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understandably hidden. If you would have one of the servants fetch me paper and a quill, I’ll draw you a map.”
    â€œI’ll return momentarily.” Flynn started for the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t die until after you’ve drawn the map.” He opened the door to the sounds of Derring’s curses. Outside the room, he paused to consider where he might find paper and pen. No servants waited without, so Flynn opened the first door he came to. A quick glance inside told him it was the morning room.
    And it was not empty.
    Lady Emma sat at a small, feminine desk, holding a quill and a sharpening blade in her ungloved hand. She looked up suddenly when he opened the door, and exclaimed, “Don’t you knock? You startled me. I almost cut my finger off.”
    Flynn stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His every instinct warned him to turn back. Being alone with her in a room was not a wise decision—not after what had happened between them earlier.
    That kiss . His gaze dropped to her lips, and he could taste their sweetness again. All the more sweet because she was no practiced widow or courtesan. She was an innocent.
    And she was not for him.
    He knew this logically, but he was not resigned to the fact. How could he be when she sat there, looking at him with a slight scowl that made her only more beautiful? A scowl should not have that effect. Perhaps it was the rosy flush her indignation brought to her cheeks or the way her dark eyes flashed, but he wanted to kiss the scowl away.
    â€œWhat are you still doing here?”
    She indicated the paper on the desk before her. “Penning a note to my sister. She will have noticed my absence from the ball.” Some servant had taken her cloak, and he took in the picture she presented. Her deep pink gown had a profusion of ruffles at the round neck, which emphasized the creamy exposed skin of her shoulders. She’d removed her gloves to write, and thus there was even more flesh on display—more flesh he wanted to touch, to kiss, to rip ruffles away from and lick.
    As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, she put a hand to her heart, and over the ruffles concealing the swell of her breasts. “Has Sir Brook taken a turn? Should I call for Doctor Emerson?”
    â€œDerring is fine. I’ve come to fetch a quill and paper for him.”
    â€œOf course. Take my quill.” She held it out, and he stepped closer to take it. He tried in vain not to breathe too deeply, but he still caught the scent of flowers. Was it in her hair? If he took the pins out and allowed it to tumble about her shoulders, would the scent wash over him? If he buried his face in that glorious hair, buried himself in her, would the scent imprint itself on him permanently?
    â€œThere’s more vellum here,” she said, rising and pulling the drawer open. “Mrs. Emerson’s drawing room is quite dark, and she conducts all of her correspondence here. I believe she has foolscap as well, if you prefer.”
    He said nothing. How he wished this were a different place, a different time. How he wished he were another man. A man who could court her, woo her, win her. But he could never have her. Her brother would never consent. Henry Flynn , a husband? Who would marry the Viscount of Vice?
    â€œI’m talking too much,” she said, pulling a sheet of vellum from the desk and pressing it into his hand. “I… I suppose you make me nervous.”
    He looked down at the paper. He should take it to Derring now. His brother was waiting. And yet Flynn did not move. “What are you afraid I will do?”
    She opened her lips, those sweet pink lips, then closed them again. Her small tongue darted out to wet them, and he felt a stab of desire pierce his gut. Her dark eyes rose to meet his gaze. “Perhaps I am more afraid of what you will not do.”
    Before he had time to make some humorous quip,