Chapter Twenty
“You’re going to wear a path in the rug, my lord,” Baines said, sticking his head out of the dressing room off Simon’s bedchamber.
Simon shot the valet a narrow-eyed scowl and slumped into the upholstered chair by the window. Bracing his forearms on his knees, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Emma Trafford was a quandary—a puzzle in need of solving. Everything about her residence, from the threadbare rugs to the faded furniture, proclaimed misfortune had settled on her household, yet she’d been about to take Nick in. How could such a woman be his she-devil? She was the antithesis of how he’d expected the woman to act.
Emma was kindhearted. One only had to witness how she loved her sister. In fact, she should be canonized for the patience she bestowed on the child.
You’re wrong about her being your femme fatale, a voice in his head whispered. Was he? Or was she just that sly? He recalled Westfield’s comments about Simon’s evidence being shoddy at best, and if he was honest with himself, Simon would agree. And he’d not seen any man call on Emma, except that bumbling grocer. Doubtful that fool was her accomplice.
Simon thought of that dreadful book he’d been reading about Inspector Whitley. The man had an innate sense of who his suspects were—a gut feeling. And everything within Simon felt he had the right woman. Everything, but his common sense.
“Bloody hell,” Simon grumbled.
Baines appeared in the doorway of the dressing room again. “Did you say something, my lord?”
“No, just talking to myself.”
“Oh dear,” Baines mumbled.
“What?” Simon narrowed his eyes at the man.
“My first employer, Lord Hutten, started talking to himself. And we all know what happened to him. Dreadfully sad when a gentleman of sixty-five insists he be dressed in short trousers and wants his maids to spank him while proclaiming him a naughty boy. He was mad, and it all started after he began talking to himself.”
“Once again, Baines, you are a comfort to have around. And Hutten wasn’t mad, he was perverse and sexually frustrated.”
“Might that be your problem, my lord?” Grinning like a sly fox, the man strode back into the dressing room.
No, that wasn’t his problem. Or was it? In truth, Simon couldn’t step within three feet of Emma without feeling some damnable reaction. He was like a bloody dog in heat. He should get in his carriage and return to Mayfair. Forget about finding his ring. And forget about Emma, her warm smile, and the odd contentment he had begun to feel every time he entered her house. He touched the back of his head. The lump had vanished, but he was sure that blow had done something to his brain.
Releasing a heavy breath, Simon stood and strode to the painting Emma had done of the family walking in the park. Harris had set it on the mantel. Simon ran the fingers of his left hand over the painted surface and touched the woman’s likeness. She was blond like Emma and the gentleman dark-haired. As if unable to stop himself, his fingers drifted to the baby sitting in the wicker perambulator. The infant, with full cheeks, wore a white dress and lacy bonnet. Simon thought of Westfield’s son and how the toddler smelled. Would this infant smell the same way?
My God, he was going mad. This was a painting. Nothing more.
Baines said something.
Simon glanced over his shoulder. The valet stood in the dressing room doorway again, one of Simon’s coats draped over his arm. “What?”
“I said, Miss Trafford is quite skilled.”
“Ah, yes. Quite. I think I should have the painting reframed.”
“I’m sure Lord and Lady Westfield would appreciate that.”
“Westfield?” Simon echoed.
“Didn’t you purchase it as a gift for them?”
Had he? He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, of course.”
“So should we pack it up? Send it to be reframed and delivered to their residence?”
Simon turned back to the painting and centered it better on the mantel. “No rush. Maybe I’ll give it to them for Christmas.”
Baines chuckled.
What the deuce did the man find so funny?
* * *
Usually Emma enjoyed afternoon tea as a break when painting.
Not today.
Over the rim of her porcelain cup, she watched Simon, who sat across from her at the small table in her studio, finish his slice of Mrs. Flynn’s Victoria sponge cake. He licked a bit of raspberry jam off the tip of his finger.
Emma’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t look at his sinful mouth without thinking of the kiss they’d shared the other day, or how he’d drawn her finger into his warm mouth. Throughout the afternoon, the memories had continued to insinuate themselves into the forefront of her thoughts. The days they’d spent apart hadn’t cooled her desire for him. It seemed to have strengthened it.
Lud, I need to find a way to return his ring to him, finish this painting, and send Simon Radcliffe on his way. She cleared her throat. “This afternoon, I intend to do some shading. I don’t believe it should take more than an hour at most, so I shall not keep you very long.”
Instead of looking relieved, a crease dissected the smooth skin between his brows.
Was he disappointed? Had he missed her? What silliness to contemplate such a thought. You are a ninny, Emma Anne Trafford. A bumbling fool.
Simon nodded. He stood and offered her his hand.
Not wise to touch him. Without taking it, she stood. The heat of his gaze warmed her back as she strode to the easel. He watched her like a hawk setting his sights on his prey. Was he once again trying to throw her off balance? All day, he’d been glancing at her as if she were a specimen in ajar.
As he passed her on his way to the chair, he leaned close. “Is something the matter, Emma?”
There seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes. “No, but I was wondering the same thing. Is something bothering you?”
His brows drew together. “Of course not. Might I ask why you’d think that?”
Because you’ve been staring at me, more intensely than usual, she wanted to say, but she bit the inside of her mouth to halt the words.
“Emma?”
“It’s nothing. Now please sit, so we might resume your painting.”
Over the next hour, Emma worked on Simon’s portrait, shading in the hard angles of his face, the hollows below his high cheekbones, and the line of his jaw, slightly darker than his face. It seemed no matter how close he shaved, it didn’t remove the shadow of his bristles, which added to the look of danger he exuded.
Piano music drifted into the room. Not the harsh banging she’d become almost immune to hearing, but an enchanting sound. Emma placed her brush down and moved to the doorway. Setting a hand on the casings, she leaned into the corridor and cocked her head toward the lyrical notes.
The music, the skill with which the pianist struck the keys, as if an extension of their hands, made her breath catch.
She felt the warmth of Simon’s body as he moved to stand behind her at the doorway.
“Lily?” he asked.
It could be no one else. Mrs. Flynn was a skilled baker, but she didn’t know how to play the piano. “Yes. It must be. Though only nine when our father died, this is how she played before his death. I remember the first time she sat and started tinkling with the keys. She’d barely learned to talk, yet she had this innate ability.”
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.”