Benedict wondered what Lord Chalmondly would make of his other houseguests. Specifically, his youngest houseguest. He hoped the duke would not greet Miranda, as was his habit, with a tickle and a pat.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, Miranda entered the room. She looked curiously about at her surroundings then went over to inspect the wall hangings, long strips of tempura-painted canvas that depicted a progression of ferocious lions and dragons and unicorns. “I have never seen a ferocious unicorn before,” she said.
She was standing in front of the square-headed mullioned windows. Light shone through the thin fabric of her dress, leaving her perfect little person vividly outlined. Benedict tried unsuccessfully to tear his gaze away. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Indeed there was. He could kiss her again, for a start. Miranda inspected a writing table inlaid with silver, its two boxes containing ink and sand. The writing board lifted up and formed the lid of a receptacle for papers, with a mirror inside. That mirror showed Miranda her own reflection. Her cheeks were very pink. She could not stop herself from dwelling on the informative volumes she had found on Lady Darby’s remote high shelf.
Never had she suspected there were so many different ways to embrace. The Twining of a Creeper sounded most intriguing, as did the Tail of the Ostrich, and the Climbing of a Tree. And, on a more advanced level, The Cat and Mice Sharing A Hole, and Driving Home the Peg. Miranda had been so shocked and fascinated by such novelties as Licking a Delicate Flower and Sucking A Mango Fruit that she had been forced to dose herself with lettuce-water to cool her overheated blood.
What was Miranda thinking that turned her cheeks so rosy? “Is there something on your mind?” Benedict inquired.
Miranda did indeed have something on her mind. She wanted to discover if the marquess preferred to be kissed on his inner thighs, or feet, or toes. “You didn’t mean to ever seduce me, did you, my lord?”
How solemn she sounded. Benedict said, “No.”
She studied him. “I came here to tell you that I now know what I’m asking. I suspected that certain things worked together, of course, but I did not understand exactly how.”
Benedict experienced a vivid vision of certain things working together in an altogether admirable manner. “And you learned this how?”
Miranda noted the strained note in his voice. “Lady Darby explained everything to me. I suppose we can trust her to have got it right.”
Benedict supposed so also. Odette had had more than her fair share of admirers during her long life.
What had inspired his aunt to supply explanations? He wished he might have overheard. Females frequently found the details of lovemaking a little off-putting when first presented with them, or so he had been told. It would be a great pity if Miranda were to be put off something so natural, and so mutually rewarding, as the amatory arts.
Benedict experienced a searing jolt of jealousy at the thought of Miranda enjoying the amatory arts with anyone but himself.
She didn’t seem put off. The little minx was posing in front of that damned window as if aware of its effect. Benedict decided he might as well enjoy the view while he waited with considerable interest to see what she would do next.
With considerable interest? No! No interest. Benedict scolded himself.
Miranda forced her reflections away from sixteenth century China, where newly married couples were taught the art of marital consummation by means of anatomically accurate Buddhas complete with moving parts. “Young women are not served well by being kept in ignorance,” she said. “I had grown very confused. But now that I have talked with Lady Darby, I understand that elephants cannot do the business back to back, and that weasels give birth through neither their mouths nor their ears. Although I am still uncertain about the parrot landing on its beak.”
Benedict might also have been confused, had he not read A Medieval Bestiary in his youth. In this particular moment, he was less concerned with Miranda’s words than with the purposeful manner in which she was approaching his desk.
Courage! Miranda told herself. She must be resolute. A resolute young woman would not quail at the marquess’s obvious impatience. She had interrupted him at work, judging from the opened ledgers on the desk.
Women who had been unfaithful to their husbands were not able to leave a church in which marigold had been placed. A sure means of preventing contraception was wearing an ivory tube containing part of the womb of a lioness. None of Miranda’s reading material had explained how to turn impatience into lust.
She paused beside the desk. “I have learned about St. Ursula and her handmaidens. Ten thousand beheaded virgins. I don’t want to die a virgin, please.”
Benedict didn’t want her to die a virgin, either. “Are you planning to die soon?” he asked.
If only Benedict would touch her. On her inner thigh, perhaps. Or maybe he would like to run his fingers through her hair while she ran her fingers through his at the same time. “No,” Miranda murmured. “But one cannot anticipate such things.”
Benedict agreed that one could not. His own brother would hardly have set in his carriage ride on a certain fateful day had he any inkling that drive would be his last. While Elizabeth – but Benedict made a point of not thinking about his wife.
Why was Miranda staring at his hair with such a bemused expression? He snapped his fingers under her nose.
Miranda blinked. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked.
Disturbing him? Benedict’s control slipped. He grasped her arms and pulled her body against his. Hip to hip. Thigh to thigh. Belly to groin.
“Oh!” Really, diagrams and learned explanations did not prepare a person for the reality – or the enormity – of the thing. “Gracious!” Miranda breathed.
He could not, must not do it. To shove aside his ledgers and ravish Miranda on his desktop would be the act of a true reprobate. Phineas would not have hesitated for an instance. At least, he would not have in his prime. Nowadays the duke would probably look wistful, and ask if he might watch.
Thought of Phineas restored Benedict, somewhat, to his senses. “I assure you, it is not a physical impossibility.”
Miranda gave a little wriggle. And then she wound her arms around his neck and closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his. She nipped and licked and nibbled, tugged at the clasp that held back his hair. With the portion of his brain that was still functioning, albeit in a feeble manner, Benedict cursed his aunt and her explanations, which had only made their recipient more determined to seek out her own downfall.
Her hands were in his hair. Rather, one hand was. The other was attempting to untie his cravat. Benedict must put her from him. He knew he must. Immediately. Without delay.
Gingerly, he settled his hands on her hips. She moved even closer to him – if such a thing was possible – instead of away. This may have had something to do with the circumstance that he was clutching her as if he were a drowning man.
Miranda tipped back her head and gazed up at him. “Ravish me,” she whispered.
Benedict instructed his fingers to release her. “Not unless we marry,” he replied. “There will be no more kisses, until after we wed.”
Miranda went very still. After they were wed? But that would be never. She could not marry Benedict or anyone else. Even though they were betrothed, or sort of betrothed, she was also honor-bound to cry off.
Miranda did not wish to cry off. But she did not wish to marry, either, because she liked Benedict far too well to break his heart. Except that she had already realized, hadn’t she, that he was going to break hers? Miranda resolved in that moment that she was not going to have her heart broken without first being relieved of her maidenhood.
The marquess had not earned his reputation by being so disobliging. Miranda stamped her foot. “There is no reason for all this honourable behavior. You are Sinbad, after all.”
Benedict barricaded himself behind his desk. “I am not so wicked as the world has painted me,�
� he said.
“Fustian. Of course you are.” Miranda crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
Benedict tried to overlook her provocative posture. “I am? And you can tell this how?”
“I can tell by the way you make me feel. Don’t you understand that I must have a rakehell? It is in my blood.”
Benedict was no rakehell, despite what the world said of him. Therefore, he was not the man by whom Miranda wished to be seduced. The realization tempted him to go out and become a rakehell after all.
This business was giving him a bloody headache. “We will become betrothed in truth if you continue on this road. And you don’t want that.”
“I will be the one to determine what I do and do not want,” Miranda retorted. “And what I have determined is that I am not going to end this betrothal until I have been properly seduced. If you will not seduce me, I shall have to seduce you, my lord.”
Benedict had no doubt that she would try. He could only pray she was not successful. “And how do you plan to go about my seduction?” he inquired, with considerable interest.
Miranda had spent enough time in conversation with Mr. Burton to be aware that it was folly to advise one’s adversary of one’s intended movements in advance. “I am not entirely certain. Perhaps you might offer me some advice.”
What an intriguing suggestion. Of course he must not. “My advice is that you give up this hare-brained notion. And do not make further application to my aunt!”
Miranda had not expected Benedict would fall in wholeheartedly with her plans. Therefore, his lack of cooperation left her only slightly more annoyed. “We will speak again of this later, after you’ve had time to become accustomed to the idea.”
She strolled toward the door. Benedict appreciated how her hips swayed beneath her skirt.
No, he told himself, he did not appreciate her hips. At least he should not have.
He could not allow Miranda to seduce him. All the same, he looked forward to seeing her try.
Damned if he wasn’t as great a reprobate as Phineas. As the door closed behind Miranda, Benedict reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself a drink.
Chapter Thirty
Lord Baird and his guests were gathered in the abbey’s dining hall, an impressively huge chamber where intricately glazed windows fashioned of clear panes alternated with stained glass and armorial designs. That same coat of arms, surrounded by carved decorations, was displayed on the chimney breast. The heavy mantle frieze was carved with monkeys, birds and fruits. Columns and fantastic pilasters, crowned by a cornice, reached up as if to support the arched hammer-beam ceiling. Flanders tapestries designed with flowers and fantastical figures were displayed upon the walls.
The meal had not been merry, despite the best efforts of the cook, which had included turtle soup and a light stew of freshwater fish cooked in wine from Bordeaux; poached turbot with lobster sauce; truffled roast chicken; braised goose with glazed root vegetables; each accompanied by wine appropriate for the course. The strained atmosphere may have had to do with the attentive footmen, or the cold and drafty chamber, or the awesome size of the dining table. Or it may have had to do with the fact that a number of the diners were wrapped in their own thoughts.
Nonie, for instance, was attempting to assimilate Lady Darby’s enlightening explanations. Miranda had generously shared not only the results of her research but also Odette’s diagrams, information so cumulatively overwhelming that Nonie had taken to her day-bed armed with lettuce-water and a fan. Stray bits of information tended to intrude at inopportune moments, such as the present one, when Sir Kenrick was attempting to speak to her, and she was reminded that there were many ways by which a woman could make her hair more attractive to a man, such as allowing it to drape seductively over his chest, and gently brushing it over his entire body, including his privities.
Kenrick noted that Antoinette looked especially well tonight. Her pale primrose muslin gown had a close-fitted bodice and a deep square neckline. With it, she wore a cashmere shawl. Her hair was pulled up in a flattering Grecian knot with a profusion of tiny ringlets framing her face.
She was fine enough to catch the eye of any gentleman. A pity Atchison wasn’t present to be impressed. But since that was the case, why had Antoinette taken such efforts with her appearance? Kenrick hoped that prolonged exposure to Miranda wasn’t having an unfortunate effect on the normally rational workings of her brain.
It was certainly having an unfortunate effect on his. “Antoinette!” he hissed, under cover of the desultory conversation going on around them. “You did speak with Miranda, did you not?”
Nonie flinched as her inconvenient memory informed her that when a man and woman lay down beside each other in an inverted order, it was called the Congress of the Crow. “I did,” she managed to say. “It was most enlightening.”
What was the matter with the ladies tonight? wondered Kenrick. Antoinette was as agitated as a cat crossing hot coals, and his niece was as quiet as a mouse, while Lady Darby was watching Miranda as if she were in truth a rodent and Odette a hungry cat. “She will have Baird?” he whispered.
Nonie winced. ‘Have’ was a verb of many meanings, some of them most unsuited to the dinner table unless one was inclined to put that article of furniture to purposes other than the consumption of food. “I believe she means to try.”
Antoinette’s voice was strained. Kenrick hoped she was not being affected by the atmosphere of the abbey, which was well enough if one liked Gothic splendors, and somewhat overwhelming if one was not.
Whatever the cause, he disliked to see her made uncomfortable. Kenrick patted her hand. Nonie, who had been contemplating marks of passion left on a woman’s throat and breast, gasped and jerked away. Sir Kenrick frowned.
Lady Darby frowned also. “Faith, ‘tis a veritable plague of pea-gooses,” she sighed.
Phineas, to whom this remark had been directed, leaned closer. “Eh?” he said, thereby drawing Kenrick’s attention away from Nonie and toward himself.
In Lord Chalmondly, Sir Kenrick recognized a fellow landowner and therefore a kindred spirit. He engaged Phineas in conversation concerning ‘Turnip’ Townsend’s Four Course system of cultivation, and Thomas Coke’s philosophy of ‘No fodder, no beast; no beast, no manure; no manure, no crop’. These topics led, through some arcane evolution, to efficient water closets, and experiments with heating by hot air, and the Rumford stove.
Lord Chalmondly’s immense wealth was in large part result of the fact that he spent not a single moment interfering with his extremely well-managed estates. His expression soon grew glazed. Benedict took pity on the duke, and commented that a prizefight that would soon take place at Launceston.
Phineas brightened. The duke appreciated a contest between two milling coves. He spoke enthusiastically of Peter Corcoran and Bob The Bricklayer Smiler and Champion Bill Dart, Tom Johnson and Benjamin Brain; reminisced at length about Daniel Mendoza, who had beat Squire Fitzgerald and Bill Warr only to lose his crown at last when ‘Gentleman’ Jackson had grabbed him by the hair with one hand and pounded him senseless with the other. The current champion was Jem Belcher, The Napoleon of the Ring. Lord Chalmondly wagered that Belcher would not long retain the title. His money was on The Game Chicken, Harry Pearce.
Odette rapped her fork across his knuckles. “Beg pardon! Quite forgot myself,” said the duke. The fine art of fisticuffs was hardly an appropriate topic of conversation for feminine ears.
Miranda was not the least bit shocked by the dinner table conversation, to which she had been only halfway listening, pondering instead several interesting comments made recently by Colum concerning masculine vigor and Lady Darby’s concern about Lord Chalmondly’s lack thereof. Ten grams of asafetida taken before dinner would provoke lust exceedingly, but expel wind as much, said Colum, who favored the aphrodisiacal qualities of wild celery seeds harvested and beaten into a powder and mixed with wine. Miranda had suggested that Colum might also address Lo
rd Chalmondly’s encroaching baldness. Quince-cotton boiled and made with as into a plaster restored hair to gentlemen who were bald, while the juice of hound’s tongue boiled in hog’s lard and applied to the head helped prevent the hair from falling out.
Poor Lord Chalmondly. It must be very lowering to a gentleman’s spirits when his intimate appendages failed to function as they should. Miranda had persuaded the cook to include parsley and artichokes with dinner, both locally esteemed as aphrodisiacs. She hesitated to subject the whole table to an amatory stimulant, but could not single out Benedict without arousing suspicion, and so everyone must suffer for the greater good. Thus far she had observed no signs of burgeoning ardor. Miranda hoped she would not have to resort to a combination of powdered periwinkle and earthworms and a house leek. She said, “I’m told there is to be a match between The Cornish Bruiser and The Black.”
This remark drew the attention of the entire table. Several people became belatedly aware that Miranda was wearing a paucity of underclothing beneath her high-waisted white muslin dress.
Kenrick and Nonie were dismayed. Odette could not have cared less. Benedict signaled to a hovering footman to refill his wine glass.
Lord Chalmondly stared in frank admiration. If the duke had outlived his ability to act on his inclinations, he still remained a lecher, and the little Russell was a comely piece. If he had been seated closer, he would have given the wench an approving pinch. “And what do you know of The Cornish Bruiser and The Black, my dear?”
The duke’s expression put Miranda in mind of Mr. Hazelett, whose embrace she had invited, without even discovering his first name. “I do not recall where I heard about the match, Your Grace.”
She was prevaricating, thought Benedict. He wondered just who had told her about the prizefight. Not Colum, because the gardener had no interest in such things. And why the devil was the child permitted to go around half-dressed?
The Wicked Marquess Page 18
