If His Kiss Is Wicked
Page 22
“I am discomfited,” she said. “I am not certain it is at all the same.”
“Probably not.” He was aware of the slight tremor that slipped beneath her skin. His hands spanned her narrow waist, and just beneath her rib cage, he could feel the thud of her heart. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“No. Did you?”
“I do not think I slept at all.”
She nodded faintly. “It was the same for me.” Quite without knowing that she meant to do it, Emma lifted her hand and cupped the side of his face. Her thumb lay lightly against his skin, then made a pass across the high arch of his cheek. “Does it seem curious to you that we have come to just this end?”
“Curiously inevitable, perhaps.” He turned his head and kissed the underside of her wrist. “And exactly right.”
It was the warmth of his mouth against her skin that made her feel weak of a moment. If he had asked her to remove herself from his lap, she wouldn’t have been able to stand. She passed her fingertips across his temple and made a small furrow in his sun-gilt hair. When he simply closed his eyes, she did it again. And again. His small sigh of contentment was as warming to her as his lips had been on her wrist.
Without opening his eyes, he said, “You will have noticed that our bed is large.”
Her fingers stilled, then resumed their gentle threading. She glanced toward the entrance of the adjoining room where the curtained four-poster occupied considerable space. “I did in fact notice that.”
One corner of his mouth edged up at her effort to remain composed. “So large, I believe, that we might lie comfortably together.”
Emma’s eyes darted to the open window behind Restell. “There are many hours yet before nightfall.”
“I am thinking we might have a nap, Emma.”
“A nap. Oh, but that is a splendid idea.”
Restell’s slight grin deepened, and he offered in dry accents, “I am choosing not to be insulted by your enthusiasm for it.”
Her sweetly warm kiss did a great deal to assure that was so.
Chapter 9
Restell opened one eye, saw it was dusk, and promptly shut out even this meager light by burying his face in his pillow. He stretched but only so he could find a more comfortable depression in the mattress. He was vaguely aware of a conversation taking place in the dressing room and that both participants were female. The hushed tones did not permit him to hear the particulars of the exchange, but he recognized Emma’s carefully modulated accents. The other voice was unfamiliar to him, which he counted in his favor: It meant Emma’s personal maid and all of her trunks had arrived from Sir Arthur’s.
Restell fell in and out of sleep. Sometimes he awakened and heard the flutter of activity in the dressing room and sometimes he heard nothing at all. Once he glimpsed Emma folding a blanket at the foot of the bed, then she was gone.
It was the fragrance of warm bread and a savory roast that nudged all of his senses to wakefulness. His empty stomach was a powerful motivator. Pushing himself up so he could rest on his elbows, he watched Emma uncover the dishes that had been set on the small, round table in front of the fireplace. It was a pleasure to watch her at this task as she breathed deeply of the aromas that were revealed and gave evidence of her satisfaction in a smile that was at once expectant and replete.
“Your appetite appears to match my own,” he said.
Caught unaware, Emma nearly dropped the cover she was holding. It bobbled in her hands before she secured it against her chest. She saw Restell’s gaze drop to her covered breasts and did not mistake the mischief going on behind his eyes. Flushing, she turned her back on him and replaced the domed lid over the roast. She heard Restell leaving the bed, then his soft tread as he approached her from behind. He placed his hands on the curve of her shoulders and brushed the crown of her head lightly with his cheek.
“I imagine that I will learn to temper my teasing,” he said.
Emma twisted her head just enough to glance at him. “Oh, I hope you will not do so on my account.”
He saw that she was perfectly earnest. “Then you were not offended?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I was…” She halted again, searching for the right words. “That is, your teasing…well, it made me…warm.”
“Warm.” He pressed his smile into her hair. It was like silken threads beneath his lips. “Warm. That is a good beginning, I think.” He gave her a quick kiss on the temple, then nudged her gently toward one of the chairs. “May I seat you?” At Emma’s nod, he pulled out a chair and waited for her to sit. When she was comfortable, he took the seat opposing her.
When they had taken to their bed earlier, Emma had removed all but her modest shift and stockings, while Restell had stripped down to his linen, trousers, and hose. He could not fail to notice that she’d taken some pains to dress for dinner and looked quite lovely for the effort. In contrast, he was aware that he looked rather disreputable. His shirt was open at the throat and only slightly more wrinkled than his trousers. He’d left the bed without stepping into his shoes and hadn’t given a thought to applying a brush to his hair. Conscious of his appearance, he quickly ran a hand through his hair and fumbled with the chitterling on his shirt. When he glanced over at Emma and saw she was watching him, he realized his efforts did little to improve his appearance.
“I should dress,” he said, starting to rise.
Emma reached across the small table and placed her hand on his forearm. “No. Do not. It is of no import to me, and your food will grow cold.”
“If this is a dream, I pray I will not wake from it. My mother would never permit my father to sit at supper in this wise.”
“And I submit, sir, that you do not know what manner of dress is accepted in your parents’ bedchamber. That is surely a private place.”
Restell almost blanched. “Your point is taken,” he said quickly, “and we will say no more on the matter.”
Emma chuckled. “It is disconcerting, is it not, to think of one’s parents as intimate.”
“I beg you, stop.”
Still chuckling, Emma removed all the covers and began serving herself from the platters. The thinly sliced roast was rare and lay in its own dark juices. Small buttered potatoes were surrounded by carrot medallions and pearl onions. At Emma’s insistence there was half a loaf of warm, crusty bread, pear and cheese wedges, and a bottle of red wine. She accepted the half glass of wine that Restell poured for her and raised her glass when he did the same.
“This is right, Emma,” he said quietly, touching his glass to hers. “For both of us.” Although she nodded, Restell could not divine whether she believed or merely that she wanted to believe. After they both drank, there was silence. Restell applied himself to filling his own plate. Emma spread a serviette across her lap and waited politely for him to finish before she picked up her fork.
They ate in silence for some time before Emma was moved to note it. “It is still a bit awkward, isn’t it?” she said, spearing one of the carrots. “The two of us, I mean.”
“I must say, you go at a thing head-on. Have you never injured yourself?”
“On occasion. You will have noticed that I persist.”
“I have noticed,” he said. “From the outset, in fact.”
She looked down at her plate, thoughtful now as she cut into her roast. “Why do you suppose I cannot persist in other ways? Do you realize I still can go nowhere unattended?”
“Nor should you.”
“That is not the point. A woman in society is granted little enough independence. A solitary walk in the park is not outside the pale if the hour is not too late. I want that back, Mr. Gard—” Seeing the dramatic arch of his eyebrow, Emma stopped. “Restell,” she said. “I want that back, Restell.”
“And so you shall have it.”
“You cannot know that.”
He shrugged lightly, lifting a potato to his mouth.
“It is no good if you will not argue,” Emma said.
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p; Restell chewed and swallowed. “At this juncture, I can think of no argument that will persuade you. Given that, I prefer silence.”
Emma’s sigh was sufficiently dramatic to cause the candle flame to flicker. Seeing it, she had the grace to offer a smile rife with self-mockery. “As a rule, I am not given to sulking.”
“I know, and I’m appreciative.”
“Do you sulk?”
“I brood. It is the masculine form of the expression.”
“I did not realize.” She speared a small stack of carrots. “What of fussing? Do men fuss?”
“They stew.”
“Yes, I can see how they might. It even sounds masculine. Very meaty.”
Restell was having difficulty maintaining a tone as dry as hers. “Men are not harried either. We are plagued.”
“I see. It must be a great trial to you, being a man. I am sure I would not have the stamina for it.”
Restell was forced to wash down a bit of meat with some wine before he choked. “Enough. You will kill me.”
Emma’s smile was all innocence as she regarded him closely. “You will not like to know this, Mr. Gardner, but you are looking a bit harried.”
“And you are a plaguey wife.” Restell struck with the speed of a cobra on a mongoose. He had Emma out of her chair and hoisted in his arms even before she understood his intent. The fork she still held in her hand was poised to puncture his neck. It did not give him pause until she went perfectly rigid. Only then did he recognize that what he meant as an impulsive, playful gesture was neither of those things to her. “Emma?”
He risked glancing away from her slightly glazed eyes to look at the fork. It was all too easy to imagine those tines sinking deep into his flesh, and the wound she could inflict might well be fatal. “Emma. It is Restell. Look at me. Look at me.” As he spoke, he carefully lowered his arm that supported her under her knees until she unfolded and her feet touched the ground. Holding her securely against him with one hand, he used the other to quickly wrest the fork from her. There was no battle for it. Her nerveless fingers simply surrendered it.
Emma was already trembling with the sure knowledge of what she had been prepared to do. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
Restell tossed the fork away. He held her loosely, supporting her more with the frame of his body than his hands at her back. “Hush. Nothing happened, and if it had, it would be no more than I deserved.”
She raised her face. Her eyes pleaded with him, though she had no sense of what she wanted to say.
“Emma,” he said gently. “I provoked you to it. Come, lie down. You are yet unsteady.” He was grateful that she did not resist him or his suggestion. More meekly than he would have thought possible, she accompanied him to the bed and sat. “Will you allow me to play the lady’s maid?”
“Yes. Yes, please. I do not want Bettis to see me thus.”
That made him smile, albeit only faintly. He stooped, raised her right leg, and removed her leather slipper. He made equally quick work of the other. Earlier in the day she had disappeared into the dressing room to remove her gown. Now she made no protest as he loosened the ribbons that defined the bodice and helped her pull it over her head. Sitting beside her, he tugged on the laces of her corselet so that she might remove it. She gave it to him without a word.
He was on the point of carrying her garments to the dressing room when she indicated that he should remove her stockings also. He placed what he was holding on the bed and dropped to one knee in front of her. She rested her foot on his thigh and raised the hem of her batiste chemise to the midpoint of her calf. Restell reached under the chemise, found the ribbons that held her silk stockings in place and tugged. His palms lightly grazed her legs as he rolled the stockings to the tips of her toes.
“Bettis is not as efficient as you,” she said, watching him.
“She probably does not enjoy her work as much.”
“Nor is she so well-practiced. You have done this before, I think.”
Restell stood and gathered her clothes a second time. “That is not something you truly want to know.”
But I do. Emma was not sure if she had spoken aloud or if he was merely pretending not to hear her. When he turned away without comment she had further cause to wonder if she had even spoken aloud. It was this last possibility, she supposed, that seemed to indicate that he was right.
When Restell returned from the dressing room, Emma was still sitting precisely as he’d left her. “Won’t you lie down?”
She nodded but made no move to do so.
“Very well,” he said. He began to gather the remnants of their meal, replacing the covers on the platters and putting the whole of it on the tray.
Emma was openly curious. “What are you doing?”
“I am removing this to our sitting room, then I am ringing for someone to take it all away. I did not think you wanted any intrusion here.” He managed the task with brisk efficiency, and this time when he reappeared in their bedchamber, Emma was sitting at the head of the bed. It was an improvement of sorts, he decided, that her legs were no longer dangling over the side.
He closed the door to the sitting room so there would be no interruption when the maids took the tray. Only the wine bottle and two glasses remained on the table as proof that they’d shared some part of a meal here. Restell carried all three to the bedside where he poured a second half glass for her and only a little more than that for himself.
Emma gratefully accepted her glass. While the urge was upon her to drink it greedily, she did not allow herself to give in to it.
Restell set the bottle on the bedside table. He started to back away, his intention to retrieve a chair, but Emma stopped him.
“Please,” she said. “Sit here.” She laid her hand at the side of the bed closest to her.
He regarded her uncertainly. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Emma.”
“It is.”
Her flat assertion made Restell’s lips twitch. It seemed to him that she meant to brook no argument, a sure sign that she was well into recovering herself. He sat at her side and hooked his heels on the bed rail. “You are feeling more the thing, I collect.”
Nodding, she took another sip of wine. It was considerably darker outside, but the candles inside the bedchamber cast warm, golden light across the coverlet bunched about her knees. Emma alternately plucked at the spread, then smoothed it over. She did this several times before she was able to pose the question uppermost in her mind. “Have I given you cause to fear me?”
Choosing his words carefully, Restell’s answer was not immediate. “I am not afraid of you, Emma. It is more accurate to say that I am afraid for you.”
Her eyes wandered from his face back to her wineglass. She rolled the stem in her fingertips. “The difference is of some import,” she said quietly.
“I think so, yes.”
“Then you would not entirely be opposed to consummating our marriage tonight.”
Restell cupped her chin with the side of his index finger and gently nudged her face upward. “I would not be opposed,” he said, surprising himself with the neutral tone he affected. “What I would wonder is whether you are prepared for such an end.”
Her eyes darted to the right and left before they settled on him again. “Perhaps if we remove what might be used as weapons.”
It was the perfect gravity of her response that raised his smile. “I do not think we must go to those lengths, Emma. My point is that I do not want to give you cause to reach for any.”
“It is only that you startled me earlier. I did not expect you to lunge at me.”
“I may startle you again. That can happen in the natural course of things.”
“You are infinitely more experienced than I am,” she said. “Can you not explain your intentions as you go?”
“Explain my intentions,” he repeated with considerable deliberateness. “I’m afraid you will have to explain yours.”
“On the mouth will be satisfactory.”
Emma nodded. She leaned into him and placed her lips against his. She lingered there a moment, sipping at his mouth much as she had the wine, resisting the urge to surrender to greediness. When she felt the first inkling of a response from him, she sat back. “Do you see?” she asked. “I didn’t startle you. You knew precisely what I was going to do as I announced myself.”
Restell was more than startled. She had rendered him speechless.
Emma regarded him anxiously. “Restell?”
“A moment more,” he said. “I am in want of my wits.” He held up one hand, forestalling her comment. “That is not entirely bad, you understand.”
“I do. It is the same for me.”
Restell’s smile mocked them both. “God’s truth, but we are well-suited. As witless a pair as ever embarked upon a marriage.”
“Imagine how much worse it would be if we were in love.”
Wishing he had fought to retain his glass of wine so that he might finish it off now, Restell still was able to consider the consequences of her assertion. “Infinitely worse,” he said. “We might make ourselves ridiculous.”
She nodded. “The wags would have it all. Gossip to Gospel in a nine days’ wonder.”
Restell’s eyes dropped to her mouth. It was hardly necessary for him to announce his intentions. Still, he did so as a courtesy. “I’m going to kiss you now. Just there, at the corner of your mouth. You have the sweetest curve…” His voice trailed off as he bent his head.