Viscount of Vice (3 page)

Except she was.

He smiled. “Let me know if you change your mind, my lady.” He bowed, and Emma gritted her teeth.
Now
the man bowed to her. “In the meantime, I have an appointment.” And he strode away.

Emma stood, hands clenched, alone at the edge of the dance floor as the music ended and her sister, along with a dozen other well-intentioned protectors of her virtue, descended.

Flynn stepped outside and took a deep breath. The weather in Bath was warmer than it had been in London, and the air seemed cleaner. He needed a good breath of air because, as usual, he had done something idiotic.

He did not want to think about it, so he scanned the street outside the assembly hall for Derring. Devil take the man! He'd said he would be here by ten to take him to Robert. Flynn had wanted to go directly to Robert upon arriving in Bath, but Derring had insisted Flynn allow him to separate Robert from the local crime lord first.

A ball had been the last place Flynn wanted to be. It made a convenient meeting place, and two gentlemen conversing in an assembly hall would be inconspicuous, and so Flynn had not argued. Very much. But now he was here, and Derring was not, and he was standing on the street with nothing to do but wait and think.

He did not want to think. But thoughts of her intruded despite his efforts to block them.

He'd seen Lady Emma long before she'd seen him. He'd watched her for close to half an hour. He knew as soon as he'd spied her that he should leave. The first time he'd ever met her, he'd wanted her. Her brother had not been wrong about that. She'd been barely sixteen then, and he'd been a guest at her brother the duke's wedding. He'd known who she was, of course. She and her brother looked too much alike. And he'd also known she was young. He'd felt like some sort of old man lusting after a young girl. He was almost ten years her senior. He had no right to look at her, think of touching her, kissing her.

But how could he
not
look at her? How could any man not look at her? She wasn't pretty.
Pretty
was how one described the pale blond beauties with their cornflower-blue eyes and their pink cheeks. They were tall and thin and regal, their necks so stiff he wondered if they creaked when bent. If they ever were bent.

Emma was the antithesis of the pale English beauty. Her skin was golden, the kind of gold a woman's skin took on when she lay naked in front of a hearth. Her eyes were dark and large, as though she were perpetually aroused. She had mahogany hair that would look exactly right spread out on his sheets. And her body…

Flynn took a deep breath. It was better if he did not think of her body. At sixteen she had been almost gangly. Now she was round flesh and sweet curves.

Flynn tugged his hand through his hair, snagging it in a tangled patch and using the sharp pain to tug his thoughts from Lady Emma. Why had he spoken to her, danced with her? He'd almost kissed her. Ravenscroft would have had his head if he'd done that. The duke had been wise to repeat his warnings. Ravenscroft would probably call him out if word of this night reached him. Flynn had not kissed Emma, but he'd acted like a complete ass by challenging her to kiss him. Of course she hadn't done it.

Thank God—if there was a God.

“Lord Chesham?”

He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. This was proof not only that there was a God, but that God hated him.

He turned and watched as she strode toward him. The steps leading to the upper room, where the ball was being held, were briefly visible in the lamplight before the door closed and the street was again shrouded in darkness.

“You need a more vigilant chaperone,” he said as she approached. She walked confidently, showing no fear. Little fool.

“I told my sister I was going to the retiring room.”

“You took a wrong turn.”

She stepped closer, and he stopped himself from retreating. He could still detect her light, captivating scent. It reminded him of the flowering trees he'd walked among at Ravenscroft Castle. He wanted to look about to see if he could spy any flowering trees nearby.

“I changed my mind.”

He did not want to understand her, but she'd stepped closer again, and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. He made it a point never to dally with innocents, but neither was he a saint. “Go back inside,” he told her.

She faltered for a moment, then seemed to muster her courage again. “I don't want to go inside. I want to be out here. With you.”

Oh, hell. What was he supposed to do with that? She was the proverbial apple, the forbidden fruit, dangling in front of his nose.
Pick
me. Pick me.
She was almost touching him now. He felt as though her body possessed some sort of magnetic force, pulling his into contact with hers. His hands came up to cup her arms where the skin between her gown and her gloves was bared. Her skin felt cool to his gloveless hands and softer than anything he'd ever touched. Surely there was no harm in touching her. There was no harm in rubbing the pad of his thumb up and down the line of that velvet skin, feeling it warm to his touch, watching as she swayed toward him as though drunk on the contact.

He looked down at her face, but her eyes were hidden by long, thick lashes that threw a crescent shadow onto a cheek burnished by the glow from the windows above. Her skin was spun gold, the wisps of hair blowing across her cheek were ribbons of polished mahogany, and her lips… He forced himself to take a breath. Her lips were ripe and swollen, so ready to be kissed, suckled, tasted.

Her gaze met his, her eyes dark. “Will you allow me to kiss you?”

He recognized his own words, almost laughed that she would give them back to him this way. But he could not laugh. Not when his entire body was tense from her nearness, not when it took everything he possessed to keep the erotic images of her his brain insisted on conjuring in check, not when he felt completely powerless against whatever it was drawing them together.

“Yes.” That had been her answer.
No.
That was what he should have said.
No.

But she'd already risen on tiptoes, the softness of her breasts crushing into his chest. He held his breath. If he inhaled her fragrance, he would never resist her. And he was going to resist her. He was going to stop her. He had every good intention, until her lush lips brushed across his and a frisson of heat passed between them. His body jerked, and then warmth spread from his mouth to his fingertips, where he held her.

And that was when his illusions of good intentions evaporated. He dug his hands into her soft arms and crushed her against him. Her body was so giving, so pliant. She melted into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, pushing her back against the wall of the assembly hall. His hands slid into the deep ocean of her hair, and he angled her mouth where he wanted it. Her sweet kiss made his chest hurt, and he could not stand the ache. It was a familiar ache. He would not allow himself to feel the unnamed emotion. It was one he knew, one he trusted. He slanted his mouth over hers, pressing it to hers possessively. He nipped at one of her plump lips, then sucked it to ease the sting. She tensed, and he felt her surprise. Flynn trailed sweet kisses across her upper lip, traced that same path with his tongue, then kissed her, teasing her lips open until he could slide his tongue inside.

“Oh!” she murmured.

He stroked her tongue, sliding against it as he wanted to slide his body against hers. Her breath hitched, and he thought she might push him away. Instead, her hands fisted in the wool of his coat and pulled him closer. Her own tongue, so tentative, sought his, touching it, stroking him as he'd shown her.

Flynn was on fire now. He dug his fingers into the wall behind her to stop from pulling her hair painfully. The action also stopped him from touching her as he wanted. But there was no such safeguard for the rest of his body, and his knee parted her legs, spreading them wantonly and brushing gently against her warm core.

“
Oh…
” she breathed against his mouth.

She was so sweet, so innocent, so far, far away from all that he was or would ever be. He was doomed. Even he, jaded as he was, knew when a kiss was so much more than a kiss.

“Emma…” He did not know what he planned to say. With any other woman he would have asked her to his bed, in less polite terms. With Emma, he feared he planned to propose marriage.

She looked up at him, the light from above illuminating her eyes so he could see just how large they were and just how much she wanted him. His gaze trailed to her mouth, now pink and swollen from his lips. And, because he was a fool who could not resist torturing himself, he dropped his gaze to her breasts, which rose and fell rapidly, and which his hands itched to touch.

He dug his fingers harder into the wall, feeling the splinters prick his calloused flesh, and concentrating on the pain to give him fortitude. Anything—the sound of approaching hoofbeats, the faint strains of the orchestra above, the thump of footfalls—to keep him from focusing on those short, quick breaths that forced their bodies flush against each other. “I…”

“Lord Chesham?”

Flynn jerked back, shielding her with his body. Her face showed surprise at the voice, but not alarm. It was not her chaperone.

He turned, still angling so she would not be seen. Behind him stood a young lad of probably ten or eleven.

“Do you know where I can find Viscount Chesham?” the youth asked. “I have a message for him.”

Flynn blinked, his thoughts fuzzy and slow to clear. “I am he.”

The lad's face scrunched in disbelief. “I-I was sent to deliver this note personally to the viscount.” The boy indicated a square of parchment he held tightly in his hand.

Flynn nodded and held out his hand. “I am he,” he repeated.

Still the lad hesitated. Flynn hardly blamed him. Viscounts were not typically found accosting women, looking disheveled and disreputable. Unless they were the Viscount of Vice.

Without warning, Lady Emma peered out from behind him. “He really is the viscount,” she said. “You can trust him. Hervey?”

The boy's jaw dropped, almost comically. “Lady
Emma
!” The lad shot daggers at Flynn. “What did you do to her?” Emma's young protector lunged at him, and Flynn raised his hands defensively. It was ridiculous, really. The lad couldn't have hurt a puppy, but Flynn had been taken off guard.

The boy collided with him, and Flynn held him back with a hand on the youth's forehead. The little thug was undeterred, though his small feet moved uselessly on the packed earth beneath his feet. “You know this…rantipole?” he asked Emma over his shoulder.

“He works for Doctor Emerson.”

Flynn peered down at the little fighter. “That true, lad?”

“I'll kill you!”

“Why would Doctor Emerson be looking for me?” This question was directed once again to Emma, who, though she could probably not answer it, could at least speak in phrases other than death threats.

“Doctor Emerson has a good practice, though he also volunteers at the hospital. Perhaps your mother sent him.” As she spoke, she moved out from behind Flynn. “Hervey. Stop. Settle down.” She laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, and he ceased attacking.

Flynn raised his brows in surprise. She was either some sort of lion cub tamer or the boy trusted her. But Flynn's question remained. His mother did not know he was in Bath. The message could not be hers.

“Why did Doctor Emerson send you here?” she asked.

The lad nodded at Flynn. “He's looking for that one—the viscount.” He held out the now crumpled paper to Emma, and she took it, passing it to Flynn. Flynn opened it, but the boy spoke the missive's contents before he had a chance to read them.

“Doc's treating a
real
gentleman, a Sir Brook Derring.”

Now the lad had Flynn's full attention. “What's wrong with Derring?” Derring was the only one who knew where Robert was hidden. The investigator was Flynn's last hope of finding his lost brother—if the man Derring had found was actually his brother.

“He's not coming,” the boy said. “He's been stabbed.”

* * *

Emma stared at Hervey. “What did you say?”

At the same time, Flynn said, “How the hell did that happen? Is he still alive?”

Hervey ignored the viscount and directed his words to Emma. “Doc wouldn't let me see the wound.” He sounded disappointed, which might have seemed gruesome to her, but she knew young boys and their fascination with blood. “I heard Mrs. Emerson say the man had been stabbed. He was alive when I left. At least alive enough to write.”

“Take me to him,” Flynn said, starting forward. “Shall I signal for a hack, or is it close enough to walk?”

The boy scowled at him. “I'm not taking the likes of you nowhere. There's innocent ladies about.”

Flynn's expression grew dark. Emma could see he was in no mood to tolerate this sort of foolishness. He could easily have argued that it was
she
, not he, who had done the accosting, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was more a gentleman than he wanted to appear. Quickly, she stepped forward. “I'll take you, my lord. He lives in King's Circus. It is within walking distance, but at this hour, a hack might be more prudent.”

“No.” Flynn was shaking his head. “Lady Emma, you are not coming. Simply tell me the direction, and I will find my own way.”

“I will go along. I know the doctor and his wife. They might need my assistance.”

“You will go upstairs and find your sister-chaperone, and have her escort you then.”

“We can stand about the street arguing all night,” Emma said, “or we can go to your friend.”

Flynn stared at her with those hazel eyes, while Hervey continued to look from one to the other. Flynn's look might have intimidated some—very well, it intimidated her—but she was not giving in. Resisting the urge to wilt, she did the only thing she could think to avoid such a fate: turned on her heel and began walking.

“Where is she going?” Flynn asked Hervey from behind her.

“There's no telling with Lady Emma.” Hervey's voice sounded full of reverence, which made Emma smile.

“Emma!”

She was tempted to ignore Flynn's sharp call, but that would mean actually walking to the Emersons' on foot in the middle of the night, and even she was not that foolish. She paused and peered over her shoulder. Flynn had signaled a hack, and he motioned to the approaching vehicle. “Get in.”