If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo GoodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
and the curl lay there unmoving as though painted by a fine hand. The effect relieved the symmetry of Marisol’s countenance, but immediately made Emma more aware of the features that lent her cousin an almost doll-like perfection. Marisol’s complexion was without blemish and fashionably pale. This porcelain canvas made the pink hue in her cheeks all the more startling, and the rose blush softened or deepened with such charming results that it was as though Marisol had the knack of willing it so.
“Have you been kissed then?” asked Marisol. Her full bottom lip was thrust forward in the first stage of a pretty pout. “Why is it that you have never told me? I will have his name. I must. We are agreed there shall be no secrets between us.”
Emma could not recall that she had ever entered into such an agreement with her cousin. It would be such an uncharacteristic lapse in good judgment that it could mean only that she’d been kicked in the head by a horse. “His name was Fitzroy. Are you quite happy that you have it from me?”
“Fitzroy? What sort of name is that?”
“A fine one, I suspect. He was comfortable with it, at least it always seemed so to me.” Emma held out the bonnet again as Marisol sucked in her bottom lip. “Here. Shall I help you arrange it?”
Marisol took the bonnet, but placed it in her lap. She continued to regard Emma with some misgivings while her fingers fiddled with the bonnet’s trim. “Fitzroy. Was that his Christian name or his surname?”
Emma pretended to be much struck by the question. “Do you know, I don’t believe I ever inquired,” she said at last. “I only ever knew him to have the one name.”
“But you permitted him to kiss you?”
“Yes, of course. He was most amiable and I liked him immensely.” Emma noted that confusion set Marisol’s perfect features slightly awry. “Have I given you cause to think ill of me?” she asked. “You are frowning in earnest.”
“Then it is very bad of you to make me do so.” Having admonished Emma, Marisol effortlessly smoothed her expression and presented what might be interpreted as only polite concern. “I could never think ill of you, Emma, but it is rather surprising to hear you speak so blithely on this matter of being kissed. I feel as if I should be reminding you that it is a dangerous practice to engage in flirtation with a man to whom you have not been properly introduced.”
Emma watched as Marisol paused, blinked slowly and widely, then finally framed a perfect O with her lips. Such was her cousin’s look of dawning comprehension. The physicality of the effort never failed to fascinate Emma. “Yes, dearest,” Emma said kindly. “You heard yourself say it, now what is to be done?”
“But I was speaking of you,” Marisol protested. “You cannot hold me to the same standard that I hold you.”
“What an absurd thing to say. Why ever not?”
“The simple answer is that you are four years my senior. Still, I do not account that twenty-two is such a great age, nor eighteen an age of no consequence. The truth is that you are an infinitely better person than I am.”
Now it was Emma who blinked. Her eyes, more green than blue but with an unmistakable hint of the latter, were shuttered briefly by long dark lashes. When a cocoa-colored tendril of hair fell forward it did not lay prettily against her temple, but curled like a hook around one raised eyebrow, giving the impression that it not only had lifted the eyebrow to just that height but also held it in place. Emma thrust her jaw out and blew upward, causing the curl to flutter but failing to dislodge it. She was moved at last to impatiently brush it aside.
“A better person?” asked Emma. “You cannot possibly believe that. We are different, surely. That is a fair observation. But this other? No. You very much mistake the matter.”
“I am vain and silly,” Marisol said frankly. “Father says so, and he would know for I am like my mother in that way. Do not distress yourself, Emmalyn, casting about for some kind words to soften his remarks. Father loved Mother to absolute distraction and loves her still if the truth be known. He loves me no less, not in spite of who I am, but because of it.”
“That is not the observation of a silly young woman.”
“Yes, well, it is but the mood of the moment. Foolishness will return directly.”
Set figuratively back on her heels by Marisol’s candor, Emma pressed her lips together and wondered what more could be said.
Marisol glanced over her shoulder at her reflection, then caught Emma’s gaze in the mirror. “And you yourself know that I am vain. How can I not be when I have little else beyond my beauty to recommend me? You are the fiercely clever one, Emmalyn. Father says you might well have been born a man for all your clever ways.”
“I’m sure he meant that as a compliment,” Emma said dryly.
“Oh, indeed. You are like a son to him; he’s told me so. A son is better than a daughter, I think, for there are vastly different expectations. You are the son.”
“That is not so, Marisol. Uncle’s feelings for me are not what they are for you.”
“Of course they are not, but I am not speaking of his feelings, only of the fact that he thinks of you as he would a son. It does not mean that he loves me less, but that he depends on you more. It’s been that way since you came to live with us. How long has it been now? Two years?”
“Almost three,” Emma said quietly.
Marisol turned abruptly. The bonnet spilled from her lap to the floor, and she made no move to retrieve it. When Emma would have done so, she stopped her, reaching to grasp her hand. “A less vain and silly girl would not have forgotten that next month is the anniversary of your own dear parents’ death. Forgive me, Emmalyn. I spoke without thinking.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“You really are the better person.” Marisol squeezed Emma’s hand lightly. “Certainly more generous.”
Emma waited until Marisol released her hand, then stooped to pick up the bonnet. When Marisol made no move to take it, Emma sighed, accepting the inevitable. “It’s to be Mr. Kincaid, then? You have some message for him.”
“Did I not say you are fiercely clever? You have read my mind.”
“Hardly. I know neither where nor when, and I most assuredly do not know what.”
“Madame Chabrier’s is where you will be going.”
“The milliner’s?”
“Yes. Mr. Kincaid will meet you there.”
“That is hardly one of his usual haunts. And don’t you prefer Mrs. Bowman’s fine hats?”
“Yes. It will seem to be a chance meeting. I did not want anyone placing a different construction upon it.”
“Since you’re sending me, the chance of you encountering Mr. Kincaid seems to be…well, there is no chance at all. No one will remark on me crossing his path.”
“But I didn’t know when I agreed to meet him that I would be sending you in my place. I thought that was evident.”
“Perhaps you will want to revise your opinion that I am the clever one.”
“Perhaps I will,” Marisol said. “But not just now. It does not serve.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Mr. Kincaid and I agreed on one o’clock as the correct time.”
“It is almost one now.”
“Yes, but then I am invariably late. Mr. Kincaid knows that as I took pains to explain the nuances of being late as my fashion and being fashionably late. I am striving for the latter. He’ll wait.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I shall be devastated.”
“But why? You are not even meeting him.”