“There is nothing for us to converse about. I owe you three hundred pounds, and I’ve decided that is what I will charge you for your portrait.” She waited for him to argue over the exorbitant fee.
“Fine.”
Emma blinked. “You agree to that price?”
“Yes, fair enough.” Simon pulled the curtains closed, darkening the space.
It took several seconds for Emma’s eyes to adjust to the dim light, but even beforehand, she sensed how intensely Simon watched her. Being alone with him wasn’t prudent. She reached for the door handle.
His warm fingers wrapped about her hand, stilling her. “I want you to explain why you lied to me, Emma.” There was a dangerous undertone to his voice.
What had Lily told him? She swallowed. “I don’t know what you speak of, sir. I’ve told you everything. I’m a thief who wished to profit off of ill-gotten gains.”
His index finger traced the line of her jaw. “So it was your idea to break into my house?”
“Yes.”
He leaned close and nipped at her earlobe. “Liar.”
Her already erratic heartbeat picked up speed. “What did Lily tell you?”
“Everything. Now tell me why you lied to me.”
Tears burned her eyes. Because he wanted a mistress, and she could not accept that role. If she spent too much time with Simon, she feared she might fall in love with him. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d already toppled head over heels. And his mistresses drifted in and out of his life like the seasons.
“The truth, Em,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.
“Because I cannot become your mistress. If I had children they’d be bastards. I will not bear children that society scorns. I’ve decided I want more out of my life. I want a family and a husband who wishes to grow old with me.”
“Do you care for me, Em?”
A warm tear trailed down her cheek. She nodded.
His grasp on her hand tightened. “Then say it.”
“Yes. Damn you, I love you.”
* * *
With the pad of his thumb, Simon brushed a tear off Emma’s cheek. What a fool he’d been. He’d offered the one woman who loved him, not for his title or wealth, a position as his mistress. Why?
He needed to remember she wasn’t Julia. Emma was kind and loving. Yes, she’d lied, but only to protect her sister. Even that act, in itself, said so much about her character. He didn’t doubt Emma would have gone to jail for her sister.
He’d not realized how strong one’s love could be. Well, that wasn’t true. He saw it every time Westfield looked at his wife. Every time the man looked at his children. And if he was honest, he envied him—wanted what his friend had. Yet he’d allowed his distrust to mar his perspective. Emma had not kissed him because he was a member of the peerage. In fact, when she’d found out who he was, she’d been angry. She wasn’t looking for a wealthy husband or protector. She was strong and independent, not manipulative and vindictive.
“But I still won’t agree to be your mistress, Simon,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
“I apologize for even asking that of you. There are things in my past which have left me jaded.” Holding her hands, he told her about Julia.
“Oh, Simon, that is horrid.”
“I didn’t tell you this because I want your pity. I need you to understand me. Can you see yourself with me for the rest of your life?”
A puzzled expression crossed her face. “What are you asking of me?”
“If you will marry me.” The sudden silence seemed deafening. He understood her apprehension. She’d been ill-used, but he wasn’t Charles Neville, just like she wasn’t Julia. “If you say yes, first thing tomorrow I’ll get a special license. Or, if you prefer a large wedding, we’ll have the banns read.”
“Why do you wish to marry me?”
There were so many reasons, but the most important one was easy. “Because I love you.”
As if waiting for him to expand on his response, she said nothing.
He wasn’t used to saying pretty words, but surely he could explain how he felt. “Emma, the thought of you not being by my side makes my future seem bleak. Unfulfilled. I want you to share my life. To bear my children. Our children.” Good Lord, had he just said children? Indeed, and the thought of holding a child, their child, warmed his heart.
Her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “Children?”
“Yes. A whole cricket team of them.”
“Eleven?” she squeaked.
“Well, perhaps that is a bit too many. But however many you want.”
“And what of Michael and Lily?”
“They will be part of our family. I shall do my best to help you raise them, though I fear Lily will turn me gray.”
“She, along with my brother, might turn us both gray.”
“Then you’ll marry me?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her lips against his. “Yes, if you’re up for the task.”
In the dusky light of the vehicle, he saw the sparkle in her lovely blue eyes. “Oh, sweeting, I’m definitely up for the task.” Simon opened the carriage door, clasped her hand in his, and pulled her across the street to his closed-up residence.
Mrs. Vale stepped out of her house. “Mr. Radcliffe! We have missed you.”
Mrs. Jenkins exited her residence, as well. The gossipmonger’s gaze dropped to Simon’s and Emma’s joined hands. She frowned. “People will talk if you two don’t show better decorum.”
“Madam,” Simon said, keeping his expression bland. “You, of all people, should know that I don’t always follow society’s rules.”
A puzzled expression settled on the woman’s face. “Me?”
“Yes, indeed. Aren’t you more aware of my actions than I am?”
The lines between Mrs. Jenkins’s gray brows deepened. “I’m still puzzled.”
“You don’t recognize me? How could one forget a man one claimed to have seen rowing almost naked?”
The windbag’s eyes widened. “Y-you aren’t . . . ?”
“I am. The one and only Lord Adler. And once everyone learns who I am, they will know you are a lying gossip and full of... balderdash.”
Wide-eyed, Mrs. Jenkins slumped against her door and grasped her bodice as if her heart might cease.
“And as far as decorum, Miss Trafford and I are to be married.” Without looking back, he pulled Emma inside his town house.
“That was wicked, Simon,” Emma said.
“Admit it. You enjoyed that immensely.”
She laughed. “I did.”
“Now come into the drawing room and let me collect on your promise of repentance.”
“Repentance?” she echoed.
“Didn’t you promise it before your sister hit me with that dashed vase?”
“Ah, yes.”
A flash of red colored her cheeks, but she reached under her skirts and slipped the garment off.
His manhood grew hard. He crooked his finger. “Come here, dearest heart.”
Smiling, she stepped in front of him.
He slid his hands up her stockinged calves to her bare thighs, bringing the skirt of her dress upward, exposing her triangle of hair. His bollocks drew tight against his body. With her skirts lifted, he pulled her body atop his so she straddled him, and slowly slipped the buttons of her bodice free. This joining of their bodies would not be rushed, only savored like one of Mrs. Flynn’s lemon tarts. He drew the garment off her shoulders and arms so it pooled at her waist, then removed her corset and shift until her breasts were bared to his hungry gaze.
God, she was lovely. Lightly he drew his index finger from her neck to her collarbone. His greedy mouth captured one perfect breast, sucking gently at first, then harder before his tongue lapped at the peaked nipple.
Arching, Emma moaned. Shifting backward, she worked loose the buttons on the fall of his trousers and slipped her hands into his drawers, freeing his hard manhood. Her cool fingers wrapped about his girth and slid down his shaft.
A guttural noise escaped his mouth. Perhaps they wouldn’t do this slow. Already he felt close to exploding. “In this position, my dearest Em, you’re in control. Slide your body over mine. Then take me in you.”
She pressed her knees into the cushion of the seat and lifted herself enough to angle him at her opening, then slowly lowered herself, encasing him in her slick passage.
He sucked in a quick breath. She felt perfect. His hands clasped her buttocks, and he lifted his hips. “Move, love.”
With her hands on his shoulders, she grinned and rose until she had a steady rhythm. Her lovely breasts jiggled in front of him, and he dipped his head to suck and lap at the hard peaks. He drew back and held her gaze. “I love you.”
As if his words were a catalyst, she tensed as her pleasure took hold.
He cupped the back of her head, brought her mouth to his, and spilled his seed into his future wife—the woman he loved with all his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twelve weeks later, Simon was tutoring his wife on how to engage in scandalous afternoon behavior when a knock sounded against their bedchamber door. “Go away,” he snapped.
“Simon.” Emma gave him a playful slap on his arm. “What will the servants think?”
He really didn’t care. All he could think of was burying his hard manhood into his wife and bringing her to climax. “Yes, what is it?” he grumbled.
“A Mr. Bishop is here, my lord,” Harris said. “He wishes to speak with her ladyship.”
Grasping the blankets to her naked breasts, Emma sat upright in bed. “Did you say Lawrence Bishop?”
“Yes, my lady,” Harris replied. A calling card flew under the door like a burst of air.
Emma’s eyes widened. She clasped Simon’s naked thigh and squeezed.
He wished she’d move her hand a little to the left.
“Simon, Mr. Bishop is the art dealer I told you about. His acquisitions sell for ungodly amounts at Christie Manson and Woods auction house. I sent him a letter months ago, asking if I could show him several of my portraits, hoping he might send some customers my way. He never responded.”
Emma leapt from the bed, taking all the bedding with her, leaving Simon naked.
He sighed. Bishop had picked the most inopportune time to call on Emma. Sporting a heavy cockstand, Simon got up and pulled on his trousers.
Emma picked up the card and blinked. “Mr. Lawrence Bishop. Purveyor of Fine Art,” she read aloud. “It is him. Simon, did you ask him to call on me?”
“Me?” Simon smiled as he slipped his shirt over his head. Emma’s newest works were extraordinary and needed to be seen by more than her family.
She narrowed her lovely blue eyes at him. “You asked him to call, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps. Harris, are you still waiting outside the door?” Simon asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell Bishop her ladyship will be down shortly.” Simon sat on the bed and dragged on his socks and shoes. “Don’t keep the fellow waiting, darling.”
“But I look horrid. I can’t meet him now.”
“Of course, you can. And as always, you look beautiful.”
Blushing, she opened the door, still clutching the blankets around her naked body.
“Emma?”
She spun around.
“Though I think you look absolutely fetching, I suggest you get dressed first.”
“Oh my!” She slammed the door closed.
Not even fifteen minutes later, Simon watched his lovely wife fidget as Bishop walked about her studio on the top floor of their Curzon Street residence.
The rosy color Simon had put on his wife’s cheeks, mere minutes ago, was gone, and she was twisting her hands nervously together. She appeared completely unaware of the talent she possessed for doing genre and landscape scenes. Bishop would be a fool not to snatch up all the paintings Emma had recently completed. Lately, she painted scenes of London and the countryside at a fanatical pace, stating Simon was her muse.
Bishop tapped a finger to his pursed lips and stared at a painting Emma had done last week, of the front of Mrs. Flynn’s new bakery shop. Simon smiled. His investment in the shop would pay off if Mrs. Flynn could keep Baines out of its kitchen.
Lifting her shoulders slightly, Emma glanced at Simon.
Relax, he mouthed. They are fabulous.
You’re biased, she mouthed back.
He was also eager to get her back to their bedchamber and continue his lesson on debauchery. His wife was a very adept pupil.
Bishop removed his gold-rimmed pince-nez off the bridge of his nose. “Hmm. You did this?” He pointed at the painting with his glasses. His voice held a tone of authority, along with a note of accusation.
Did the art dealer think it unworthy? Simon would toss him out on his arse if he hurt Emma’s feelings.
“Yes.” Her voice came out on a barely audible whisper. But she squared her shoulders. Simon could tell she was quite proud of the painting. “I did,” she replied more forcefully.
Good girl. Never back down.
Setting his glasses back on his nose, Bishop once again studied the artwork.
“Mr. Bishop, I’m a bit confused as to why you’re here,” Emma said. “Do you know someone who wishes to have their portrait done?”
“No,” was the man’s succinct reply. The art dealer walked about the studio, and every once in a while he’d stop before a painting and make a little noise, which seemed to originate from the back of his throat. At present, he stood before a landscape with a field of flowers.
Bishop made that odd noise again, glanced over his shoulder at Emma, and returned his attention to the painting. “You’ve never displayed your work?”
“No.”
For the first time since entering the room, Mr. Bishop smiled. And the concern in Simon melted away.
“I’d like to represent you, Lady Adler. Would that be agreeable to you?”
* * *
As soon as Bishop left, Simon grabbed a bottle of champagne and pulled his wife back into the bedchamber to engage in a private celebration. He’d just set two champagne glasses on the bedside table and popped the cork, when someone knocked on the door. He took a deep breath and counted to ten.
Emma giggled. “It’s probably Lily. Last I saw of her, she was besting Harris in a game of chess. She probably wishes to tell us all about it.”
Harris and Lily seemed an odd pair, but since Baines and Mrs. Flynn had announced their plan to marry, and Simon had sent Nick away to the s
ame school Michael attended, Lily and Harris had grown close. “I think it about time we ship your sister off to some private school. Perhaps in Switzerland.”
“That’s too far away, and you’d miss her as much as I would.”
He would miss the little hellion, but he gave a noncommittal grunt, and called out, “Yes, what is it?”
“What are you two doing?” Lily asked.
“We’re playing twenty questions.” Simon smiled.
Emma’s eyes sparkled and she chuckled. “Lily, we’ll be downstairs shortly. We’re getting dressed.”
“You two change clothing more than anyone I know.” Lily’s heavy sigh filtered through the door. “Hurry. I want to tell you how I trounced Harris at chess.”
Simon poured the champagne. “I think Switzerland is too close. Perhaps we could send her to America.”
His wife smiled and slipped out of her gown.
Simon’s gaze settled on the slight swell of Emma’s abdomen. As usual, that place next to his heart ached. He was going to be a father. He pulled his wife to him and kissed her gently. “Thank you, Em.”
“For what?”
“For loving me and allowing me to be part of your family.”
Emma pressed her lips to his. “Our family, Simon. Now and always.”
Love these scandalous lords?
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
the next book in the series,
NEVER KISS A
NOTORIOUS
MARQUESS,
coming soon.
And be sure to read
NEVER DARE A WICKED EARL,
available now from
Renee Ann Miller
and
Zebra Books,
wherever books are sold!
Helmsford, England
April 1878
The carriage hit a rut as it sped down the road. With an unladylike curse, Caroline Lawrence grasped the seat to stop herself from toppling to the floor. She’d obviously hired the worst hackney driver in all of London to convey her to the Essex countryside.
“Whoa,” the cabbie called to the horses. The ill-sprung vehicle slowed and jerked to a stop.
Never Deceive a Viscount Page 27
