Sweet Deception (13 page)

“Besides—” Derick was quick to defuse the situation. “I have no intention of using the same methods on Molly’s parents or girlfriends. It’s doubtful that one of them could be the killer, anyway. Strangulation takes almost brute strength. No, I’ll try instead to coax information from them.”

Emma huffed. “Well, if you think I’m going to keep to our bargain, you’re mad. It was made in bad faith. You said nothing about badgering—”

Derick took a quick step forward, bringing his right hand up to cup Emma’s face, his thumb brushing over her lips. He gave her a hard glare, capturing her amber gaze, enjoying when her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no, Emma. I said I would glean information you hadn’t—I said nothing about how. And believe me”—his other hand came up, tracing along her jaw—“when I do, you
will
be kissing me. Hard. Hot. And long.”

Emma’s lower lip trembled and Derick felt an answering tremor deep in his gut.

“Now go out and fetch Molly’s parents,” he ordered, surprised at how gruff his voice had gone. “I’ll wait here.” He needed the space to cool himself.

Emma backed away, fleeing the room as if her skirts were on fire. And by God, if she burned as hot as he did, they probably were.

An hour later, he had thoroughly cooled. After interviewing Molly’s parents and most of the household staff, who had known her best, Derick had learned absolutely nothing new. Emma’s posture, he’d noted, had become more and more smug with each failure. Oh, how he’d love to kiss that superior little smirk off her face—but he wouldn’t be getting the chance if he couldn’t learn anything new from this last interview. Maybe it was for the best, despite how much he’d found he wanted that kiss. He didn’t need the complication.

Three housemaids stood nervously before him, eyes downcast. So far, they hadn’t been able to tell him anything he hadn’t heard before. “Think back to the night Molly disappeared,” he said. “Was she acting oddly? Was anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, sir,” the three of them chimed, almost in unison.

Damnation. Derick dropped his gaze, thinking.

And then he saw it.

The maid in the middle had her feet pointed toward the door.

Adrenaline shot through him. She was lying!

“So none of you knew Molly was planning to go out that night?”

Three capped heads shook vehemently, but one set of toes strayed farther toward the exit.

Got you.

Derick eased back, pulling his shoulders into a completely nonthreatening stance. “Thank you, ladies. You may return to your duties.”

Emma nodded her agreement and moved to usher the girls from the room.

“Except you, Agnes.”

The little blonde froze, her hazel eyes darting first to Emma, then back to him.

Emma’s eyes narrowed on him for a long moment, but finally she said, “It’s all right, Agnes.”

The maid’s eyes implored her friends to stay with her, but the other two girls scampered from the room without looking back.

“Please.” Derick indicated the settee before him. “Sit.”

Agnes did, tucking her skirts nervously beneath her.

Derick dragged an ottoman over, positioning it scant feet from the settee, and lowered himself onto it, his knees spread so that he could lean forward and prop his elbows upon them. He kept his voice soothing, like conversational velvet. “Molly was going somewhere that night, wasn’t she, Agnes?”

The maid swallowed audibly.

“You know where, don’t you?”

Emma, he noted, was leaning in as well from her position at the side of the settee, her gaze fixed on the maid. “Please, Agnes, if you know something you must tell us.”

“B-but she’d be so ashamed, Molly would,” Agnes whispered. “If’n everyone were to find out.”

“Shame is for the living, Agnes,” Derick said. “Molly would want justice now.”

The maid covered her face with shaking hands, pinkened from hard work, that muffled her soft sobs.

Derick leaned back, giving the girl some space. He glanced up. Emma was staring at him, her lips pressed in a grim line. He stared back. Her eyes shone with admiration. And concession. He’d impressed her, finally, and it felt ridiculously satisfying.

“She went to be with her lover.” Agnes’ voice broke the connection between Derick and Emma.

“Marwell, you mean?” Emma asked, her brows dipping.

Agnes cast her eyes down, giving a slight negative shake of her head. “’Twas Thomas Harding, m’lady. Fr-from Wallingford Manor.”

Emma gasped.

“Your footman,” Agnes finished.

“W
e wanted to marry.” Thomas Harding stood stoically in the drawing room of Wallingford Manor, his hands clasped behind his back. Emma watched him carefully. A head shorter than Derick, blond where Derick was dark, soft where Derick was hard. When she compared the two, Harding appeared…slight, young.

He did not, however, appear to be giving anything away that she could tell.

Emma turned her attention to Derick, trying to see where his eyes were focused. What was
he
looking for? Because clearly there was something to this body-communicating nonsense, and it was a language Derick understood. And one she desperately wanted to learn. She detested this feeling of inferiority.

Emma wondered just how Derick had learned it—it certainly wasn’t something routinely taught at Eton, she’d wager.

“If you wished to marry each other so badly,” Derick said in his blasé drawl, “perhaps you might explain why Molly was betrothed to Marwell?”

The footman’s blue eyes flickered for a moment, but
otherwise the young man didn’t move a muscle. Unless she missed it?

“Her parents pushed her toward the butcher,” Thomas said. “Wanted her out of service. Marwell already has a nice cottage in the village. He’ll have his own shop soon. Me, I’m just a lowly footman.”

“Did Molly’s parents know about you?” Emma asked. She hated to think she’d missed that, too.

“No. Molly and me, we knew they’d never give their blessing. So we tried just not to think on it, to enjoy every day as it came and not worry about the future.”

“And when she married?” Derick asked casually.

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know if she would have gone through with it.”

Derick’s nonchalance vanished, his voice and stance suddenly hard. “And now you’ll never know, will you?”

Emma flinched at the harsh statement, but Thomas didn’t so much as blink.

She remained quiet through the rest of the interview, relieved for once that she wasn’t required to say anything. Hearing that Molly’s last hours were spent beneath her very own roof turned Emma’s stomach.

Just as shocking was the change in Derick. Coldly relentless, he drew out the details of Molly and Thomas’ liaisons with skill and efficiency. He was nothing like the fop he’d been these past few days. Emma had the eerie feeling that she was finally glimpsing the
real
Derick. Had he been playing a part all this time? Why would he do such a thing?

Thomas held up well throughout the whole ordeal. She would have been in tears ages ago under Derick’s onslaught, and she rarely cried. But Thomas showed no more emotion than the Elgin Marbles. He admitted nothing more than the affair, no matter how hard Derick pressed him.

“I kissed Molly good-bye, and she slipped out of my
room to return to the castle just before dawn, like always,” he repeated, nearly word for word for the fourth time.

“If you say.” Derick moved to stand directly in front of the footman. “Hold your hands out in front of you like so.” Derick raised his own hands, palms facing forward, fingers splayed.

At that, Thomas blinked. “W-why?”

“Just do it,” Derick growled.

Thomas brought his arms around. His hands were pale but powerful-looking, his fingers long. Emma couldn’t stop an involuntary shiver. Long enough to have easily wrapped around Molly’s throat, leaving the marks they’d found.

Derick must have thought so, too. A tic formed in his jaw. “Pack your belongings, Harding. I want you gone from this house. Immediately.”

Emma’s eyes flew to Derick. While she didn’t relish having a potential killer in her employ, Derick had gone too far. She stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. “May I speak with you in the hallway?”

Derick’s head turned and he narrowed his eyes. His features seemed carved from limestone and he stood as hard and immovable as it, too.

“Now.”

Derick followed her without protest, though the dark expression that flashed over his face suggested he was holding one back…barely. When they reached the hall, he ordered Perkins into the drawing room. “Don’t let Harding out of your sight.”

The butler glanced at Emma, a worried frown tugging at his lips, his brows rising as if asking for her approval. She gave a sharp nod.

When she and Derick were alone, Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you think you are doing?”

The tic in Derick’s jaw jumped even more noticeably. “I am removing a threat from your home.”

“
That’s
not for you to decide.”

A sharp inhalation made Derick’s nostrils flare. “You think not?”

Emma couldn’t help drawing in her own breath. The very air around Derick hummed with an energy that caused her skin to tingle. What on earth had him so incensed?

“Someone has to watch out for you, Emma.” The concern in his voice coated her in an oddly delicious way.

Worry for her had wrought this remarkable change in Derick? A slow heat took Emma by surprise. No one had ever shown such upset on her account.

His next words doused the pleasant warmth before it could spread too far.

“As your brother isn’t capable and
you
clearly don’t have the common sense the good Lord gave a flea, I suppose it will have to be me.”

Emma gasped and thumped her hand against her chest. “I’ll have you know, Derick Aveline, that I have intelligence in clubs.”

“Clubs?” Derick shook his head slowly. “That’s spades, Emma. You have intelligence in spades.” A low chuckle rumbled his chest. “Unruffle your feathers, Pygmy,” he murmured, his voice laced with a wry amusement and something else. Affection? “It’s not an insult. Intelligence and common sense are far from the same thing.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that. And I’m not going to just toss Thomas out. I shouldn’t have to point out that he may very well be innocent.”

“He may,” Derick agreed, but his voice had gone frigid again. “He may also be a cold-blooded killer. So either he leaves”—Derick rose to his full height and actually
flung an arm out to point toward the grand staircase—“or you march yourself upstairs and order
your
things packed, because you are not sleeping under the same roof as that man.”

Emma scoffed. “Oh?” She planted her hands at acute angles on her hips. She had no patience for his high-handedness. “And just whose roof would you have me sleep under, then?”

Derick closed the remaining distance between them faster than she could rattle off the square root of pi. Emma backed away, bringing her hands in front of her in a halting gesture—but not quickly enough. His arms closed around her, hauling her tightly to him. Her thighs crashed against his as she found her hands pinned against his chest.

“Mine.”

Derick’s heartbeat thumped erratically against her palms and a shiver coursed down her body in counterpoint to his hands, which skimmed upward to capture her face.

The lips that met hers were hard, demanding. Hot. Emma whimpered, not in distress but in sheer overwhelmed sensation. Derick surrounded her. His size dwarfed her, as usual, but it was as if she were also wrapped in his being, his experience.

He backed her against the flocked wallpaper, using his body to anchor her for his kiss. Thrills shot up Emma’s center, and her breath caught in her throat. The only coherent thought in her mind was
Finally.
She’d been kissed before, of course—she’d been engaged, after all. But
finally
, after years of dreaming about it, she would know what it was like to be kissed by Derick Aveline.

But he seemed to want something far different from the chaste pecks she’d experienced with Mr. Smith-Barton. And she wanted to give it to him, only she wasn’t certain what “it” was. She pressed her closed lips against
his with as much frantic energy as she possessed, but all it seemed to do was frustrate him, if the groan that ripped from the back of his throat was any evidence.

His thumbs moved to her chin, tilting her head back as he gently parted her lips. Emma had a mere fraction of a second to wonder at that before he sealed his mouth over hers. Shock rippled through her as his warm tongue slipped between her lips and rubbed along her own. Shock and heat, then chills. More heat. A curious string pulled longitudinally through her middle, tugging at her breasts and a lower, more sensitive spot that turned her legs to pudding. She thrust her arms up and around Derick’s neck, using him to steady herself.

She opened wider, giving him more access, sending her tongue on a foray of its own.

Her enthusiasm seemed to incite him further. His kiss became rougher, his breathing more ragged. Emma reveled in it, reveled in the fact that somehow, some way, something in
her
had effected this change in him.

“Christ, Emma.” Derick groaned, pulling his lips from hers to burn a fiery trail down her neck. Oh, it was so much better than she could ever have imagined in all those hours, days, months she’d dreamt of being in his arms. Her chest hitched. It became increasingly hard to draw breath, and when his hand cupped her breast, kneading it with firm, rhythmic squeezes, she stopped breathing altogether.

When she did draw air again, it came in a harsh, hiccuping gasp that echoed off the cold marble floor. It was the equivalent of a dousing in St. William’s Creek in early spring. Emma’s chest constricted, and her mind cleared in an instant. She was acting the trollop in the middle of her own foyer. Oh God. The servants. George. What would they think if they saw her? What would they say?

Derick’s lips continued downward in hot licks, his mouth nearing her scooped neckline.