Viscount of Vice Read online

No wonder he was yet unmarried. At age forty, he was young for a peer, but she had already determined she would not settle. Her brother had told her she would settle for whomever he chose. He’d said this with a smile, and considering he was no tyrant, she was not overly concerned. Still, her sister Katherine, her chaperone for her first Season, and in whose rented house she now resided in Bath, had tried valiantly to impress upon Emma that it was her duty to marry a man who would bring honor to the family and be worthy of marriage to a duke’s daughter. Katherine said it was her duty, as Emma’s chaperone, to find Emma a good match. How Emma detested being anyone’s duty.

  “And did I tell you about my Lincoln Red bull?” Lord Ihle asked.

  Emma blinked and attempted to concentrate. “I…”

  “I can trace his lineage back six generations. His grandsire was called Monty, and he was born on the fifth of August in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and ninety-nine.”

  “Really?” But her comment was unnecessary. Lord Ihle continued unabated. Oh, why did Katherine not come and rescue her? When was supper? Would no man approach and ask for her hand in the next dance?

  But of course no man was going to approach her. She’d rejected half a dozen offers for her hand in her first Season. And those men had been the ones brave enough to look past her questionable family connections. Emma glanced about for Katherine and found her chatting with an old school friend across the room. Their gazes met, and Katherine looked pointedly back at her friend.

  So that was how it would be. Katherine was not going to save her, because she was still annoyed that Emma had rejected four perfectly acceptable suitors (two of the six had not been deemed acceptable). But what Emma hadn’t told her sister—what she hadn’t told anyone—was that there was only one man she wanted to kiss, one man she wanted to touch, one man she wanted to marry. And, as luck would have it, he was not looking for a wife. And even if he had been, he would not have looked at her.

  To Flynn, she was just a girl. His friend’s little sister. She was finally eighteen, but she wasn’t now, nor had she ever been, a little girl. She’d always seen what others were hiding, understood complex relationships those older than her didn’t. Her friends often joked that she was wise, but Emma knew if she were wise, she would forget Lord Chesham. Flynn would only break her heart. He broke everyone’s heart. If she were wise, she would be content to smile and chat about cattle. Instead, she wanted…well, she did not know what she wanted. Something more.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Lord Ihle, interrupting his monologue. He blinked in surprise. Poor man. He had no idea he was perfectly boring; he was the lead actor in his personal play. She curtsied and made her way through the assembly room.

  When was her play going to begin? Not any time soon, now that she was away from London. Of course, it was late summer. Everyone was away from London, and many of them were here in Bath to take the waters or enjoy the amusements. But Flynn wasn’t the sort to come to Bath. He was fixed firmly in Lon—

  The back of her neck prickled, and Emma slowed and rubbed it. She looked about the crowded assembly room. Several people, men and women alike, met her gaze. She was in public. Of course she was being observed. Her gaze drifted across the room, and then she turned her head quickly back and focused on the far corner.

  She drew in a breath and felt her legs wobble. She reached for something to steady herself, but there was nothing nearby except an elderly woman who probably teetered more than she. She should have listened when Katherine cautioned her to eat something at dinner. She should not have drunk that second glass of champagne when Lord Ihle cornered her. She should not have stayed up so late reading the night before. Because now she was imagining things. She was imagining him.

  She opened her eyes again and stared across the room. He was still there. He lounged negligently against a decorative pillar, his cravat askew, his hair down about his face, his jaw unshaven, and his coat rumpled. He cocked a brow at her in question, and it was as though she had just downed an entire glass of sherry. Heat burned a path from her throat to her belly, making her legs weak and her skin tingle with pleasure. She closed her eyes again. If it really was Flynn…if she was not imagining him, she had to ignore him. His eyes might be hazel rather than burning red, but he was Lucifer all the same. He was a temptation she could not resist.

  “It is not he,” she murmured. “You are tired and out of sorts. It is not he.” She opened her eyes again.

  It was Flynn.

  She was halfway across the room before she knew what she was about. “This is a bad idea,” she told herself.

  No good would come of meeting with Flynn, but perhaps some bad might. Her belly fluttered when she thought of all the bad things he might have in mind. Flynn would not talk to her of Lincoln Red bulls.

  “Lady Emma,” Flynn said as she neared him. The orchestra was playing, and she stood close so they could converse. Close enough that she could smell the fragrance of sandalwood she associated with him. Close enough that he could have touched her. The exposed skin between her gloves and the puff of her sleeve tingled.

  “Lord Chesham.” She gave a small curtsy, pretending she hadn’t noticed that he didn’t bow. It seemed strange to think of him as Lord Chesham, but he had been the viscount for over a year now—as his sobriquet reminded her. The Viscount of Vice was still looking at her, his hazel eyes hooded under his lowered lashes. He had the sort of eyes that changed color subtly. She liked to think the color depended on his mood. Right now they were more golden brown than green. Did that mean he was pleased or displeased to see her? She needed to think of something to say. “I am sorry for the loss of your father.”

  A long moment passed. She knew it was a long moment because she counted the beats in the music, and there were at least twelve.

  “Aren’t we all?” he drawled.

  That was a strange comment to make. “How is your mother? I spoke with her briefly at the charity hospital last week, but I have not seen her since.”

  “She is fine. Out of mourning.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “You did call on her when you arrived, did you not?”

  Perhaps he’d only just arrived in Bath, and that was why he hadn’t taken the time to shave or straighten his cravat.

  “Where is your brother?”

  “Andrew?” she stammered. She’d forgotten how jarring conversing with Flynn could be.

  “Do you have another?”

  “No.” He knew she did not. Why did she always sound like a fool when she spoke to him? With anyone else she sounded perfectly intelligent. “I-I believe he is still in London. They will wait a few more weeks, I think, before returning to Ravenscroft Castle. Lily—rather, Her Grace—is in no hurry to travel with a baby.”

  “Ah, that’s right. He said he was not sleeping,” the viscount said almost to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, thick and light brown with hints of sunlight. It was unfashionably long, but she doubted he cared a whit for fashion.

  “Did you call on him?” she asked.

  His gaze focused on her again, and she could not help but shiver.

  “He would not like the two of us to converse without a chaperone. Where is your chaperone, Emma?”

  She should have insisted he call her Lady Emma, but she didn’t. “I don’t need a chaperone to converse with a family friend in a public assembly room. But if you must know, my sister is just over there.” She indicated the direction with a wave of her hand, but he did not look away from her. “I’m no longer a child,” she said, sounding exactly like a petulant child. “I am out now. I am eighteen.”

  His brow rose mockingly. “Eighteen? So elderly?”

  She huffed out a breath. She might find him fascinating, but she still had enough self-respect to walk away when she was being made fun of. “Give my regards to your mother,” she said, turning away.

  “But we haven
’t danced.” He didn’t touch her, but his words felt as though they were ropes restraining her. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

  “Are you asking?”

  “Hell, yes.” He grabbed her hand and led her to the center of the room. The orchestra was not playing a waltz, but he began to dance one anyway. Emma thought it to her credit that she tripped only once before she realized what he was about and followed him. But from the corner of her eye, she saw Katherine step forward, her sister’s features etched with concern.

  “This is not a waltz,” she informed him as he swept her into a turn.

  “I know.”

  “And you are not supposed to curse in front of a lady.”

  He grinned at her and spun her until she was dizzy and gasping for breath. She held onto his shoulder, desperate for something solid to support her. “I know.”

  She looked up at him, thinking she had never been so close to him. She could feel the power in his body. The way he moved, the way he held her—lightly but possessively—the way his body felt under her fingers fascinated her. From the blondish brown stubble on his cheeks to the way he seemed not to care whether he was praised or damned, she wanted to know everything about this man. She nodded to the room. “You do not care that everyone is talking about you right now?”

  “They should be talking about me. I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  She almost stumbled. She didn’t want to believe it. Surely it was some oft-given compliment he tossed out to every lady.

  “If you spend much more time with me,” he continued, “I’ll ruin your reputation.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You should.” He sounded like an older brother talking to his younger sister. That was not at all how she wanted him to see her.

  “You don’t.”

  “No,” he said, turning her. “I don’t. Mine was ruined long ago, but scoundrel that I am, I still care enough about innocent young ladies not to ruin theirs.” He began to pull away, as though he might end the dance and return her to the safety of her chaperone and Lord Ihle and his bulls.

  “You haven’t ruined me yet,” she said. “In fact, you’ve made me more interesting.”

  He continued dancing, and she noticed their turns were taking them closer to the edge of the ballroom.

  “I should hardly think you were lacking in that arena.”

  “I might have scandalous relations, Lord Chesham, but I am perfectly ordinary.”

  He laughed, and the sound startled her. He had expertly maneuvered them off the dance floor and out of Katherine’s sight.

  “If you were ordinary, Lady Emma, I would be able to resist doing this.” He turned her, catching her in his arms and drawing her close. She felt the heat of him through her thin silk gown. Her hands clasped his shoulder and slid down to his arms, which were hard and sculpted as marble. She looked up into eyes that had darkened to a warm brown. She could see every eyelash and the fine smile lines at the corners of his eyes. “You should not have turned eighteen,” he said.

  “I had little choice, my lord.” Her voice was breathless and husky. Was he going to kiss her?

  “Would you allow me to kiss you?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Anywhere,” she breathed. She looked at his lips. They were pink and curved slightly in a wicked smile. They looked soft, and she had the urge to trace them with her finger. Oh, why would he not hurry?

  “Lady Emma, you do tempt me.” He stepped back. “But I would not dare defile you with the touch of my lips.” His voice was mocking, as though he found the words amusing.

  “You are walking away?” she asked incredulously. The man should have been called the Viscount of Vexation. If she was going to have to suffer through another of Katherine’s lectures, she should at least be kissed for her trouble.

  “Do you wish me to stay?” His brow winged upward. The gesture charmed and annoyed her. Especially when his mouth curved as well. That look she knew. It meant he had thought of something particularly mischievous. “Then why don’t you kiss me?”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Shocked you, did I?”

  “No!” But he had.

  “Then do it.” He braced his feet and put his hands on his hips in challenge. “Kiss me.”

  “I’ll do it,” she threatened.

  He did not appear concerned. He spread his hands in open invitation.

  The music went on, though she could tell the dance was ending. The couples dancing the correct forms bowed and turned and promenaded. All she had to do was take three steps, rise up on tiptoes, and press her lips to his. She didn’t know what to do after that, but he would.

  Of that she was certain.

  She only need move her feet. But those feet, which had been so eager to move toward him only a few minutes ago, now would not budge. She took a deep breath and tried to gather her courage. She was not a ninny. She saw and did things every day at the charity hospital that were far more terrifying than kissing a handsome rogue. She was not afraid.

  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.

  Three

  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.