If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  HIS WICKED KISS

  The moment he inclined his head, Emma rose on tiptoes. Her arms went around his neck with enough force to bring her body flush to his. His hands at the small of her back held her there. She lifted her face and the distance that separated their mouths ceased to exist. When he whispered her name, it was as if she could taste the sound of it on her lips.

  She was delighted to learn her name tasted like warm brandy.

  Restell edged Emma backward against the pianoforte, and her hip brushed the keys. Neither of them noticed the oddly discordant accompaniment to their kiss, nor would they have done anything differently if they had.

  This kiss would suffer no trivial interruption.

  There was little that was gentle in the press of their mouths. Need did not make much allowance for tenderness. There was heat here, and passion. Nothing about the movement of his lips across hers was hurried. He drank slowly, tempered by the knowledge that he had been thirsting for just this end for a very long time and desiring that the end should not come too quickly. Emma’s desire matched his own.

  Her fingertips brushed the damp, curling ends of his hair just above his collar. The color and texture of it was so light she might have been threading sunshine. She felt him shiver, then knew a like response in herself. His tongue swept across the ridge of her teeth. She opened her mouth wider and her own tongue tangled with his…

  Books by Jo Goodman

  The Captain’s Lady

  Crystal Passion

  Seaswept Abandon

  Velvet Night

  Violet Fire

  Scarlet Lies

  Tempting Torment

  Midnight Princess

  Passion’s Sweet Revenge

  Sweet Fire

  Wild Sweet Ecstasy

  Rogue’s Mistress

  Forever in My Heart

  Always in My Dreams

  Only in My Arms

  My Steadfast Heart

  My Reckless Heart

  With All My Heart

  More Than You Know

  More Than You Wished

  Let Me Be the One

  Everything I Ever Wanted

  All I Ever Needed

  Beyond a Wicked Kiss

  A Season to Be Sinful

  One Forbidden Evening

  If His Kiss Is Wicked

  Published by Zebra Books

  IF HIS KISS IS WICKED

  Jo Goodman

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For Mark Irvin and the Vilgas

  Terrific neighbors

  Flamingo commandos

  I surrender

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  June 1822

  London

  “Be a dear, won’t you, and fetch my bonnet?” Marisol looked past her reflection to where her cousin was standing at the foot of the bed. “You look at sixes and sevens, Emmalyn. It is not at all becoming. Dithering never is. You might at least occupy yourself with some small task.”

  Emma knew that she had never dithered in her life, but she offered no rejoinder to refute Marisol’s observation. Experience taught her that a denial would not serve. Marisol remained firm in her views and such evidence that could be mounted to sway a less rigid mind was regarded as a nuisance.

  Emma glanced at the window. The damask drapes were drawn back so they framed a rapidly graying sky above the rooftops. “You realize it is going to rain, don’t you?”

  “That is of no consequence to me.” Marisol shifted her chair closer to the vanity and examined the pearl earbobs she had chosen. “Are these all the thing, do you think? I cannot decide if I prefer the studs or the ones that dangle.”

  Emma did not offer an opinion. Marisol’s discourse was not truly intended to elicit a comment. Her cousin was merely speaking to herself. “Will you want the black leghorn bonnet?”

  “What?” Distracted from her fashion dilemma, Marisol frowned. Her perfect bow of a mouth disappeared as she pursed her lips. She regarded Emma, exasperation and impatience bringing her eyebrows together until only a slender crease separated the pair. “My new leghorn? I should think not. Why the satin quilling would be ruined. You said yourself it is going to rain. And the feathers? They will droop to comical effect. That is not done, Emmalyn, even by you.”

  At this inkling that it would be she, not Marisol, who would be stepping out in the rain, the fine, dark hairs at the back of Emma’s neck rose slightly. She touched her nape with her fingertips, gently massaging her hackles. “The satin straw bonnet, then.”

  “Yes.” Marisol’s frown eased. “I confess I had been thinking of something else, but the satin straw is the best choice. You are so clever to think of it.” She turned away from the mirror entirely and looked up at Emma. “You are always so good to me, Emmalyn. I do not tell you often enough, I’m quite certain of it. I am resolved that I must tell you at least once a day how very dear you are. You’ll remind me, won’t you?”

  “If you like,” Emma said, her features perfectly schooled. She hurried into Marisol’s dressing room before she surrendered to the almost violent urge to laugh.

  The satin straw bonnet was several years out of fashion, although only the most slavish devotees of the Paris style would know. Marisol recently purchased a striped Barcelona handkerchief, which she used to replace the bonnet’s original blue satin ribbon. Emma had to admit it was a fetching confection—on Marisol. For herself, Emma preferred something less likely to draw eyes and comments.

  Marisol had settled on the delicate, dangling pearl earrings and was admiring their effect when Emma returned with the bonnet. The pearls lightly brushed the slim stem of her neck as she twisted her head to one side, then the other. “It is the most delicious sensation to feel them touch my skin.” A small shiver accompanied this observation and she looked immediately to Emma for her reaction. When Emma merely regarded her without expression, Marisol was moved to add, “It puts me in mind of a kiss, you know, just there, against my neck. Do you know such a feeling, Emmalyn?”

  “I dare say I do.” She held out the bonnet to her cousin, then drew it back as Marisol swiveled on her stool and lifted lambent blue eyes in her direction. The expression was at once sly and curious, and Emma was made wary. A tendril of silky ebon hair fell against Marisol’s temple, 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 Fitz
roy. 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.”

  “But he doesn’t know that. Really, Emma, can you not keep up? He is expecting me. I am relying on you to judge his reaction when he sees that you have come in my place.”

  “Very well, and when I judge that his very correct manner is politely masking his own dashed hopes, what do I do?”

  “You give him this.” Marisol reached delicately beneath the scalloped bodice of her walking dress and pulled out a folded square of lightly scented paper. “This will explain why I cannot see him any longer.”

  “I see.” Emma took the note in her left hand and closed her fingers around it. “And if it appears that he is relieved that I have come in your stead?”

  “Then you will give him this.” Marisol stood and lightly laid the flat of her hand against Emma’s cheek. “But you will do it with much feeling. Recall that you are delivering the insult on my behalf and you should respond accordingly.”

  “I don’t think I can slap Mr. Kincaid, with or without feeling.” Emma watched as Marisol slowly dropped back to her stool, her knees folding under her gracefully until the deflation was complete. “Perhaps if I simply tell him that you do not wish to see him again, it will suffice.” Emma offered this suggestion with no hint of the exasperation she felt. “I will allow that in this instance he does not deserve the scented note penned by your hand. He would not treasure it appropriately.”

  Marisol lifted her head and reg
arded Emma with new appreciation. “That is just my thinking on the matter. He does not merit a memento of our brief liaisons, not if he is unmoved by the withdrawal of my attentions. A slap seems just. After all, he has trifled with me.”

  There was an odd sort of logic to Marisol’s argument that Emma was very much afraid she was beginning to follow. “I’m certain I could use great feeling when I tell him that you no longer wish to see him.” Emma did not explain that the great feeling would be one of relief. Marisol’s assignations with Jonathan Kincaid were no secret to her. Whether or not they could remain a secret to Marisol’s father and her fiancé for much longer had been a question in Emma’s mind for some time. Mayhap her cousin had begun to question the same thing. “When I have finished speaking to him, he will comprehend that he is no gentleman and has earned nothing so much as our enmity and contempt. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “Very much so. You will use your most clipped accents, won’t you? And I do not think it will be amiss if you stare at him just so.” Marisol’s light blue eyes narrowed slightly and the effect was frosty.

  “I suppose I can manage that.”

  “Of course you can. I learned it from you.”

  “Oh.” Surprise mixed with dismay and made the single word almost inaudible. For a moment, Emma was at a loss. “I had no idea.”

  Marisol’s icy glance melted as she beamed. “That is because you spend no time in front of the mirror. A sharp setdown as you do it, accomplishing the thing with only your eyes, comes naturally to you. It puts me quite in awe.”

  Not so much in awe, Emma thought, that Marisol was ever restrained from speaking her mind. The fancies that flitted through her cousin’s gray matter found immediate expression at the tip of her tongue. Emma did not point this out, nor did she comment on the singular nature of what she was certain Marisol intended as a compliment. Instead, she placed the straw bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons. “I’ll get my pelisse.”