by Jo Goodman
Neven inclined his head, accepting her thanks, then stepped aside so she could lead the way from the gallery. He escorted his guests to the entrance hall and stood looking out the window until the carriage began to move. Turning away, he addressed his butler. “I want a note delivered to Miss Vega,” he said. “Allow me but a few minutes to compose it, then come to the library.”
As soon as they were in the carriage, Restell placed the box on his lap and lifted the lid. He indicated that Emma should put the drawings inside. “I apologize for playing percussion upon my knee,” he said. “I was completely unaware of doing so. Do you want to take the box?”
“I want to box your ears.” Emma no longer found it odd that she was perfectly comfortable threatening him. “Did you see how Mr. Charters regarded me? He is yet another person who will be moved to question the state of my nerves.”
“Hardly. You only took a small liberty. I imagine he thought your grip was more in the way of an affectionate squeeze.”
“Affectionate? I’m sure he didn’t place that significance upon it.”
Restell shrugged. “You were smiling when you did it.”
“I was gritting my teeth.”
“It looked like a smile. In fact, I am emboldened to say that your hand on my wrist was remarkably similar to one of those small intimacies that I have observed between engaged and married couples.” He chuckled when Emma’s lips parted as if she meant to offer an objection, then simply pressed them closed as no argument occurred to her. “You comprehend, don’t you, that Charters was disposed to see us in that light?”
Emma frowned. “Disposed to see us as a couple? Why would he think that?”
“Because we so obviously were enjoying each other’s company when he came upon us.”
“We were arguing over the points of a wager—which I won, by the way. We were not exchanging tender words.”
“It hardly matters what words were exchanged,” Restell said. “It is all in the manner in which it is done. Confess, Miss Hathaway, you find some modest pleasure in sparring with me.”
“If I do, I am not likely to admit it, and it suggests a certain arrogance on your part to think that I would.”
Restell laughed. “Have a care. You will turn my head with your pretty compliments.”
What Emma did was turn her own to prevent him from seeing her smile.
“It’s no good,” Restell said. “I know you are amused.”
“It is exasperation.” Facing him again, she set her mouth primly. “You understand there is a difference, I collect.”
“Have you ever considered that you might do well as a governess?”
She was aware that Restell’s gaze had dropped to her mouth. For a moment her thoughts tangled and she couldn’t think what she wanted to say. It made no sense that his cool blue eyes were responsible for the warmth she was feeling in her cheeks. “I suppose you mean to explain that remark.”
“No. Not if you don’t wish it.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around the box in her lap. It was all she could do not to raise it like a shield. It required a few moments, but gradually her wary expression became thoughtful. “I am come to the opinion that you are a skilled angler, Mr. Gardner.”
“Not skilled enough, it seems. You will not take the bait, will you?”
“Not this time,” she said. “But I doubt that will discourage you from trying again.”
His grin flashed his parenthetical dimples. “No, indeed. I have never shied from a challenge.” He reached across the distance that separated them and gently removed the box from her hands. “Before you crush it,” he explained. He set it on the seat beside her. When he leaned back against the leather cushion, his manner was changed. His eyes were more remote in their regard, his expression grave. “What did you make of Mr. Charters’s recounting of events?”
“I’m not certain what you mean. It seemed straightforward to me.”
“Why didn’t you mention that it was Charters that Sir Arthur sent to Walthamstow?”
“I suppose it didn’t occur to me. Is it important?”
“That you omitted it? I have not decided. That your uncle asked Charters for a favor of such import? Yes, that’s important. I did not understand until learning of it just how respected Charters is. It makes me think that Sir Arthur sets great store by his opinion in matters other than art.”
“I trust that is so. Isn’t it to be desired? Mr. Charters is going to be his son-in-law. The fact that there is mutual respect and admiration must all be to the good.”
“Perhaps.”
Restell’s noncommittal reply disturbed Emma. “What provokes you to reserve judgment?”
“Cynicism. Experience. The knowledge that things are not always what they seem to be. An inclination to distrust gentlemen who are bent on impressing others.”
“That is how you view Mr. Charters?”
“We were shown to his gallery, and that was by his design. If the purpose was not to impress us with his collection of paintings and antiquities and gauge our reaction to that horrible painting on the ceiling, then why not have us wait in a drawing room?”
“You make it sound as though he were watching us.”
“It would not astonish, no. A gallery such as he has could easily accommodate a peephole. Several of them.”
“You know you are being absurd.” Emma said it with a shade more vigor than she truly felt. “You disliked him at the outset. What I could not determine was if he disliked you first.”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“It would have been difficult to miss. You were both barely civil. I do not believe Wellington and Napoleon paid as much attention to their positioning on the field at Waterloo as the pair of you did in that room. It struck me as rather silly.”
Restell offered up a sheepish, faintly crooked, smile. “That is unfortunate, then.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Well, yes, as all that posturing…that is, the positioning, was in aid of securing your favor.”
Emma’s eyes widened a fraction. “Securing my favor,” she whispered. “You do not mean that.”
“Very well. I do not mean it.”
“It suggests that Mr. Charters had a similar intent.”
“I believe that’s precisely what it suggests.”
“It is Marisol he favors, else why would he propose marriage?”
“Why, indeed,” Restell said. He saw Emma’s features remained troubled as she considered what he was telling her. Still, it did not surprise him that she remained cautious in her interpretation.
“You are implying Mr. Charters desires my good opinion because he will be marrying my cousin.”
“No, but you are welcome to think it if the alternative is so discomfiting.”
“I am not discomfited by the truth.” She was taken back by the sharpness of her protest. It was perhaps too forceful to be believed. “That is, I am not usually unsettled by it. You may say whatever you like, but please say it plainly.”
“As you wish. Mr. Charters has feelings for you.” Restell saw almost at once that she was wholly resistant to the idea he was trying to put before her. He tried again, this time holding nothing in reserve. “Your cousin’s fiancé may very well be in love with you.”
Emma simply had nothing to say. She glanced away, caught herself, then met Restell’s considering gaze directly. That he may be right was more than discomforting. It was disturbing in the extreme.
“Was there no part of you that suspected?” Restell asked gently. “Even a little?”
“Some things are not worthy of examination.”
“But you are not saying that I must be mistaken.”
“It would do no good.”
“True, but is that really the reason you haven’t objected?”
Emma stared down at her lap. “I don’t suppose it is,” she said softly. “It is the sense that you might be right.” She glanced up at him. “What made you suspect?”
“I
n part it was his reaction to me, which you observed—but mostly it was his reaction to you, which you chose to deliberately ignore.”
“It was not a conscious decision.”
Restell wondered if that were true, but he didn’t challenge her. “Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But Charters gauged your every response. The lift of your chin. Your smile. When you were appreciating his rejoinders—and when you were not. He was always aware of your presence, not casually, but intensely. He watched you without seeming to, in the way a gentleman does when he cannot be openly admiring.”
“I am sure you have mistaken the matter.”
Restell shrugged. “I am almost moved to feel sympathy for Charters. It is a piece of good luck, then, that I am occupied licking my own wounds.”
“Pray, in what manner are you wounded?”
“You tempt me to check myself again,” he told her. “God’s truth, but you draw blood with the scratches you inflict.”
Emma’s feathered eyebrows came together until only a small, vertical crease separated them. “You are not speaking of your wrist, are you?”
“No. I am most definitely not.”
She sat back suddenly, comprehension upon her. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he said, mocking her.
“You are saying that you also hold me in some affection.”
“That seems to be the way of it. As I mentioned, it is somewhat lowering that you did not suspect.”
“But I did suspect,” she said. “It simply did not occur to me to trust the feeling. You admitted to me almost at the beginning of our acquaintance that you are a romantic. If it is love that you imagine, it will be infinitely more practical if you allow the feeling to pass. That way neither of us is undone by it.”
Restell considered her suggestion. “Allow the feeling to pass,” he said, turning it over in his mind. “As if it did not set well in the stomach, like a bit of curdled milk or a bite of spoiled meat pie. Is that what you mean?”
“I had not thought of it in quite that way, but I suppose it might be similar.”
“That is where your inexperience is revealed. There is nothing at all disagreeable about the feeling.”
“Perhaps not, but it seems to me to be of an ephemeral nature, at least in the manner in which you are acquainted with it. Whatever it is that you imagine you feel, it is not an enduring condition of the heart.”
Restell realized he was enjoying himself immensely. “You have done it again.” He pointed to the back of his hand. “Just here. Another prick to my skin.”
“You are making yourself ridiculous.”
“No, see for yourself.” He held out his hand to her. “There, below the bite.”
“There is nothing there.”
“Look closer.”
Sighing, Emma took his hand in hers. It was in every way against her better judgment to support his foolish claim by looking for an injury, yet here she was, doing precisely as he bid her. As she knew would be the case, there was no evidence of a new wound.
She looked up, prepared to chide him, and discovered that his head was now bent close to hers. Their foreheads almost touched, and she’d missed his nose by the narrowest of margins. She was caught, not because he held her, but merely because she’d lost the will to look away. His eyes, so clear a blue they seemed translucent, did not waver once from her gaze. Their centers widened, darkened, and grew warmer all at once. Watching them, her breath hitched, then she felt as if she stopped breathing altogether.
He did not ask permission but gave her time all the same. She’d understood his intent from the moment she lifted her head. Honesty compelled her to admit she was relieved he didn’t speak. She didn’t know how she would have answered his question. This way there was no need. It would happen—this kiss would happen—because she wanted it and would not have to say so aloud.
“Breathe,” he urged softly.
Her lips parted.
“Yes,” he said, then his mouth was on hers.
She had not noticed him smiling but it seemed to her that his smile was what he pressed against her lips. It was no broad grin, to be sure, but a more subtle shape that was at once encouraging and pleased. It was only for a moment that she had the sense of it. When it was gone, what she knew was that a peculiar heat was slipping under her skin and that his mouth was its source.
If she had had to guess at the taste of his kiss—if she had even thought it might have a taste—she would not have supposed it might be lemonade. This kiss hinted at the sweet-tart tang of lemons and sugar and would be indelibly fixed in her mind.
His lips lay lightly across hers, not terribly presumptuous, but insistent nevertheless. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking that it was there. Of her own design she inched forward. She was hardly aware that she still clasped his hand or that her fingers were tightening around it, yet there was some part of her that understood she was grasping a lifeline. Nothing could have persuaded her to let go.
His mouth moved over hers, catching her upper lip, tasting the delicate underside with the tip of his tongue. The humid warmth of his breath did nothing to prevent her shiver. She felt the contraction, first as a ripple across her skin, then as something wholly unfamiliar deep inside her. She had always imagined that her heart would be the organ most affected by a kiss, but what she experienced now was the contraction of her womb.
At first she did not recognize the sound she made as coming from the back of her throat. Neither protest nor surrender, this small whimper was all naked need. She did not mind overmuch that he’d heard it. What she regretted was that it gave him pause.
Restell gingerly removed his hand from hers as he raised his head. He sat back in his own seat in the same fluid motion. Emma’s bonnet was slightly askew, and he was reminded that she did not want to appear foolish. He touched a finger to his own head, made a tipping motion, and smiled a bit ruefully as she tugged on the ribbons to set it right.
“If you like,” he said, “I’ll make an apology.”
Emma found she wanted to lift her hand to her mouth. She already missed the pressure of his lips on hers. It was too revealing of a gesture to make in front of him, but she suspected she would do it later when she was alone, perhaps when she was lying in bed. At the great age of two and twenty she would finally have the opportunity to savor her first kiss.
“If you apologize,” she said, “I shall be hurt beyond measure.”
“You understand, don’t you, that you may demand satisfaction? There are females who would be moved to slap me.”
“Truly? And it hasn’t deterred you in the least. That is worth noting, Mr. Gardner. I’ll slap you if you like, of course, but I’m accounted to be a credible shot and would prefer pistols at twenty paces. I will aim to wound. As you have noted, I am accomplished at it.”
Restell laughed. “Why do I think for a moment that you will behave in the manner of every other woman of my acquaintance? I hope you will forgive me for my impoverished expectations. You are in every way a singular individual.”
“Not so singular,” she said, shaking her head. “If I had not permitted you to kiss me, well, that would have been singular. I doubt there has ever been a woman who refused you.” She could not help but smile watching his brow crease as he tried to think of the exception to the rule. “Please, you must not strain your cognitive powers. An admission that I am right will suffice.”
“You are right.”
She tilted her head to one side as if giving full consideration to his response. “Yes, it suffices. It is unexpectedly disappointing, though, to realize that no member of my sex has been able to resist you.”
“I have not approached them all,” he said. “That should hearten you.”
A bubble of laughter tickled Emma’s lips. It was reminiscent of his tongue against the soft underside of her mouth. She felt a bit like she was all liquid of a sudden. “It is little wonder that you oppose your mother’s wish for you to marry. There is yet so much for you to do.”
He was tempted to kiss her saucy mouth again. The vulnerability he glimpsed in her eyes kept him from doing so. She was not quite as cavalier as she would have him believe. He respected her need to hold her own, more than that, he applauded it. “I hope you will explain my position to Lady Gardner. She appears unable to grasp it when I set the thing before her.”
“I am making no promise,” she said. “But I will consider it if I judge you are marching to the altar against your will.”
“You are all kindness.”
Emma smiled, returning to her more comfortable position in the corner of the carriage. She was remarkably at her ease, no longer as boneless as she’d felt moments before, no longer as deliberately distancing. “What is next, Mr. Gardner?”
“Next?”
“For us.” Her eyes brightened with amusement when she observed his frown. “Do not be alarmed that I mean to march you to the altar myself. I am speaking of the reason I came to you. You have met my uncle, my cousin, and Mr. Charters. You have the drawing of Mr. Kincaid, and you have spoken to Madame Chabrier and her shop girls. You’ve watched over my family for almost a fortnight and put questions to any number of people who might have crossed paths with Mr. Kincaid. Therefore, I am wondering: what’s next?”
“Walthamstow.”
“You are going there? When?”
“On the morrow. I leave at first light. You look surprised, but my trip has been planned for some time. It is the reason I insisted upon visiting Charters today. I did not want to wait until I returned to speak to him.”
“What do you imagine you will find there?”
“It is not so much what, but who. You were helped by an innkeeper and his wife in Walthamstow. I desire to talk to them. It is clear that Charters did not question them.”
“Not in my hearing,” Emma admitted. “He was very anxious to get me away from there.”
“Understandable.”
“It is what I wanted,” she said.
“Also understandable.”
She frowned. “I cannot help thinking you do not mean it.”
“I mean it,” he said. “It is all perfectly understandable. It is also indulgent. What either of you wanted is of little account when compared to what you needed. Admit it, Emma, you were in no physical condition to make so hasty a return to London.”