If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman
kept wandering to the drawing room where Marisol was being interviewed. The fact that it was difficult to imagine what sort of questions were being put to her cousin did not stop Emma from trying.
Sir Arthur said very little to her once Mr. Gardner left the room. She worried about his ashen complexion and hurried to get him a glass of port when he requested it. He asked her when she first had gone to visit Mr. Gardner and if there had been only one meeting. He did not chide her for not applying to him for advice or assistance before she went. Emma suspected her uncle knew now that he’d done nothing to make her think he would welcome her approach.
She’d watched Sir Arthur absently massage the swollen knuckles of his right hand as he contemplated what he’d learned. It seemed to her that he aged a full decade as he sat there, the chair growing bigger while he grew smaller. Creases that usually appeared about his eyes when he smiled were deeply and permanently etched when a smile was no longer in evidence. His eyes were flat and unfocused; she could not even say that he was seeing something in his mind’s eye. He seemed to be seeing nothing at all.
“What is to be done about Marisol?” he’d asked. And because the question had been directed more to himself than her, Emma hadn’t answered. She’d left quietly, suspecting long minutes would pass before Sir Arthur realized he was alone.
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