If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo GoodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
likeness exists. Marisol is acknowledged to be a beauty. At a glance, however, especially if one did not know us well or had only a description to identify us, a mistake might be made.”
“I see.”
“And I was wearing her outerwear. I should not have, of course, but Marisol can be insistent and I saw nothing to be gained by arguing.”
“Frequently nothing is, but in this instance one does wonder.”
“It was all in aid of meeting Mr. Kincaid.”
“I thought you were going to Madame Chabrier’s. She’s a milliner, is she not?” Restell watched her eyebrows climb. “I have four sisters, Miss Hathaway. I may be a philistine about the style of a woman’s bonnet, but I know all too well who is judged to make the finest. Who is Mr. Kincaid and what purpose did he have at the milliner’s?”
“You must promise that you will keep what I shall tell you in the strictest confidence.”
“A tryst, then,” he said in bored accents. “That is frequently the way of it. Why did she ask you to go in her place?”
“To end it, of course. Marisol is engaged, you see.”
“And when was that done exactly? Before or after she agreed to an assignation with Mr. Kincaid?”
“Before.”
“You will have to speak up, Miss Hathaway. Your reluctance to speak ill of your cousin is telling of your character but deuced annoying. Now, I believe you said before. Is that correct?”
“Yes. She was betrothed before she arranged to meet Mr. Kincaid.”
“This was not the first time she agreed to it. You said she meant to break it off. From that I can infer that there were previous appointments with the man. She kept those, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Your cousin’s definition of what it means to be betrothed is rather different from what I understand is acceptable in society.”
“She is very young.”
“Is she not eighteen? Bloody hell, Miss Hathaway, if she doesn’t understand the meaning of engagement, she’s a foolish chit for agreeing to one. What sort of man is her fiancé? An ogre? Someone ready to turn up his toes? A widower with seven children of his own?”
“He is none of those things. Mr. Neven Charters is altogether an accomplished gentleman, and there are those who say he is handsome as well. He has had some business dealings with my uncle and has since become a patron. That is how he came to know us. Once he met Marisol…well, I think it is fair to say that he is besotted with her.”
Restell was silent a moment, taking into account what he believed she wasn’t saying. He didn’t fail to notice that she was worrying her lip again. “And your cousin? Is she similarly addled?”
“Her behavior to the contrary, it appears to be a love match. I believe it is the prospect of marriage that frightens her—and what comes afterward.”
Restell did not think his visitor’s mottled complexion could make allowance for another hue, so it surprised him to see a hint of pink rise above the high collar at her throat and slip under her swollen jaw and bruised cheeks. The violet stains under her eyes deepened to indigo, and then the color took the path upward past her temples and spread across her forehead until it finally disappeared into her hairline and under her bonnet.
“Afterward?” Restell said, because he could not help himself. Goading females was the prerogative of someone with four sisters, at least he had always thought so.
“Children, Mr. Gardner. My aunt died in childbirth when Marisol was not yet five. She remembers it well enough.”
Restell promised himself that he would not forget that when Miss Hathaway was pushed, she pushed back, almost always in unexpected ways. “Then you believe her flirtations are innocent?”
“Most assuredly. She is silly at times—some would say foolish—but she is not unintelligent. She realized what she was risking, thought better of it, and determined she must stop seeing Mr. Kincaid.”
“Have there been other flirtations?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Do you say that because you hope she’s shown that much sense?”
“I say it because Marisol does not regularly confide in me.”
“How did you learn about Kincaid? Did she tell you?”
“We attended a party at the Newbolts together. In January, I think it was. I observed the overtures made by Mr. Kincaid and saw that Marisol did not rebuff them.”
“Others must have observed the same.”
“They were rather more discreet than I have made them seem. Mr. Charters was not present, so Marisol was partnered in the sets by many different gentlemen.”
Restell considered this for some time before he rose from his chair and crossed in front of the desk to the fireplace. He poked at the small fire that had been laid there. The morning had begun unusually chilly and the temperature had not improved greatly. In deference to his visitor’s comfort, he added a small log and pushed it over the embers until it was captured by tongues of fire.
When he turned around it was to find Miss Hathaway perched on the edge of her chair like some fledgling bird anxious to take flight. It occurred to him that if he had given her more time, she would have seized the opportunity to escape.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“You look as though you wish yourself anywhere but here, Miss Hathaway. I wondered if you’ve thought better of your decision. Mayhap you’d like to leave.”
“I’m not…no…that is…”
Restell required a coherent sentence to follow the bent of her mind. Waiting for her to gather her thoughts, he absently tapped the tip of the poker against the marble apron. Her response to the sound was nothing short of galvanic. Her head jerked back as if struck and her hands finally released the reticule as she raised them defensively, protecting her face as though from another blow. Restell dropped the poker. She was already turning away from him by the time it clattered to the floor. She burrowed into the armchair, drawing her legs up under her skirt so her feet rested on the leather seat, hunching her shoulders, and pulling in her elbows, all of it in aid of making her as small a target as was possible.
Restell quelled his urge to cross the room and go to her. It seemed self-serving to attempt to offer reassurance when his very presence at her side was likely to provoke further agitation. He might derive some comfort from trying to assist her, but she was unlikely to find any relief from it.
“Miss Hathaway?” He held his ground and kept his arms loosely at his side, palms outward, showing her he had no weapons, that even his hands were not to be feared. He maintained this posture even when she did not look in his direction, knowing that she would eventually risk a glance at him. “I mean you no harm,” he said calmly. “Was it the poker that startled you? Were you struck with such a thing?”
Except for a shudder, she made no response.
“Will you not look at me, Miss Hathaway? Assure yourself that I will not lift a hand against you.”
He watched her lower her gloved hands a fraction, but she did not turn her head toward him. “I admit to profound inadequacy in this situation,” he said. “And I do not thank you for making me say so.” He thought her hands lowered again, but it might have been a tremble in them that made it seem so. “I cannot decide what will give you the greatest ease. Should I offer refreshment? Perhaps you would like time alone to compose yourself and make your escape if that is your desire. Would cajolery work or should I remain silent?” For a long minute he did just that. He could observe that it made no appreciable