The Wicked Marquess Page 19

  He raised his wine glass. Jem appeared in the dining-room doorway. “Psst! Guv!”

  To keep Jem confined to the stables was proving nigh impossible. Maybe Benedict should simply adopt the rascal, and thus be done with the business of getting an heir. “What now?” he asked.

  “Too late! I tried to warn you as soon as I saw his phiz. You should have scarpered when you had the chance.” Jem scarpered himself, as a footman arrived with Percy Pettigrew following hard on his heels.

  “You mustn’t scold your man for failing to properly announce me,” said Percy, as he stepped through the doorway. “I refused to let him tuck me away in a closet while he ascertained if you were in. Of course you are in. Where else would you be? What a charming family gathering! A cozy domestic scene. I’m sure it was just an oversight that you left Town without informing a single one of your friends of your destination, Baird.”

  “Not oversight, intention,” retorted Benedict, with a blandness he did not feel. “We are at dinner, as you see.”

  “I do see.” Percy regarded the skeleton of an artichoke through his quizzing-glass. “And I don’t mind a bit. No, don’t invite me to join you. I can’t stay but a moment. I am just doing a service for one of my acquaintance.” He stepped aside to allow Lord Wexton to enter the room.

  After a moment’s startled silence, everyone spoke at once. Sir Kenrick questioned how Lord Wexton had tracked them to this isolated location, and Lord Wexton announced that not the least of all the indignities he had suffered since being presented to Miss Russell was that he must go traipsing about the countryside in the company of a fashionable fribble like Percy Pettigrew. Mr. Pettigrew retaliated with his own opinion that Lord Wexton was dull, and tiresome, and ungrateful as well. Nonie hinted that she might fall into palpitations, and Miranda begged that she would not; while Lord Chalmondly requested that someone explain to him what all the uproar was about. Lord Baird looked sardonic. Chimlin emerged from his basket underneath Odette’s chair, where she had been discreetly slipping him choice morsels, and leapt up into her lap.

  Lady Darby rapped on the table with her dinner knife. The babble briefly ceased. “Why are you here, Wexton? You wasn’t invited, and you ain’t wanted. Neither you nor that twiddlepoop.”

  Mr. Pettigrew expressed offense at hearing himself thus described. Lord Wexton opined that Mr. Pettigrew had surely heard himself called worse. Lady Darby suggested that the callers come to the purpose of their visit before she expired of old age.

  Lord Wexton fixed Miranda with a steely eye. He had heard, he informed his audience, some shocking tales about the young woman chosen to become his next bride. Indeed, he had been nigh-prostrated by the shock. However, after long and vigorous rumination, Lord Wexton had decided that Miss Russell’s misconduct was the result of an appallingly lax upbringing combined with extreme youth and an unfortunate exposure to the wickedest scoundrel alive, about which exposure he would have a great deal to say to Sir Kenrick, upon whom responsibility must fall. Lord Wexton had travelled to Cornwall to provide Miss Russell an opportunity to atone for her grievously poor judgment. And to demand satisfaction from the aforementioned wicked scoundrel for the slur upon her reputation and the insult to his own self-esteem.

  A number of things occurred to Miranda during this stern and somewhat long-winded speech. She realized she might end her betrothal to Lord Baird and become betrothed to Lord Wexton instead, after which she could cry off and not marry anyone, as she had intended all along.

  This possibility presented itself, only to be dismissed. Miranda said, “You cannot challenge Benedict to a duel.”

  Lord Wexton reminded himself to break his bride of her annoying tendency to address members of the opposite sex in an overly familiar manner. “And why not?” he inquired.

  “Because I never agreed to marry you!” Miranda responded. “To the best of my recollection, you never even asked.”

  “I spoke to your uncle.” Lord Wexton looked down his nose at her. “No more is required.”

  Miranda humphed. “Required by whom? Unless it is my uncle you mean to marry, the person you should have spoken to is me. If you had spoken to me, which you did not, I would have told you that we should not suit. And if you are going to dismiss my warning, as I suspect you mean to, because you believe that females shouldn’t hold opinions, I shall tell the world the truth.”

  Never had Lord Wexton been addressed in so discourteous a manner. “And the truth is what?” he asked, in tones of ice.

  “That you are a pompous lobcock! I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last gentleman left living on this earth.”

  Silence fell upon the dining hall as everyone assimilated this announcement. Chimlin took advantage of his mistress’s preoccupation to raise a lazy paw and remove another morsel from her plate.

  Percy began to clap. “Brava!” he cried. “A performance worthy of the great Sarah Siddons herself. Forget marriage, Miss Russell. A great career lies before you on the stage.”

  Miranda looked as though she might be considering the suggestion. Odette brandished her dinner knife. “You’ve done enough mischief, twiddlepoop. I wish that you would leave.”

  Mr. Pettigrew had accomplished what he set out to accomplish, or almost, and Baird’s expression indicated that his remarkable forbearance was nearing an end. “As you wish,” Percy said, with an elegant bow. “Come along, Wexton. We are not welcome here.”

  “You have not heard the last of this business, Baird.” Lord Wexton turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Percy paused in the doorway. His malicious gaze settled on Benedict. “We are stopping at the Pig and Thistle. I’ll be sure and give Ceci your regards.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Everyone was determined to read her a lecture. Miranda withdrew to the library and wished she might lock the door. She had spent a sleepless night regretting that Lady Cecilia had picked this moment to appear. Things had been progressing so well. Or if they were not progressing, surely they soon would be.

  She plucked a volume from the shelves. The Book of One Thousand and One Nights. Maybe the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor might provide a hint of how her own Sinbad might be enticed. Miranda was very disappointed in the non-effects of parsley and artichoke.

  The marquess wasn’t her own Sinbad, of course. Or if he was, he would not be for long.

  She leafed through the volume, reading of magically expanding tents and great blue whales and a mirror called the touch-stone of virtue which clouded if an unfaithful maiden gazed into its depths. Miranda wondered what she might see in such a mirror. Not only must she determine how best to seduce Benedict, she must also prevent Lady Cecilia from doing the same thing.

  Then she must show some resolution, must she not? Miranda set aside the book, fetched a lighted candle, approached the fireplace and ran her fingers over the carved stone. After a few moments’ fumbling, she located the hidden lever and gave it a twist. The chimney door slid open. She slipped into the passageway.

  The candle cast scant light into the darkness. Miranda hoped she would not lose her way and thus be forced to wander the hidden corridors until she expired, leaving her mouldering bones to be discovered by some future generation of exploring schoolboys, all of which sounded perfectly dreadful, but on a brighter note would leave Benedict free to marry or not marry as he pleased. She might meet Lady Dulcibella in the afterlife. They could commiserate with one another about the vagaries of the opposite sex.

  Nonsense. Miranda would not get lost because she had no intention of sharing any part of Benedict with Lady Cecilia or any other woman. At least, not until after she had been properly seduced.

  What a muddle she had made! Everyone was out of sorts. Benedict had locked himself in his study the previous evening after dinner and refused to speak with anyone, including his aunt. Since the marquess had not put in an appearance downstairs yet today, the general consensus was that he had drunk himself under the table and was consequently nursing a sore
head. Kenrick was as cross as crabs, and Nonie full of dire if vague forebodings. Neither of them trusted Lord Wexton one inch. Lady Darby had added to the general discontent by announcing her intention of having a fête in Miranda’s honor, since all the world was in the neighborhood, damn their collective eyes.

  A glimmer of light shone through the wall. Miranda rose up on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. The bedchamber beyond was similar in dimensions to Lady Darby’s room, though this four-post bedstead boasted less carving, and tapestries adorned the walls. Her searching fingers found an irregular protrusion. Miranda tugged, and a section of the paneling slid silently aside.

  She stepped through the opening. Off the bedroom proper, unseen from the passage, lay an alcove. In that alcove, the marquess was sitting in a large copper tub, scrunched down in the water with his knees poking up.

  His naked knees. The rest of him was also naked. The most interesting parts of him were hidden from view. Miranda admired his damply gleaming golden flesh, broad shoulders and muscular arms and lightly furred chest.

  She had touched that chest, but had not clearly seen it. Now that she did clearly see it, Miranda wanted her hands on it again.

  She could also see Benedict’s face. It was not welcoming. “If you’ve come to further discuss seduction, I warn you that I’m in no good mood,” he growled.

  The man was tempting, even in a temper. A naked temper. Miranda licked lips that had suddenly grown dry.

  Tongue. Lips. Speech. She must say something before she abandoned her ladylike upbringing altogether and attacked him in his bath. “I am sorry to intrude. But I could hardly know that I would find you—Um! Surely you must agree, after all that’s happened, that we must speak.”

  Benedict stretched out one arm to snatch up a towel. “I must?”

  Miranda was fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his smooth skin. “I don’t want you to meet with Lady Cecilia,” she said, then bit her tongue.

  Benedict raised the towel to his face. Naturally Miranda wouldn’t want him to meet with Lady Cecilia. After all, he was now betrothed. That betrothal would make little difference in the eyes of the world, but it clearly made a difference to the young woman to whom he was pledged. Not that he was truly pledged to her, because she refused to be betrothed to him, as she took every opportunity to point out.

  She also refused to be betrothed to Wexton. Benedict hoped Wexton wouldn’t call him out. Ceci wouldn’t like it if he killed her father, even though they weren’t on speaking terms.

  Or perhaps she would. Did the earl realize his eldest daughter was in Launceston? He must, because Ceci would have traveled with Percy, and most likely Wexton had traveled with Percy as well. Had father and daughter journeyed all this way in silence? Or had the current situation brought about a temporary truce?

  Benedict didn’t know if Ceci had wanted to speak with her father. He did know that he himself must speak with Ceci. He had treated her shabbily, and must make amends.

  The marquess did not feel like explaining these matters to the cause of his shabby behavior, who was inching closer to the tub. He deduced from her demeanor that she was curious about his bath. Miranda could have used a bath herself, after navigating the hidden passage. “Don’t even think about it!” he said, less to the trespasser than to himself.

  Miranda deposited her candle on a table. When she had set out to make a scandal, it had seemed a simple thing. All she had required was a helping hand, with – she had come to realize – the appropriate body parts attached. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “you require assistance in getting out of your bath.”

  Benedict drew his towel closer. “Keep your distance. Go away.”

  Sinbad was not half as adventurous as rumor claimed. He was not even as adventurous as his ancestors had been. Miranda doubted that Lady Dulcibella’s Robin would have banished a young woman who interrupted him in his bath. Maybe if Lady Dulcibella had interrupted her Robin in his bath she would not have had to fling herself – or be flung – from the parapet, because he would have stayed home.

  Benedict looked more inclined toward parapet-hurling than indulging his manly inclinations. “When I asked you to make love to me, you said I must first discover what it meant,” Miranda reminded him. “And so I have. Yet you still refuse to cooperate. It is unfair.”

  Benedict did not recall that he had set out to be fair. “I said you must learn more about the business,” he pointed out.

  He had not sent her away. Encouraged, Miranda slid another step closer to the tub. “And so I have. I learned about wearing an ivory tube containing part of the womb of a lioness, and all sorts of other stuff.”

  Wear an ivory tube where? Benedict hesitated to ask. How dare Miranda invade his bedchamber? It would be no more than she deserved if he had her with him in his bath.

  A vision of Miranda splashing in his bath caused Benedict to be grateful that the bath water had grown cold.

  What was that strange aroma? Surely she couldn’t consider camphor an appealing scent?

  Miranda did not. Camphor – along with vervain and witch hazel – was believed to incite a gentleman’s lust. Benedict not did look lustful, alas.

  “I thought I would like making love,” she said wistfully, as she recalled the Twining of a Creeper, and the Milk and Water Embrace, and The Cat and Mice Sharing A Hole. “Because I enjoyed what we have done already very much. But under the circumstances, it was unfair to expect you to give up your petite amie. I perfectly understand that Lady Cecilia wouldn’t like it if you made love to me.”

  Benedict cursed Odette and her explanations. Miranda was staring at him as if she was a starving street urchin standing outside a confectioners window and he a luscious sweetmeat she longed to devour in one bite.

  This reflection inspired another vivid mental image. Benedict swore and rose abruptly from the tub. His snoozing conscience wakened, gasped, and fainted dead away.

  “Oh, my!” murmured Miranda. She had never before seen a naked man. This naked man was as perfect as a classical statue, minus its fig leaf. Droplets of water glistened on his skin.

  If only she dared touch him. Caress him in the various ways she had read about. Crisp dark hairs curled on his muscular chest, descended in a narrow wedge—

  There was nothing wrong with this masculine equipment. It was magnificently formed. Yes, and growing more magnificent still under her fascinated regard.

  “You would be well-advised to leave.” Benedict stepped out of the tub.

  Not for anything would Miranda have left him. She did, as result of his unfriendly expression, back up a pace. “You said you wanted me.”

  Not only did Benedict want her, he was perilously near to having her. Miranda might as well be touching him, so effective was her gaze.

  He wrapped the towel around himself. “Can you have any doubt?”

  Miranda doubted he was going to oblige her. She was very sorry that the towel had covered up his most intriguing part.

  Her forebears must have gone about this business differently. Her mother had no difficulty in securing the assistance of Black Jack Quarles. While her grandmama, from all accounts, had received a great deal of assistance from countless courtiers. Miranda wondered if her forebears had set out to make scandals, or if they hadn’t been able to help themselves.

  She was trying very hard to help herself. Miranda drew in a deep breath. “When I break off our betrothal, Kenrick will banish me to the country. I won’t be permitted to set foot again in society for years. If ever again.”

  Benedict frowned. “Was that not your goal?”

  “It was. It is. But—” Miranda was saddened by the knowledge their paths must part once this business was done. “I would like to take some memories with me, my lord.”

  She had already given Benedict memories enough to last several lifetimes. “You need not be banished. You could stay here.”

  How calmly the marquess made his offer. How cool his tone. “I cannot,” replied Miranda. But, o
h! How she wished she could.

  What was he do to with this provoking child, who was covered with dust, and smelled of camphor, and whom he desired anyway? Benedict bit back an oath.

  He was cross with her again, concluded Miranda. Interrupting him in his bath had been a bad idea. Or perhaps she was mistaken, because Benedict was moving toward her, looking intent. Was he going to finally finish the business that had begun in his study? When he had undressed her, held her in his lap, and made her feel wonderfully strange? He didn’t look like someone whose lust had been provoked, but, really, how could she know?

  He stopped in front of her, so close that she could have easily reached out and run her hands over all that lovely bare flesh. “I want you,” Miranda whispered.

  She could not want him half as much as he wanted her. Benedict held his towel firmly tucked in place. “You don’t want me, Miranda. You only think you do. I would truly be wicked if I took advantage of your mistake.”

  Miranda stared up into his stern, stubborn face. His jaw was so tightly clenched that the muscles stood out as if sculpted in stone.

  She wanted him to be wicked. She wanted him to take advantage of her in every imaginable way. She especially wanted him to stop insisting she didn’t know her own mind.

  Benedict made no move to stop her as she wrenched open the door. Miranda stepped into the hallway and slammed the portal shut behind her with such force that the entire household was immediately aware Miss Russell had been with Lord Baird in his bedchamber, if not in his bath.

  Benedict rang the bell, summoned his valet to dress him, instructed his groom to bring his horse around. Not a single servant would doubt the nature of the business that took their master to Launceston. Disapproving glances were already being exchanged behind his back.

  To the devil with them all. Sinbad didn’t give a damn about anyone’s disapproval. He was the wickedest of scoundrels, was he not?

  Chapter Thirty-two