If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman
shook her head and carefully disengaged herself from Marisol’s hold. “You are kind to suggest it, but it is not necessary. I would not keep your father waiting so long as that. He is patient but not infinitely so.”
“As you wish.” She regarded Emmalyn critically. “I believe if you present a three-quarter profile Father’s guest may not notice anything is amiss. It is only your left side that reveals the vestiges of your injuries.”
“Stop,” Emma said sharply. Marisol’s head snapped back, but Emma could not regret her sting in her delivery. She did, however, draw a calming breath and offer in a less pointed tone, “Just stop. I’m certain that Uncle’s visitor will not be so rude as to inquire about my disfigurement, therefore I am not in the least concerned that I will have to answer questions that might cause discomfort to any of us.”
“That is a very good point,” Marisol said. “I should have thought of it.”
“You didn’t think of it because you would ask the questions.”
“I would not, and you are impolite to say so. And further, you are not disfigured, merely discolored. You cannot make me feel worse than I already do by making more of what was done to you than was actually done to you.”
Emma blinked. Had there been a chair at the ready she would have sat. “Do you think that’s my intent? To make you feel guilty?”
“Guiltier,” Marisol said. “I already feel guilty. Worse than that, really, except I do not know what word describes such a lowering emotion. I am heartily sorry for what happened to you, Emmalyn, and I will always regret that you went to Madame Chabrier’s in my stead. But that is an example of your generous nature, is it not? I cannot accept all the responsibility. It would crush me. You know I am not as strong as you.”
“That is what you say, Marisol, but I submit that it’s never been put to a test.”
Marisol’s lambent blue eyes widened. Tears threatened at the corners. “I think you have grown wicked, Emmalyn, and that is the true, tragic consequence of the assault and abduction. There is no evidence of your fine sensibilities, nor any inkling that they ever existed. You say whatever comes to your mind with no regard for another’s feelings. Have you not upbraided me for the very same? Now the shoe is on the other foot, and I must needs reproach you. I can only hope that gives you pause, for I assure you that I will be uncompromising in the application of the standard of conduct you used to set.”
Emma closed her eyes briefly while she massaged her temple. The seeds of a headache had been firmly planted. “Marisol,” she said softly, exasperation mingling with respect, “you quite take my breath away.”
“Then it was an adequate setdown?”
“Better than adequate. I shall give consideration to all you’ve said, but just now—”
“Oh, yes. Father is waiting.”
“Yes.” Emma leaned forward and kissed her cousin lightly on the cheek. Her action surprised Marisol, but Emma turned and hurried from the room before she was delayed yet again.
Sir Arthur Vega’s library was on the ground floor toward the back of the house. When he wasn’t painting in his studio with its windows that opened onto a rooftop balcony, he favored the quiet that was only possible away from the street. Out of respect for his preference for peace, Emma tread lightly on the stairs and down the hallway. The butler was waiting at the door to usher her in. Her entry was accomplished so quietly that neither her uncle nor his guest immediately turned.
It was only when the door clicked into place behind her that her presence became known. Sir Arthur came about first, smiling warmly and waving her over.
“Ah, here you are. Come in, come in. You will like this news, I think.” Arthur Vega was not a large man, but the arm he flung around Emmalyn’s shoulders held surprising strength as he brought her closer. “Mr. Gardner, this is my niece, Miss Emmalyn Hathaway, of whom I have spoke with such affection. Emmalyn, you will be pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Gardner. It is his stepmother who recently purchased that piece I did of the fishing village.”
Restell Gardner inclined his head politely. “Miss Hathaway. It is a pleasure.”
“Mr. Gardner.” Emma was only aware she had spoken after the fact. She further surprised herself by lifting her face to her uncle and announcing, “Mr. Gardner and I are already acquainted.”
Sir Arthur’s dark eyebrows lifted in tandem, the left one in a slightly higher arch than the right. “You are? That is unexpected.” He cast a look at Restell. “Did you mention that? I don’t recall you mentioning it.”
“I did not,” Restell said. He did not expound upon his answer.
“Do you know my daughter, then?” asked Sir Arthur. “I only raise the question because Emmalyn so rarely knows anyone I do not, while my daughter Marisol seems to be acquainted with the entire ton. I suppose some would consider that an accomplishment as she’s only had one Season, but I have my reservations.”
Restell smiled politely. “Fathers often do.”
Emma noticed that Mr. Gardner had not answered the question, but it seemed her uncle was oblivious to this fact. Further, it did not appear Sir Arthur was going to inquire as to how she’d made their visitor’s acquaintance. She had no idea how Mr. Gardner had presented himself to her uncle, but she was not going to be an accomplice to intrigue and subterfuge. Before she could offer any explanation, her uncle began to speak.
“Mr. Gardner has inquired about commissioning a painting similar to the one his mother purchased. I’ve explained to him that there is no other like it in the studio, but that there are the sketches and an early rendering in oil that I judged to lack the animation I was hoping to achieve. He is expressing an interest in seeing them.”
“That presents no difficulty.”
Sir Arthur gave Emma’s shoulders another squeeze while he addressed Restell. “Did I not say that she was everything accommodating?”
“Yes,” Restell said. “You did.” He caught Emma’s eyes. “Sir Arthur explained that you arrange many of his sittings and keep his schedule. He would have me believe that he no longer knows how he managed without your assistance.”
“He is very kind,” Emma said. “But for many years before I came to live here, he had an extremely competent secretary who did exactly what I do.”
Sir Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Mr. Gardner does not wish to hear about Johnston, and neither do I. Will you show our guest to the studio, Emmalyn? Forgive me, Mr. Gardner, but as I told you, my knees are throbbing with distressing vigor today. It’s the rheumatism.”
“I understand. Do not give it another thought.”
“It will not surprise me if there is a change in the weather, probably by nightfall.”
“My grandmother made similar predictions. I do not recall that she was ever wrong.”
Sir Arthur let his arm fall so that it rested lightly at the small of Emma’s back. He gave her an encouraging nudge when she remained rooted to the floor. “Show Mr. Gardner every courtesy, Emmalyn. His mother is a singular woman, a force, I believe, to be reckoned with, and I am glad to have secured her patronage. Her presence at Lady Greenaway’s sittings is enormously helpful. The children, remember? I told you about them.”
“You did, but recall I did not arrange that commission.” Still, she offered a commiserating smile because she had heard a great deal about Lady Greenaway’s young heathens. What Sir Arthur had failed to mention was Lady Gardner’s presence at any of the sittings. That would have raised her interest as tales of the children had not. “This way, Mr. Gardner. My uncle’s studio is on the uppermost floor. Once you have made the climb you will appreciate his desire to remain behind.”
Emma turned on him as soon as they were on the other side of the door. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What are