Sweet Deception

by Heather Snow

  A pleasant warmth filled her chest. She liked that he felt comfortable enough around her to be more himself.

  “I am an early riser, too.” Derick’s voice broke her train of thought. Her eyes snapped from the sleek cut of his jacket to his face. “If it’s amenable to you, we could meet as early as you like on days we work together.”

  “Of course.” Inside she wished to crow. He had just as much as accepted her “partnership,” hadn’t he? She’d been a jumble of nerves last night when she’d mentioned it, had been certain by the way he had hooded his eyes and by the troubled expressions that had crossed his face, that he would refuse. Yet here he was. Part one of her plan to win Derick was falling into place.

  Last night, she’d hardly slept a wink. It hadn’t just been thoughts of Derick that had kept her up. George had had one of his more difficult nights, and even though he hadn’t known who she was during the course of it, she’d sat with him anyway—only feeling a little guilty that her mind had been more occupied with how she might win Derick’s affection than with her brother.

  It was a simple equation, really. A + B + C = D². A = Accepting her partnership. Done. B = Boyhood, or Derick rediscovering who he was before he’d become a spy—with her help, of course. Something told her it was vital, in order for him to heal from the wounds she’d seen in his eyes last night at Aveline Castle. And he would need to heal properly before they could move into C = Courtship—she pursuing him or he pursuing her, whichever seemed the most natural when they got to that point. She wasn’t picky. And finally D² = Derick, staying in Derbyshire. With her.

  Emma smiled at Derick but his green gaze had strayed as he stood, taking in the room. He studied it intently, and Emma’s chest tightened just a bit. She’d had this upstairs parlor made into her own personal study after the downstairs study had been converted to a bedroom for George. It was the only practical solution so that servants didn’t have to carry her brother up and down all day long. But she’d rarely allowed anyone into her private space. In fact, she had never invited Mr. Smith-Barton, not once in their nearly five-year engagement. And yet she hadn’t thought twice when she’d sent the note last night asking Derick to meet her here this morning.

  Because she wanted to show him her work, she realized. Knew he was keen enough to understand. Hoped he would want to partner with her on it, too—insomuch as to consider taking her research to Parliament one day, after he took up his seat.

  “Emma, what is all of this?”

  She followed his line of vision, trying to view her work as one who was seeing it for the first time. Her study was quite cluttered to the naked eye, she realized, with scores of rolled records piled pyramid-like on the floor and reams of paper on nearly every available space, leaning towerlike in the corners, stacked stairlike against the walls. Of course, everything had a very precise place.

  One wall was completely covered in blackboards, which were in turn covered in colorful scrawl, equations chalked in various shades in seemingly nonsensical order. Another was filled with bookshelves, which were themselves filled to overflowing with volumes on all subjects related to math, geometry, and crime.

  The last two walls were plastered with maps. Mostly maps of England, broken down into counties and shires—collectively and individually. Each map was a kaleidoscope of colors, shaded by her own hand to represent the various statistics she’d collected so that she could see them visually and look for patterns.

  “My project,” she said, recognizing the tinge of pride in her own voice. Rarely did she have anyone with whom she could discuss her work. Some days, George could converse with her intelligently about it, but most not. “I’m compiling a map of sorts, a moral statistics map of England.”

  A frown insinuated itself between Derick’s brows, his words coming out in a slow drawl. “A moral statistics—”

  “Map. Yes. As I’ve said before, numbers are everything. They make up everything, and can explain everything in a perfect, clean language unbiased by human experience. But they can define human experience.”

  “How do you mean?” Derick asked, moving away to peruse several maps hanging on the wall opposite them.

  Emma paused before answering, taking a moment to appreciate how he moved with a natural grace. He nearly prowled along the edges of the room.

  “Well, the idea is nothing new,” she said, following. She stopped when Derick did, standing behind his right shoulder as he scanned one map in particular. It was a challenge to keep up her line of conversation, not to be distracted by his nearness, his scent, his overwhelming presence. “Political arithmeticians have been using population data since the seventeenth century to analyze raw numbers. They look for comparisons related to wealth, taxes, population growth, mortality and the like in order to inform their policy making.”

  Derick nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen similar reports that help the War Department judge their ability to raise an army.”

  “Just so. It’s the same thing as I’m doing. I simply thought to put the numbers to a different sort of use.”

  “You’re collecting crime statistics?” he asked, running a hand along her scribbles. “Charges, age, sex, occupation of the accused…” he murmured.

  “Exactly. Over the years, I kept detailed reports of every incident that happened in my father’s or my brother’s—” Emma stopped herself. She didn’t have to pretend with Derick anymore. An odd lightening sensation filled her chest. “That is, within my purview.” It felt extraordinary to say the words aloud without worry. “One day, I realized that if I kept such things, other magistrates might do the same. So I wrote to them, using only the Wallingford name, of course.”

  “You wrote to every magistrate in England?”

  “It took weeks, but yes. And most responded. Many continue to send me reports quarterly. It would be much simpler if England had a national system of crime reporting, as they do for births, deaths, mortality and such.”

  “Hmmm. I’m sure the policy makers see no monetary gain to be had in such an endeavor.”

  She shrugged. “They’re wrong, of course. If we can spot patterns amongst types of crimes, find out who is committing them and more importantly why, we can address those core problems to reduce crime. Which will have immense monetary benefits. And all of those answers lie in the numbers.”

  He turned his startling green gaze on her. “You were making some sense, Emma, but how can numbers tell you why a person committed a crime?”

  A pleasant flush warmed her. His interest invigorated her and she found herself relishing the challenge. “Well, once I’d gathered the criminal statistics, I started comparing them to other numbers that are available nationally.” She ticked them off on the fingers of her left hand as she named them. “Such as the number of inhabitants of an area per condemned person, the number of boys in primary school in that district, the type of industry and wealth in the area. And I’ve seen some startling patterns.” She pointed to the map he was currently scanning and its array of blues and purples. “See here? Property crimes tend to happen in areas of higher education, for example, suggesting a more sophisticated criminal without the motivation of survival for his or her crimes.”

  Derick peered at the map, scanning the numbers jotted alongside. “I’d have expected the exact opposite.”

  “Exactly!” Emma clasped Derick’s upper arm with both of hers, pulling him along to the next map to the right, this one colored with reds, yellows and oranges. How right it felt, having him beside her, showing him her passion. “And it’s not just who is committing the crimes that is of interest, but when they are committed. For example, this map shows that crimes against persons occur most often during the summer months. Is it the heat? Longer daylight hours? Crimes against property tend to happen in the winter. What could we do to combat those phenomena?”

  She tugged him along to another one of greens, grays and golds before relinquishing her grasp on his arm. “Other important factors are ‘where’ and ‘how many.’ This map
proves that both personal and property crimes occur not just in higher numbers in urban areas—as we would expect—but also in higher percentages per capita versus rural areas. So what is it about city life that makes people more disposed to crime? Is it geographical? Are there moral variables? And if so, can we make policies to address them? Better education, religious instruction, improved diet—there’s so much room for research. And if I add in more variables—illegitimate births, for example, or age—”

  “This is fascinating, Emma, but what is it you’re hoping to accomplish with it all?”

  She turned away from her maps and faced Derick. Numbers and variables were all well and good, and she could talk them all day long. That’s what she understood. But she wasn’t nearly as proficient with people. If her work was ever going to actually help mankind, she’d need someone like Derick to take her ideas and help her make others understand. “Most people, policy makers in particular, simply assume it is the poor and uneducated who commit most of the crime. Yes, there is more crime amongst the lower orders, but statistically speaking, that’s only true because there are more people amongst the lower orders. When you look at the picture as a whole, crime mars all classes…the only difference is the type. My research is proving that the way we look at crime and how to stop it is flawed. We have to stop blaming lack of proper breeding or bad blood, as some claim, and face the real issues.”

  Derick frowned at her. She knew from their discussion last night that he might be on the other side of that argument. Still, if she couldn’t convince him, she’d have very little chance convincing anyone else.

  “I believe all persons are born blank slates, and it is more the circumstances we are born into that shape who we become, the opportunities and examples we are given. I intend to discover exactly what circumstances tend to breed what type of crime so we can figure out how to combat it. We can change what becomes written on someone’s slate. Before they become criminals.”

  Derick’s hand came up, his thumb and forefinger cradling her chin. Energy crackled all around Emma, stilling her breath and tingling in forbidden places. His eyes squinted slightly as an enigmatic half smile lifted his mouth. “My little Pygmy,” he murmured. “Are you planning to save the world?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, caught in his gaze. Her hand came up to grasp his wrist, and she absently stroked the soft inner skin with her thumb. Something sad and cynical crept into his eyes, coloring the green—a shadow of the pain she’d glimpsed last night. She wanted to banish it for him. Something in her knew that even more than she wanted to make the lives of Britons better, she wanted to help heal Derick Aveline. She reached her other hand to his face, cupping his jaw. “Yes,” she said again, aloud, more firmly than before. “I am going to save the world.”

  And I’m going to start with you, her heart whispered.

  She stretched up on her toes and pulled his lips to hers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He should have turned his face. He should have yanked himself from her grasp. His mind commanded him to do just that, to turn on his heel and walk away from her. Run, even. But his body wouldn’t obey.

  Instead, every muscle, every nerve clamored for her, yearned for Emma to touch him—not with the gentle grip she used now, but with hot, needy tugs, frantic gropes, overtly carnal clutches. To have her stroke him with even a taste of the passion he saw whirling in her eyes. God, how he wanted her.

  His lips burned where she’d pressed hers against them. He held himself stiff, tried desperately to resist as her tongue licked along the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance. He shouldn’t allow this. Shouldn’t encourage her. Shouldn’t let her open herself to the inevitable heartbreak he would bring. He breathed harshly through his nose, fighting to control his unreasonable desire.

  And then she breathed his name. “Derick.” Just a sweet sigh of frustrated longing. And the fight left him, his thoughts flying away in the face of their mutual desire. Christ, had he ever burned so hot, so fast? Certainly not since sex had become a tool of his trade, a way to get information that he—and the War Department—needed.

  But he wasn’t using her for information, was he? This was strictly about a different kind of need, only her need and his. That was all right, wasn’t it? His body sagged into her hold, and Emma moaned in relief, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly climbing up his body to get closer.

  A moan of his own ripped from Derick’s throat as he obliged her. He scooped his arms around her bottom and lifted her so that her face was even with his, their mouths locked in a desperate kiss. Her breasts flattened against his chest and even through the layers of their clothing he could feel how soft, how supple they were. The need to bare them—to taste them—made his hands shake.

  Emma’s legs parted to settle around his hips. She broke away from the kiss, gasping at the contact. Her eyes widened for a brief second, then became heavy lidded, turning a deep molten gold as she moved tentatively, with innocent wonder, against his arousal.

  “Oh God, Emma,” he groaned, unable to hold back the answering thrust. Sparks such as he’d never felt in his life burst through him, raining down tingles upon every inch of his skin. What was this madness? He trembled like a green boy—even his legs threatened to give out on him.

  Good God. He had to find something stable before he collapsed in a heap on the floor, taking Emma with him.

  He wasn’t given much time to consider, however. A brilliant smile wreathed Emma’s face before she renewed their kiss with an untutored fierceness that stole his breath. Her next undulation was anything but tentative and wrung a moan from them both.

  From the corner of his eye, Emma’s desk caught his attention. He shuffled toward it, still clasping her tightly to him. He had just enough restraint not to sweep the surface clean. He doubted Emma would appreciate her meticulously shaded maps being flung to the floor. With one forearm, he nudged aside some papers and settled himself on the corner of the desk with Emma draped in his lap, her legs still straddling his hips.

  He pulled back and stared at the woman in his arms. Damnation. Had he ever seen such an arresting sight?

  And what a sight she was, her skirts pooled high around her thighs, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath, her lips swollen with his kisses. A fierce possessiveness flared.

  “Derick?” Emma’s shy inquiry should have brought him to his senses, but then she reached for his hand, taking it in hers and pressing it against her breast. “I ache,” she said simply.

  “I know,” he murmured, reveling in her gasp as he squeezed her firmly. And in this moment, that was all he did know—her need, and how to fill it. His mind emptied of any other thought than how to bring the most pleasure to them both. His other hand followed suit on her neglected breast until he was caressing them both in rhythmic rotating tugs that culminated with the simultaneous rolling of her clothed nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

  “Oh. Oh!” She squirmed in his lap, instinctively grinding against him in a movement that hurled him even further into the madness.

  Derick released her breasts just long enough to tug the lace fichu from her bodice. Better, but not enough, not nearly enough. He yanked the muslin down and her breasts popped free of her dress. He cupped her once again, pressing them together as she was bared to his eyes, his hands. His mouth.

  He lowered his head, rasping his tongue against her pebbled nipple. Emma nearly shot from his lap. He had to exert pressure on her thighs with his forearms to keep her in place. “You liked that, didn’t you?” he murmured against her breast, his voice gone rough with his own building need. “Let us see what you think of this.”

  He drew her into his mouth, suckling hard, then laving soft licks to soothe her before drawing upon her again.

  Her fingers tunneled into his hair, squeezing, tugging spasmodically as she held him tightly against her chest. “Please,” she panted. “Please. More.”

  “More what?” he asked as his mouth skimmed to her other br
east.

  “More anything,” she groaned, ending on a jagged inhalation as he sucked her in again.

  More anything. He wanted to give her more everything. To take everything from her. His hand delved beneath her skirts, finding the soft skin of her thigh. It felt as supple beneath his fingers as her breasts did beneath his tongue. He wondered briefly if she would taste as sweet between her thighs as she did between the valley of her breasts. He burned with the need to know.

  Later. Now, it was his questing fingers that found her silken folds. Hot. Wet. Swollen. She moaned against the top of his head as he fondled her gently, circling the nub of her pleasure with the pads of his fingers in a way that had her clenching her thighs tightly around his hips.

  How he burned to release himself, to thrust into her beckoning heat. And he would, as soon as he was certain she was ready for him.

  He lifted his head, straightening as his other hand found its way through her cascading chestnut curls, winding around her hair and pulling her head back so that he could take her lips in a voracious kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth at the same moment he pressed a hard finger into her dew-slickened body.

  She stiffened with a moan. Damnation, she was tight.

  Exquisitely, deliciously…tight. A frigid chill burst through Derick’s belly as cold reality returned him to his senses. Of course she was tight. She was a virgin.

  And not just a virgin. She was Emma. Pygmy.

  His hand stilled as his eyes raked her. Her hair fell in wild disarray around them, her chest heaved, passion-splotched breasts spilling free over her neckline, glistening with moisture from his own mouth. Her legs were splayed, her skirts tossed above her waist, his bronzed hand stark against her pink skin where he touched her intimately.

  Self-disgust ravaged him. Look what he’d led her to. Look how close he’d come to ruining her. What a bloody ass.

  He knew she wanted him, knew how vulnerable she was to him. And he’d nearly taken her atop her own desk, in her brother’s house, for Christ’s sake.