If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  “Lady Gardner is quite correct,” the countess said. “If you desire more in the way of notice, you have to train them.”

  Emma was moved to interject. “But I do not want undeserved admiration. If my talent is mediocre, then it would be a small cruelty for my husband to puff the thing up. It would expose me to the ridicule of others.”

  “That is unlikely to happen,” Marisol said. “You do not play the pianoforte, nor do you sing. You dance only when cornered. What small talent is there to puff up?”

  Emma laughed. “If I had one, you have pricked it cleanly. But you are right: I am sadly lacking in accomplishments.”

  “Do you embroider?” Imogene asked.

  “Poorly,” Emma said. “I set the threads too tightly. It makes my jaw ache.”

  “Mine also,” Lady Rivendale admitted. “Have you tried your hand at cards? I find it to be a skillful and often rewarding entertainment.”

  “I recently was introduced to conquian, but I fear I demonstrated no head for the strategy of play.”

  “Conquian?” Lady Rivendale’s expression was at once suspicious. “That is a game for the hells. Where did you learn it?”

  It occurred to Emma to ask the same of the countess, but she was mindful of her place. “Mr. Gardner explained it to me.”

  Imogene quickly hid her smile behind her hand. It was Wynetta who tittered and earned an admonishing glance from her mother.

  Lady Gardner set her cup firmly in her saucer. “Restell is a thorough rascal. As his mother, I am perfectly free to say so.”

  “And frequently does,” Wynetta said under her breath. This comment did not go unnoticed, and she received another reproving sideways look.

  “Truly, Emmalyn,” Lady Gardner said, “you must not permit him to lead you astray. Playing…playing…. what is the game again?”

  “Conquian.” Emma and the countess answered together.

  “Precisely. You might have admitted taking instruction in that game to someone who understands its significance.”

  Emma was fairly certain that’s what she had just done, but for reasons that were based in a friendship of many years, Lady Gardner did not mind that the countess knew.

  “Someone other than the countess,” Lady Gardner said. “She is favored with an excellent, if somewhat eccentric reputation, and no one remarks on her breadth of knowledge of things that polite society does not countenance. Is that not so, Georgia?”

  “It is. But I am of an age, you see. One is forgiven certain things when one is of an age. You are not yet there, Emmalyn, and will not be there for some time, so Marianna is quite right to caution you. Restell should have warned you, but then he is a rascal, just as his mother says. We love him, though, don’t we, girls?”

  In unison Wynetta and Imogene nodded dutifully and gravely while their eyes sparkled with repressed mirth.

  “I promise I shall tread more carefully in the future,” Emma said.

  “And you will deliver Restell a scold, won’t you?” Lady Gardner asked.

  “I think that is better left to you.”

  “As if I ever see the boy. He might as well be as far away as Ferrin. Ian is my only son who visits regularly and inquires after my health. Restell avoids me and regularly puts all of my humors at risk.”

  Emma hardly knew how she might respond. She had a strong urge to defend her husband and an equal desire not to offend her mother-in-law. “He has been occupied of late with affairs of business. Perhaps that explains his absence.”

  Marisol raised her cup halfway to her mouth. “Affairs of business, Emma? How so?”

  There was a certain slyness in her cousin’s tone that Emma did not miss but doubted anyone else heard. “I’m not certain what you mean.” Emma hoped Marisol had not misjudged her audience. If she thought she could level an unsavory accusation at Restell, then she was sadly out of it. She would only alienate herself. “He has a number of financial interests that require his attention. When I left him today he was deep in the study of a stack of ledgers. I quite felt sorry for him.”

  “Then he no longer frequents the hells,” Marisol said. “That bodes well, I think. I do not heed the gossip, of course, but one hears things whether one wishes to or not.”

  Emma thought Marisol had done a masterful job of avoiding the family’s collective cudgel by crediting gossip. Lady Gardner, she noted, had developed a distinct pallor to her complexion. Perhaps she had not overstated the risk to her humors.

  “What have you heard?” Imogene asked.

  “It does not bear repeating,” Marisol said. “It is certain that the wags have it wrong.”

  “Still,” Wynetta said, “I would like to know how wrong they are.”

  “Really, I should not like to say it.” She set her cup and saucer on the tray beside the teapot and stood. “Shall I play?”

  “Please,” Lady Rivendale said tautly. She gestured to Wynetta, encouraging her to join Marisol at the pianoforte. When Marisol and Wynetta turned, she said, “You are looking rather pale, dear. Is there something that can be brought for you?”

  It required a moment for Emma to realize that the countess was speaking to her, not Restell’s mother. “No, nothing. There is no need—not for me—but perhaps for Lady Gardner.”

  Lady Rivendale glanced at her friend. “Fan her, Imogene. That will settle her nerves.”

  Marianna Gardner laid her hand over her daughter’s wrist. “What will settle my nerves is not having Restell’s name bandied about by the wags. It was very different when Ferrin was the rake. He did not get himself regularly called out, and no one ever shot him. He did not drink himself senseless or become an opium eater. His mistresses were women of breeding, not actresses and opera dancers. Ferrin did not flee every eligible young lady who was presented to him, nor was his wedding a perfectly havey-cavey affair.”

  “Marianna,” Lady Rivendale said sternly. “You are overset and forget yourself.”

  But Lady Gardner was not finished. “And Ferrin has never come to the attention of the gossips even once since his marriage.” The sweet strains of Marisol’s playing did not soften Lady Gardner’s agitation. It was seeing Emma’s stricken face that did that. “Oh, my dear, do you think I blame you? No, goodness no. I blame myself. A mother has little enough influence, I fear, and a wife even less. I recognize Restell’s fine hand in whatever has happened that is untoward. It is all very well that he is a rascal to us, but the ton is not so kind or forgiving as his family.”

  “Mother,” Imogene said calmly, “you do not even know that he has done anything the least improper. Miss Vega refuses to explain herself.”

  Emma straightened her shoulders and put a proper lift in her chin. “My husband is a good and kind man, Lady Gardner. There is no cause to reproach yourself. You might, instead, congratulate yourself for any influence that you had in shaping a considerate and compassionate gentleman. He is all of that. A proper Samaritan who asks only what is reasonable in return for his great good deeds. If he has come to the attention of the gossips, then it is as a consequence of doing something that is right, not wrong, and if it reflects on me, or makes me an object of a pitying glance, then I shall accept it because I know the truth. My husband acts on his conscience, and he is in possession of a finely calibrated moral compass. You could ask for no better son, nor I a better companion. We are blessed, both of us.”

  These last words, spoken as they were with a slight tremor in the timbre, were greeted with complete silence. Even Marisol had stopped playing.

  It was the countess who finally stepped into the breach. “Do you see, Marianna? Your fears are groundless. It is much more than affection that she feels for your son. She clearly loves him, and what is more, she respects him. That cannot help but bode well. Now cease fretting that nothing good can—” Lady Rivendale stopped, sighing when she saw tears gathering at the corners of her friend’s eyes. “Where is your mother’s handkerchief, Imogene? She has been a watering pot of late, and one knows now that it has b
een for naught.”

  The countess sighed again, this time with great feeling. “How foolish we are. Embrace it, I say, for there is not the least shame in caring so very deeply.” She patted Emma’s hand while she glanced over her shoulder at Marisol and Wynetta at the pianoforte. “Continue playing, Marisol. We are endeavoring to recover here.”

  Emma was lying on the chaise in their suite of rooms when Restell found her. She had a cold compress across her forehead and her eyes were closed. He went immediately to her side. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. It was enough indication that she was not sleeping.

  “Crowley said I would find you here,” Restell said. “Are you unwell?”

  She hardly knew how to answer that. “Lady Rivendale announced to your mother, your married sisters, and Marisol that I clearly love you. You will not credit it, Restell, but I am certain she’s right.”

  Restell found a space on the chaise where he could sit. He lowered himself somewhat slowly to that spot as he considered his response. “So you came home and prostrated yourself across the chaise. Yes, I can see how that would be the thing to do. The compress makes me think the feeling has not yet passed.”

  Emma found his hand and slipped hers under it. “You are amused by my condition.”

  “On the contrary, I am made hopeful by it. How long has it been since Lady Rivendale’s epiphany?”

  “Several hours, but I have only just arrived home.”

  “And how long have you suspected that she’s right?”

  Emma dragged the damp compress over her eyes and laid her free hand on top of it. “It is not a suspicion. I have harbored suspicions for weeks. When I heard her say the thing aloud, I knew it was fact.”

  “I see.”

  “I feel as if my heart is being squeezed, Restell.”

  He understood her discomfort. It was often the same for him. “Does it make you afraid?”

  “A little.”

  “Then I am not the only one. That is good to know.”

  Emma picked up one corner of the compress and regarded him with a single, wary eye.

  “Do you think I’m never afraid, Emma? I hope I am never so foolish as to be without fear. It humbles me. It makes me cautious, and on occasion it makes me clever. Loving you is like that. From the outset. The fear that you would never know the same for me has made me humble, cautious, and—”

  Emma removed the compress and placed one finger against his lips. “And very, very clever.” She shook her head, marveling at him as her hand fell away. “Have you loved me so long, then?”

  “I declared myself in the carriage, remember? You were the one who wanted no part of it.”

  “You told me you were a romantic, that you fall in love regularly.”

  “And so I am,” he said. “And so I do. I don’t fault you for being cautious. I comprehended there was a difference in my feelings for you, but the difference was in me. You couldn’t have known that then. I’m not certain why you believe it now.”

  Emma pushed herself up on her elbows. “You invited me to join you when you went to a gaming hell. I don’t suppose you can appreciate how dear I hold that memory. Not only the adventure, Restell, but the invitation. To be asked to share that small enterprise with you, it was outside all my expectations, yet you proposed it casually, as if there were nothing the least improper or singular about it. You acted as if I were your equal.” Her voice became a husky whisper. “As if I were your friend.”

  Emma sat up the rest of the way. Her face was close to his. “It seemed irrelevant that I was your wife or even that I was a woman. You made it irrelevant to me.” Emma cupped his face, smiling sympathetically as Restell’s eyes darted to the compress at her side. “Have you need of it?”

  “It depends,” he said. “On whether you think being a woman—and my wife—is irrelevant now.”

  Her answer was to kiss him warmly and ardently and invite him to take her to bed.

  The window seat in Restell’s library was Emma’s favorite place for reflection. Even when she was not alone in the room, Restell rarely interrupted her thoughts if she was sitting there. This evening, however, he was making noises behind his paper and on occasion actually giving it a shake. She wondered if perhaps she should not have allowed hunger to draw them from their bed. They might have stayed there and asked for dinner to be brought to them, but she had pressed Restell to dress for dinner and escort her to the dining room.

  Her motives were perfectly selfish. She enjoyed looking at him across the table from her. The shallow vase of hothouse flowers did not obstruct her view, and candlelight burnished his pale hair gold. The points of his collar framed the sharp line of his jaw, while the elaborately tied neckcloth softened his beautifully sculpted features. The Viking warrior tamed is what she thought when she watched him take mannered bites and relish the bouquet of his wine. And when he smiled at her over the rim of his glass, even if it was only with his eyes, she was immediately reminded that her warrior’s civility could be undone if she gave him the slightest provocation.

  Now, listening to him swear softly under his breath, Emma laid down her embroidery hoop and moved the basket of threads out of her way. It was no hardship to put the thing aside. She had been truthful with Lady Rivendale earlier in the day: she had little talent and even less patience for stitchery. She only kept it around so she might have something to busy her hands while her mind was more deeply occupied.

  “Is it something you can share?” Emma asked. “Or should I resist asking for the particulars?”

  Restell lowered his paper and regarded her with a vague look over the top. “Pardon? Did you say something?”

  Emma gave him a pointed stare. “You were growling. I wondered if you wanted to explain those noises.”

  “Growling? Was I?” He closed the paper, folded it, and set it on the table beside his chair. “It is our good friend Monsieur Jourdain. He is the subject of an unflattering illustration in the Gazette. They offer no name, but there is no mistaking the likeness nor the intent to cast him as a wastrel and debaucher. The accompanying article suggests that influences from abroad are corrupting the young gentlemen about town.”

  “Oh, that is unfortunate. What is to be done?”

  “The Gazette will have to print a retraction.”

  “You can make them do that?”

  Restell shrugged. “We shall see. There are influences that can be brought to bear. That is but a first step. What to do about the mischief makers, though, that will require some thought. Jourdain calls them his boon companions, but the Allworthy cousins are miscreants of the first water, no better than the Peele brothers, worse, in fact, because they have had opportunities of wealth and privilege denied to fellows like Elliot and Will Peele. They have shown their hand often enough by cheating at cards. It is tempting to throw down the gauntlet.”

  Emma gave her husband a quelling look.

  He chuckled. “Tempting but hardly prudent. It is also less satisfying than a more public set down. I shall have to find some way to impugn their honor.”

  “Impugn their honor? Is that possible? I believe you called them miscreants a moment ago.”

  “They are self-important, Emma, and therefore they overreach. They make themselves vulnerable because of the influential gentlemen they choose as their marks. I wonder if they will accept an invitation to Lytton’s.”

  “The gentleman’s club? Not Breckenridge’s hell?”

  “The club will serve better than any of the hells because the members will not hesitate to come forward. I imagine if I puff the fellows up with their consequence, they will join me in the card room. Father should be there, I think. In fact, he is the better person to extend the invitation. Perhaps some of his friends will join the enterprise. I feel sure the foreign minister will have names to suggest.”

  “Jourdain’s would-be friends are foolish, Restell, not witless. They won’t cheat in the company of the minister’s friends.”

  He waved her reasonable point as
ide. “They don’t have to cheat; I only have to make it seem that’s what they’re doing. Oh, but they will hate being caught out at something they haven’t done.”

  “Does it not seem dangerous to you? Are you certain no one will be called to account for it?”

  “It’s deliciously just, Emma, and no one’s been called out at my father’s club in half a century. They plot wars there and the seizing of entire countries. Pistols at dawn do not interest them in the least.”

  “I must say, you appear to have the thing well in hand. And you have stopped growling. That is most excellently done of you.”

  He grinned, tipping his head in her direction. “You are my muse.”

  She raised a single eyebrow. “I am sure you mean to compliment me, but you are planning the certain ruination of reputations. It is just, as you say, but also cold-blooded. Can I not inspire you to write a sonnet?”

  “Not a good one.”

  Emma laughed. “I will choose to believe you have no talent for it, not that I am insufficiently inspiring.”

  “And you would be correct.” Restell stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. His regard was considering. “You have said very little about your visit to Lady Rivendale’s, apart from the epiphany, of course. I take it that your afternoon was in all other ways unexceptional?”

  Emma did not miss the slight inflection that made Restell’s last statement a question. She sighed, knowing very well what he wanted to hear. “I suppose you have spoken to McCleod or Hobbes or—”

  “It was McCleod and Shaw this afternoon,” Restell said. “For you and Miss Vega. I had the same story from both of them, though neither was close enough to hear the actual exchange between you and Charters.”

  “Then you know it was brief.”

  “So I was given to understand. I was also told that the encounter left you agitated.”

  Emma supposed that was as good a description as any. Still, she flushed, embarrassed that she had not demonstrated more in the way of sangfroid. “I was put off my stride from the moment he alighted from Marisol’s carriage. I did not anticipate that he would accompany her.”