The Wicked Marquess

by Maggie MacKeever

  The sight of Miranda so ruffled and disheveled might have made even a monk reconsider his vocation. “If you were to marry, and yes I know you do not mean to marry, what manner of man would you wed?”

  “Not Lord Wexton!” retorted Miranda. “Or Mr. Dowlin, or Mr. Burton, or Mr. Atchison, or the rest. I’ve no answer for your question, my lord. It hardly matters if there exists a man who might please me, when I cannot have him anyway. I do not see that any purpose is served by making myself unhappy over things I cannot have.”

  Benedict sympathized. What he wanted was Miranda, and have her he must not. Definitely he was unfit to associate with innocents, or at least this particular innocent, because he was experiencing a nigh-overwhelming impulse to nibble on her earlobe, her chin, the nape of her neck; to pull her muslin gown down off her shoulder with his teeth and lick her soft skin; to sweep aside her skirts and slide his hands up her smooth legs, lay her down and caress her lush little body until she moaned against his lips and pressed herself against him and—

  And this time there could be no adequate apology, because this time he would not stop.

  Benedict dropped his hand to the edge of the garden bench and took firm hold, thereby anchoring himself. “I am acquainted with Wexton. I have never heard him prose on about lamps. Could he believe you have an interest in such things?”

  “It is my uncle who has the interest. So well do Kenrick and Lord Wexton rub on together that the pair of them should wed.” Miranda wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t quite mean that.”

  Benedict blinked away a startlingly explicit tableaux involving Lord Wexton and Sir Kenrick Symington. “Poor puss. You are in the devil of a fix.”

  So she was, and it was in no small part this man’s doing. “I knew that Lady Cecilia was your fancy– ah, your special friend!” Miranda said abruptly. “And you did tell me to go about my usual pursuits. It shouldn’t have surprised me that you went about yours.”

  Benedict was not surprised that the conversation had come full circle. “I regret that I upset you. That was never my intent.”

  Nor had it been Miranda’s intent to reproach him. “If anyone should apologize, it should be me, for making a cake of myself.”

  This was the most extraordinary flirtation in which Benedict had ever been engaged. Engaged in it he was, despite his better intentions. He rose from the bench.

  Miranda watched him, glumly. The marquess was going to take his leave. He would never kiss her again, or make her senses reel and her heart beat fit to burst.

  She must not fling herself upon him, or beg for one last embrace, at least not here in her uncle’s back yard, where there were servants all about, and the head gardener was likely to pop up at any moment to ascertain what Miranda was doing to his plants. “Goodbye,” she said.

  Benedict could not force himself to walk away. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” he asked.

  Of course she was not eager to be rid of him. Miranda’s fingers itched to grab hold of his arm. But she had already behaved so very badly that he probably already thought her the worst of all sad romps.

  Benedict had moved away from the bench. Suddenly he was standing very close. “Well, no,” Miranda admitted.

  Benedict wiped a smudge off her cheek. “Good.”

  His fingers lingered on her face. “Whatever are you doing?” Miranda inquired.

  He was being damned foolish, and he knew it, and in this moment Benedict didn’t care. “You misunderstood the situation. Now that we have been properly introduced, we may have an assignation. Unless you have changed your mind.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Miranda was to have an assignation! She was so excited by the prospect that she tossed and turned all night in her domed bed, and the next morning tried on every costume that hung in her mahogany wardrobe once if not several times, and anxiously scrutinized her reflection in the cheval glass, after which she applied to her chequered carved chest for a decoction of lavender made with a little cinnamon. She settled at length on a carriage dress of corded muslin, and a close green bonnet trimmed with black, not because she considered this a suitable costume for an assignation – what did one wear to such an engagement? Miranda had no one to ask – but because time was running short. All that remained was to escape her watchdogs, a task not easily accomplished since she could hardly make use of the tree outside her bedroom window in broad daylight and dressed as she was.

  It seemed strange to have an assignation in broad daylight. Miranda would have thought romantic trysts were better conducted under cover of darkness, in the dead of night.

  Nonie now lay napping, because Miranda had ruthlessly dosed her with Water of White Poppy. Kenrick was out about some business of his own. Miranda set Mary to mending petticoats, a task that – since the maidservant’s needle-working skills were nearly nonexistent — could be trusted to occupy her for several hours. She crammed her bonnet on her head and escaped out a side door.

  Miranda hurried down the street behind the house. Around the corner, and—

  A closed carriage waited. It was a very discreet carriage, made of plain dark wood with no insignia on the door.

  The carriage door opened from within. Miranda set her foot on the step. The interior was richly upholstered in crimson and gold. Benedict lounged on one of the seats, his long legs outstretched.

  Miranda settled beside him. He gave his coachman the order to drive on, and pulled down the window shades. The carriage rattled over the rough roadway.

  Miranda’s nerves were all a-flutter. She should have dosed herself with lavender and cinnamon, and maybe some Water of White Poppy as well. “Where are we going?” Tales of unwary young maidens sold into lives of depravity marched through her mind.

  Was Miranda a little frightened? Benedict hoped she was. “You expressed an interest in seduction. Not once, but several times.” There was light enough in the carriage for him to see that she had clasped her hands together in her lap.

  Some men delighted in despoiling innocence. Benedict was not one of them. Or he had not been until recently. “Have you wearied of the game already?” he asked, more sharply than he had intended. “Will you cry craven so soon?”

  The marquess was acting strangely, decided Miranda. Maybe his mood as customary for gentlemen embarked upon a tryst. “I am not a coward! And I do not consider this a game.”

  Clearly she did not. Benedict was accustomed to women experienced in the amatory arts. He didn’t know what to do with this babe.

  Rather, he knew what he wanted to do with her. But he couldn’t decide where to begin.

  Benedict raised his hand to Miranda’s throat, felt the frantic beating of her pulse. “Are you afraid of me?” Though it was his intention to frighten her a little bit, and thereby bring on a belated attack of common sense, at the same time the notion that she should fear him made him cross.

  Miranda was intensely aware of his fingers against her flesh. Now that the long-awaited moment was upon her, she felt very shy. Sinbad had traveled the wide world and experienced all manner of wondrous things, while she was a green miss.

  He had only to touch her and she sizzled. Miranda knew no other word. Lady Cecilia would know what to call these feelings. Lady Cecilia would know all manner of things.

  Benedict had not moved his hand from her throat. Was he realizing that Miranda could not compare with his mistress? Regretting that he had agreed to help her achieve her ends?

  In that case, she must release him. “If you have changed your mind, I will not hold you to your word.”

  Benedict did not recall that he had made a promise. “I haven’t changed my mind,” he murmured, as his hand slid from her throat to the nape of her neck, and found the curst bonnet in his way. He untied the ribbons and tossed the headgear aside, tangled his fingers in Miranda’s hair, and tilted her face up to meet his gaze.

  Her violet eyes opened wide. “Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered.

  Of course Benedict was going to kiss her,
though he knew he should not; he would kiss her and be damned for it, because her lips were so inviting, and her pretty face so close. Miranda caught her breath as he dropped tantalizing little salutes around her mouth and along her jaw, grazed her earlobe with his teeth.

  She parted her lips. Benedict drew her closer still. One of his hands moved to fondle a plump breast.

  That hand had moved of its own volition. Its owner was going straight to hell. Benedict gave her breast a gentle squeeze. Miranda made an inarticulate little noise.

  He snatched his hand away. It had been many years, not since the occasion of that first opera dancer, since he had been so devoid of discipline. He realized belatedly that the carriage had halted some moments past.

  Miranda stared at him, bewildered. Benedict picked up the bonnet and plopped it back on her head.

  Miranda was more than a little dazed by this abrupt change of mood. She was even more confused when the marquess bundled her out of the carriage and she found herself at the front door of the British Museum.

  Lord Baird handed over his ticket and ushered his guest indoors. “I thought you might enjoy viewing the collections of Sir Hans Sloan.”

  At another time, Miranda would have enjoyed seeing the collections very well. At this moment, she was experiencing all the frustration of passion unfulfilled. She reminded herself that Benedict sought to please her with this excursion. She must not be unkind.

  Once she put her mind to it, Miranda found the museum most interesting. She ascended the capacious grand staircase, with its rich iron scroll fence; admired the painted ceiling that depicted an assembly of the gods and goddesses, along with the Rape of Proserpine; paused on the galley to inspect the three stuffed giraffes that stood in somewhat startling contrast to the Palladian décor. The various exhibits included not only Sir Hans Sloan’s collections of plants and minerals, zoological and anatomical and pathological specimens, and his library as well, but also numerous animals collected in spirits, most notably the first kangaroo ever to be seen in Europe, which had been collected on the voyages of James Cook. Miranda inspected the enormous skull and tusk of an elephant, a prodigious ram, a Roman tomb about three feet long and sixteen inches deep, an original copy of the Magna Carta, and a cyclops pig. Overall, the museum was a dreadful jumble, and badly in need of repair. The floors of the old building sagged so badly in many places that they had to be supported by iron props.

  The gardens were another matter. Miranda’s spirits lifted the moment she stepped onto the flower-bordered paths. Amid the shady groves of lime trees and gay flower beds, the antiquities captured so recently from the French — including a great sarcophagus thought to be that of Alexander the Great, and the Rosetta stone – were housed in wooden structures. Miranda glimpsed the gardener’s shed, and caught her escort by the hand, and tugged.

  Benedict had been so busy congratulating himself on devising an assignation that would not damage his companion’s reputation — they were far from the only visitors, and consequently surrounded by chaperones — that she caught him off-guard. He allowed Miranda to draw him into the shed. No sooner were they inside than she spun around, put her hands on his shoulders, and raised up on her tiptoes, lips pursed and eyelids closed.

  Her attempt at an embrace was awkward, and her posture stiff. Benedict moved one hand to the small of her back and with the other grasped her shoulder so that he might hold her a safe distance away. Impatiently, she gave a little wriggle, and pressed her mouth to his. Cautiously, he kissed her. Recklessly, she kissed him back.

  Benedict felt that kiss through his whole body. Sinbad, indeed. Impossible that a man who had once frolicked in a sultan’s harem should be undone by a maiden’s kiss.

  Rather, she should be undone by his. There was a lesson yet to be learned. Benedict slid his hand from Miranda’s shoulder to her waist and then down to one slim hip.

  She moved restlessly against him. Benedict slipped his hands under her bottom, and lifted her right off the floor. She squeaked and clutched him harder. He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

  Miranda was in bliss. How exhilarating all this was. And what a strange position in which to find oneself, so tightly pressed against a gentleman. Or not a gentleman, because no gentleman would so mishandle her. If her skirt were not so narrow, he would have had her legs wrapped around his waist. Miranda’s heart was thumping fit to leap right out of her breast, which had somehow found its way back into his hand.

  Benedict’s own pulse was throbbing mightily in both breast and groin. All his senses were in that moment preternaturally alert. The feeling of Miranda’s softness against his hard body. The smell of the dirt. The warmth of the sun streaming through the open door—

  The open door? Good God. Benedict released Miranda so abruptly that she stumbled and plopped down plump on a bag of peat moss, sending a cloud of dust rising into the air. “Eeuf!” she said, and sneezed. Benedict pulled her to her feet, brushed her off, and moved quickly away.

  Miranda’s bliss turned to annoyance. First the blasted man lit a bonfire in her belly, then he dropped her on her rear. Why had he drawn away when matters had been progressing so well? Unless matters had not been progressing as well as all that.

  She straightened her clothing and blew peat dust off her bonnet. “Did the setting not suit you? I suppose that everything must be just right.”

  Benedict was trying very hard to concentrate his mind. The sunlight, the dirt, the dust in the air, put him in mind of haylofts and willing country lasses. That he had never made love in a hayloft suddenly seemed a great shame. Standing before him, breathless and disheveled, was the perfect damsel to be tumbled in the straw.

  “And then you will ravish me,” she added. “Because it is not the sort of thing you will care to do more than once. Will you, my lord?”

  At the suggestion of repeated ravishments, Benedict’s pulse speeded up again. “A true dyed-in-the-wool libertine only requires once to ruin a maiden,” he responded gravely. “But a certain amount of forepl— That is, forethought is involved. I promise you, Miranda, that we have made considerable progress today.” Before she could demand further explanations, he tucked her hand in his arm and led her off to inspect a remarkable collection of fossils that had been found in Hampshire by one of the museum’s trustees.

  Chapter Fifteen

  So very distressed was Lady Cecilia — not only by the deranged finances that would see her soon reduced to poverty, but also by the rumor recently repeated by her malicious cousin — that she had indulged rather more than was prudent in her laudanum. As a result, her recollection of the past couple hours was unclear. She must have made an effort to dress modestly, because she was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved gown that she disliked; and she was without question standing outside Lady Darby’s grand old Jacobean house with her hand upraised to knock. The front door swung open. A white-wigged liveried manservant surveyed her impassively.

  Wiggins was not surprised to find a tipsy female on the doorstep. Any number of bizarre apparitions had appeared on that doorstep during the many years of his employment in this house. His mistress having previously demonstrated herself amenable to such oddities, the butler conducted Lady Cecilia into the drawing room and went to advise Lady Darby that her nephew’s light o’ love had come to pay a morning call.

  Ceci settled on an uncomfortably stiff sofa. The drawing room was dark and dusty, and filled with heavy furniture. Across one wall marched a mural of leaves and animals and human figures painted in faded reds, yellows and greens. Ceci sympathized with the rabbit cowering under a prickly bush.

  She was aware she owed her creditors a great deal of money. Ceci didn’t see why they must send her unpleasant letters in the post. It would serve them right if she tipped them all the double and fled like Harry to Calais.

  But she could not. She lacked even the means to purchase a Channel passage. Unless she pawned her sapphires.

  The door swung open. Lady Darby entered the drawing room,
or rather swept into it: the wide hoops of her blue taffety gown acted in the manner of a broom upon the dusty floor. Following behind her, the butler carried a silver tray laden with a formidable array of tonics, pills and salts. Trailing after the butler, a footman gingerly bore a basket in which reclined a cream-colored black-faced cat. Around its neck hung a queen’s ransom in red rubies.

  Lady Darby settled in a throne-like chair. The butler deposited his tray on a counting table near her elbow. The footman placed the cat in its basket by her feet. The servants withdrew.

  Ceci contemplated the counting table, which had a chequered top where counters might be moved about. Lady Darby had had a partiality for play before age left her with only a penchant for her pills. Ceci could not imagine what she herself might have a penchant for, when she in turn grew old. If she grew old. Would her creditors regret their heartless treatment when their nasty incessant dunning drove her to shuffle prematurely off this mortal coil?

  “Heigh ho!” said Lady Darby, thereby distracting her visitor from these increasingly glum reflections. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, pray?”

  Ceci found herself fascinated by Lady Darby’s tall white wig, atop which perched a tulle cap. While they moved in the same social circles, she and Lord Baird’s grandaunt were hardly bosom bows. Necessity made for strange bedfellows, however, and if anyone had influence over Sinbad, that person was his aunt. Yet how to introduce the subject? She didn’t know.

  It was obvious to Odette, if not that her visitor was suffering the effects of a triple dose of laudanum, at least that Lady Cecilia was experiencing some difficulty transitioning thought into speech. “Behold me all ears,” she said. “I’ve not got all day.”

  Ceci knew she must make Lady Darby her ally. However, she had not decided – could not decide, due to all that laudanum – how to tactfully broach the matter uppermost in her mind. “It is a matter of some delicacy,” she ventured.