Sweet Deception (21 page)

She certainly did. She was so tightly wound, she couldn’t utter a “yes,” though. She could barely manage a shrug.

In three long strides, he stood directly before her. His long-fingered hands delved into her hair on either side of her face and he pulled her toward him. Emma was so surprised by his suddenness, all she could do was uncross her hands and bring them to rest, palm down on his chest, before his lips took hers.

She welcomed his tongue as if it were as natural to her as long division. He groaned at her easy acceptance, and the sound pushed away the ache of tears that had been threatening.

“God, Emma,” he whispered when at last the kiss broke. Still, he pressed tiny kisses around the corners of
her mouth as he continued. His hand left her face and spread out over one of her own atop his chest. “Don’t you feel the way my heart pounds when I touch you?”

Beneath her hand, beneath the cambric of his shirt, beneath the heat of his skin, she felt his pulse racing. “Yes,” she whispered, her own heart threatening to leap from her chest. “Like mine.”

His hands skated down her sides then, fanning out when he reached her hips to cup her bottom. He pulled her tightly to him and a hot thrill swirled up Emma’s middle as his unmistakable arousal dug into her. “Believe me, I don’t find you distasteful,” he growled before taking her lips once again.

A warm glow infused her with every slide of his tongue, with every caress of his hands, with every hitch in his breathing. When, at last, Derick gentled the kiss and set her away from him a few inches, they were both panting for air.

“But we can never do this again,” he said.

“What?” Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly through the rush of blood still pounding through her ears. “Why?” She reached for him, intending to protest his ridiculous pronouncement with a rash of fresh kisses, of heated touches.

He blocked her, taking both of her hands firmly in his own, holding her at arm’s length. A pained expression crossed his face and his emerald eyes darkened. “You made me lose my control, Emma.” His voice scraped, as if he’d confessed some dire sin.

Emma tugged at his hands, her shoulders dropping in frustration even as the feminine side of her rejoiced. She’d made Derick lose control? She? “But you made me lose mine as well.” Sensation arced through her as she remembered that moment, that feeling of flying apart, of not being able to stop herself from shattering into more pieces than even she could count. It
had
been
terrifying, but also exhilarating. Unlike anything she’d ever known. And she desperately wanted to feel it again. And again…to infinity. Didn’t he? “Isn’t that a welcome thing?”

His eyes shuttered and he released her hands. “Not to me.” Derick stepped back from her, and she let him. “This never should have happened. I’m…sorry, Emma.”

“I’m not,” she said simply. Nor did she glance away from him, refusing to grant him the easy way to escape her gaze. Her blood raced faster the longer their eyes locked.

Derick broke first. He turned his face toward the door. “I’ll just let myself out, then.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Only when the door clicked behind him did she allow herself to consider what had just happened. But rather than regret or tears, it was hope she felt.

Derick had fled the room. She knew he wasn’t a coward. How could a man who had served his country behind enemy lines, the threat of discovery looming over him at all times, be a coward? And yet he’d been fleeing just the same.

You made me lose my control, Emma.

She walked over to her desk, snagging a piece of chalk from the leather-topped surface before continuing on to one of her boards. Absently she picked up the corner of her muslin skirt and used it to wipe the bottom of the board clean.

Then she set to it, the familiar clicking of chalk on slate a welcome balm.

A + B + C = D²

She stepped back, staring at the simple equation, which was turning out not to be as simple as she’d expected.

You made me lose my control, Emma.

Derick hadn’t thought that a good thing, had he? She supposed he must prize it, his control. It had likely saved
his life countless times over the years. And yet, something told Emma that
that
was the key. The integral integer that her equation was missing.

She stepped back up to the board thoughtfully and added in a pair of parentheses and a multiplier.

S (A + B + C) = D²

There.

“
S
equals seduction,” she said into the empty room. Because for reasons she couldn’t fathom, something about
her
touch had driven him to losing his vaunted control. If she were going to win him, she’d need to push him to it again and again, until he finally broke.

Her fist squeezed around the chalk. That could be a challenge. Neither of them had expected her to reach up and kiss him today. He might very well be better prepared next time, since he was so adamant that it not happen again. So how
was
she going to go about seducing him?

She glanced woefully at her bookshelves. Plenty of material about murder and mayhem, but nothing about how to tempt a man beyond his reason.

Well, perhaps she could send off for a volume or two that might shed some light for her. But it would be days, maybe a week or more, before she’d receive them. Something told her she couldn’t allow Derick that kind of time to erect his defenses. No, she had to act now, while whatever magical momentum she had over him held sway.

She tried to think back to their encounter, to pinpoint the exact moments that had so affected Derick, so she knew what to do again. Well, let’s see…She’d kissed him. He’d resisted at first, but then she’d whispered his name. Yes, then he’d lifted her up and…And…

Emma closed her eyes, rubbing her thumb and fingers together, searching for the memories.

They wouldn’t come. Her lids flew open. Though it had only happened moments ago, she couldn’t recall the
specifics. All she could bring forth were the echoes of ecstasy. Not how she’d gotten there. Not how she’d driven him there, either.

That
was a first. She always remembered everything. It was as if the pleasure had muddled her brain, made her memories foggy.

Fig.

Well, she was an intelligent woman. She could figure this out. She was just going to have to rely on her instincts.

Obviously she’d need to endeavor to get Derick alone, as much as possible. She could dovetail that in nicely with her plan to help him remember his boyhood by revisiting some of their childhood haunts.

She’d need to touch him, of course—that went without saying. She wasn’t certain yet how she’d accomplish that without being transparent, but she’d figure that out when the opportunities arose.

She glanced down at her chalk-dust-streaked dress. It couldn’t hurt if she made up a little, either.

That didn’t help you in London, did it, my girl? No one wanted you then. What makes you think Derick will want you now?

Emma frowned. Her memory might not be working properly, but it seemed the negative voice in her head was as strong as ever.

“He wants me already,” she argued aloud. For whatever reason, by whatever miracle, he did. Physically, at least.

And she planned to take full advantage of it. Then the rest would come.

H
e was being a coward. He knew it. But he wasn’t prepared to do anything about it just yet. He’d been away from upper Derbyshire for three days now, but it wasn’t enough time to cool his growing need for Emma Wallingford—a need he couldn’t act upon. All right, couldn’t act
further
upon.

After that scorching interlude in her study, he’d had no choice but retreat. In an effort to keep himself from going back for more, he’d set out to interview innkeepers not only in the village but in a few neighboring towns about the tourist Emma had mentioned the other night, Stubbins. Then he’d discovered where Smith-Barton, the man who’d jilted her, had moved and paid him a visit. She was well shot of the smarmy prig, who’d gone on and on about how he’d dodged a bullet by not marrying her. Just the idea of Emma as Smith-Barton’s wife turned Derick’s stomach. What the hell had George Wallingford been thinking, introducing his sister to such an ass? She deserved a man who appreciated how unique and extraordinary she was. A man like—

Derick wouldn’t allow himself to complete the thought.

Smith-Barton remained a strong suspect. Not only
did he raise Derick’s hackles—usually a good indicator, though Derick admitted they could well be raised on Emma’s behalf—but Smith-Barton lived rather opulently for a mere mister, though he’d claimed he’d gained his fortune through his recent marriage.

Derick had then sent an inquiry to the War Department, asking them to dig deeper into the backgrounds of Harding, Stubbins and Smith-Barton. But he wondered if it was for naught, given what he’d learned about his mother. He hated to think the traitor he hunted was actually his own flesh and blood, but he could believe it, given the faithless way she’d lived her life—an ability she’d passed on to him. Not to mention the circumstantial evidence that was piling up. Before leaving the castle, he’d had disturbing discussions with various members of the staff. His mother, it seemed, had been hastily packing in the days before her suicide. She’d been preparing to run. From what? Justice? Had Farnsworth’s asking questions about her spooked her? Had she been guilty and feared the agent was onto her?

And then Derick had found her journals. He’d known she’d been unhappy in England, but he’d had no idea how much his mother had detested this country until he read it in her own words.

Would it be such a bad thing if the traitor did turn out to be his mother? After all, the only person’s reputation that could be hurt was his own, and he’d be long gone from these shores. Yes, it would confirm that his blood was tainted even more than he’d known, but that was just by degrees, wasn’t it? It would merely give him all the more reason to put England behind him.

Emma might be able to enlighten him further about his mother and her actions. But he didn’t quite trust himself to be around her yet and not ravish her. She’d haunted him these past few days and nights, keeping his body on a knife’s edge of desire, the memory of her just as tenacious as the actual woman herself.

When he’d returned home, Billingsly had informed him that Emma had come to the castle all three days, looking for him.

She must have learned he was back, because a note had arrived this morning inviting him to discuss their investigation over breakfast. He’d sent back a polite refusal, claiming estate business.

’Twas a perfectly legitimate excuse. After all, that
was
one of the reasons he’d agreed to take this last mission in Derbyshire—and regardless of whether Farnsworth ever showed himself or not, Derick still had to make certain everything was in order with the castle and its lands before he left for the Americas. He intended to hire a local steward. As Derick wouldn’t be available to oversee the estate as a whole from abroad, he wanted a separate man managing each of his properties who would in turn report to his newly hired man of business.

That was the excuse he was giving himself, anyway. Derick looked over the list of possible applicants. There were five names on it, men local to the area who’d come highly recommended. Emma would probably have some sort of mathematical equation to determine which one of them would be best—

Damnation. She intruded even when he was doing the most mundane of tasks.

He turned his focus back to his list. He recognized two of the names as boys he’d known in his youth. Interviewing them would give him at least a couple more days of respite before he had to face Emma again—

“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.”

Derick’s head jerked up at the sound of Emma’s voice. He nearly snapped the leaded pencil he held in his hand, so tight was his grip on it.

Good God. Just one glance and he knew he was going to have to keep a tight grip on more than his pencil, because the woman standing in the doorway to his study presented one hell of a temptation.

Gone were her colorless plain dresses and mismatched footwear. Instead, a green riding dress molded to her curves—curves he would know by touch alone now—complemented by chocolate kid boots. Her rich chestnut hair ringed her face in a more intricate coiffure than he’d ever seen her wear, yet his mind’s eye conjured how it had looked only days ago, rippling down her back in wild abandon. His hands itched to feel the silky strands slipping between his fingers again. Her skin glowed soft against the fabric of her dress, making his mouth water for a taste. It would take nothing, just a tiny movement and he could be out from behind his desk and have her in his arms, his tongue skimming down the sweet valley between her breasts—

His eyes widened as they reached her neckline. Derick cleared his throat. “Did you lose your fichu on the ride over?”

Damnation, he could practically see to her navel in that low-cut vee. Well, that was an exaggeration. The dress was actually rather modest compared to some of the European styles he was used to, but there was certainly more of Emma’s bosom on display than was practical. Or advisable, given his demonstrated lack of control where she was concerned. Derick swallowed.

“I’ve decided to stop wearing them.” She shrugged. “I find this fashion much more…freeing. Don’t you?”

A not-so-innocent smile tugged at Emma’s lips. Derick narrowed his gaze. So
that’s
what she was about. He’d suspected that she was entertaining hopes in his direction, but he hadn’t counted on her active pursuit. Perhaps he should have. She’d clearly been plotting in his absence. But now that he was onto her game, he would just have to discourage her.

He shrugged in return, slipping on a mask of nonchalance. “It’s a matter of taste, I suppose,” he said, returning his gaze to the list of possible stewards before him.

Emma didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally,
he couldn’t resist a quick glance. She still wore a smile, but it seemed a little too wide, and her right fist was clenched by her side. Ah, hell. He’d injured her feelings. He shouldn’t care. If this were any other mission, any other woman, he wouldn’t care. But this was Emma, and he had no desire to hurt her. He would have to be gentler in his rebuffs. “The look is very becoming on you, however.”