Excerpt of Sweet Deception by Heather Snow

An excerpt from Derick's first visit to Wallingford Manor to begin his investigation...

He could always resort to a late–night exploration if he must.

His imagination flashed a vision of him happening across Emma, tucked into her bed in nothing but a flimsy night rail. What would she look like, her features relaxed in sleep, her hair down and spread across her pillow? Derick's entire body tightened like a fist as his mind emptied of all thoughts but her. Her tempting scent would alter with her skin warmed from sleep, would sweeten tantalizingly like nectar.

Derick caught himself taking a deep breath. Damnation. This was precisely why he shouldn't be around Emma. He hadn't physically seen the woman in hours and yet he was thoroughly distracted, which made no sense whatsoever. He didn't even like her. And he was determined to stop letting her interfere with the role he was here to play.

The door clicked, and Derick's mind snapped back to the charade at hand. He stepped from behind the chaise to greet Lord Wallingford, a droll greeting on his lips.

His mouth snapped shut as Emma, not Wallingford, strode into the room, her skirts swishing behind her. She stopped abruptly only a scant two feet from him, her eyes traveling his length.

Her sudden nearness hummed in his veins. Damn, but those eyes of hers made a man feel she could see right through him. Derick fought the ridiculous urge to step back from her frank perusal. He had no reason for concern—he knew exactly what she would see. He'd planned every detail.

Gold buttons winked in the sun that beamed through the massive windows, his burgundy and cream striped waistcoat contrasted nicely with his buff pantaloons, and his black Hessians fair gleamed. While he'd never go so far as to polish them with champagne, as Brummel had so famously espoused, Derick would challenge the man himself to find any other fault with his presentation.

And that's what it was—the pretentious clothing, the intricately tied neck cloth, the close–shaven face, the precisely styled hair—a presentation. A uniform.

And today, perhaps even a suit of armor.

His mouth twisted wryly. As if he needed protection from Pygmy. "Why are you here?"

Emma's brows dipped and her mouth wobbled, like she couldn't decide whether to smile or scowl. "I live here, Derick."

Imbecile. "Yes, of course." Really, if his superiors could have seen him around Emma Wallingford, they'd never have entrusted the country's greatest secrets to him. At least his incompetent fop act should be especially believable today. "What I meant to say was that I was expecting your brother."

Emma crossed her arms. "Yes, Perkins said you wished to speak with the magistrate. Why?"

The back of Derick's neck tingled. She was on the defensive. Interesting. Because of his desire to see her brother? Or because of him? Both were intriguing questions, but for different reasons.

A slow heat spread through him at the possibility that he might have the same physical effect on her as she did on him. He might be able to use that.

No. He was finished with those days, when seduction had been his stock–in–trade. He shouldn't need to resort to sensual interrogation. He would be able to get what he needed from Lord Wallingford—if he could get past the man's formidably lovely gatekeeper. "I should think that obvious."

"Indeed." Emma's expression turned to a decided scowl, and her foot tapped in irritation. "What is not so obvious," she continued in a clipped tone, "is why you should feel it necessary to insert yourself into an investigation that has nothing to do with you."

Oh, yes . . . she was most certainly defensive. Which meant he was onto something. The question was, what? The quickest way to get to Wallingford was to stick to his story. "Because the girl was a member—"

"—of your household." Disapproval dripped from Emma's voice, landing on him like a particularly annoying drizzle. She blinked up at him with those owl–like eyes. "Am I to assume that you intend to stay in Derbyshire and take up the reins at the castle, then?"

Derick chafed at the censure in her tone. "Good God, no. This would be the last place I would live. I don't expect to be here more than a few weeks at most," he answered. "As if that's any of your concern," he grumbled under his breath. He swiped a hand across his forehead. She was wasting his time. Nosy, irritating chit. "Damnation, Pygmy, you are exactly as you were as a girl."

Derick couldn't keep his eyes from dropping to her cleavage, so lusciously pushed up by her crossed arms. "Well, not exactly," he muttered.

Emma's shoulders rose slightly as a tiny gasp escaped her. "Of course I'm not."

Hell. Had he actually just said that aloud? What had gotten into him?

"While I still don't care to be called Pygmy," she reminded him, not so subtly, "I've changed quite significantly in other ways." She sniffed. "I'm no longer straw–headed, for one. I speak four additional languages than I did when you last knew me and I've grown at least two hands taller."

A huff of laughter escaped him at her attempt to lighten the moment, but it quickly faded. Emma wasn't smiling.

Instead she heaved a sigh, uncrossed her arms and turned her body, as if to allow him a clear path to the door. She even extended a delicate hand in that direction, wafting her delicious lavender scent near. "Listen, while I appreciate your assistance last evening, my lord, you needn't concern yourself any further. I suggest you go about whatever . . . business a gentleman like yourself might have in Derbyshire. There's no need for you to dirty your hands"—her gaze traveled over him again and her lips flattened—"or your fancy clothes with the matter."

Derick pressed his fingers against his forehead, closing his eyes. This was not going according to plan. He'd never had such trouble bending a female to his will.

Except her. What was it about Emma that threw him off so?

She makes you forget your role.

Yes. Something about her reduced some part of him to the boy he didn't even remember being—a singular and disturbing truth he couldn't avoid or fathom. All he knew was that it was true—and dangerous—which made it all the more important for him to deal solely with her brother. It was time to regain command of this conversation. Derick straightened, crossed his own arms and leveled his gaze on her.

"I suggest," he drawled, looking down his nose at her in a way certain to nettle, "that you fetch the magistrate like a good girl and then go about whatever . . . business a country miss like you should be doing. No doubt there's a pillow that needs embroidering somewhere?"

Emma's eyes became slits, and he bit back a satisfied grin. That should send her off in a huff to get her brother.

Yet she visibly dug in her heels and crossed her arms again, pushing her delectable décolletage prominently back into view. A view, of course, that he couldn't help but avail himself of. He might be acting a part, might have chosen to remain celibate at least until he put this life behind him, but he was still male.

Emma clenched her jaw. The nerve of the man! How dare this . . . this perfectly turned–out popinjay come to her home and provoke her? The cad didn't even have the decency to look her in the eye after insulting her so. And what was he staring at? She followed the path of his eyes, her chin dipping as she looked down to her . . .

Her cheeks flamed and she hastily dropped her arms. And yet the heat from her face spread down her neck and through her chest. She knew better than to think that Derick actually found her attractive. He certainly never had when they were younger, no matter how she'd tried to get him to notice her. But he'd certainly seemed captivated just then, hadn't he?

She couldn't resist a curious peek at his face. But the corners of his eyes drooped along with his mouth in an expression that could only be described as blasé. Her face burned all the more. Had she really expected otherwise?

Blasted, confusing man. Why wouldn't he just waltz blithely off on his merry way? "You said you have no intention of staying in Derbyshire at all. Why won't you just leave matters be?"

A tremble rolled through her middle as she considered what was at stake. What an ironic sort of travesty it would be if Derick, who couldn't be bothered with this village for an age, came back on a lark and discovered her brother's secret. He could use it to destroy the life she'd worked so hard to fashion for herself after her father's death, and then he would just trot back to London—or France—or wherever he'd been for the last decade and a half.

Derick raised his chin a notch and stared at her with those unnerving green eyes, suddenly anything but uninterested. "Why do you so badly wish me to?"

The rolling multiplied, magnified. Emma swallowed. That was a line of questioning she had no intention of following.

She couldn't take the chance that he would puff up with autocratic male pride and act . . . well, exactly like he was acting now. If he uncovered the truth about her brother, a man like him would think it his duty to take the matter to higher authorities. That was certain to bring her comfortable life crashing down around her. No. She needed to get him out of the house, none the wiser, before he had the opportunity to make trouble.