The Wicked Marquess Read online

  As had Benedict. How absurd she was. His own reputation would be blackened beyond bleaching by such scandal as she had in mind. Since Miranda had already demonstrated herself deaf to the voice of reason, he did not point this out.

  She tilted her head to study him more closely. “You are very quiet. Does that mean your answer is no?”

  Of course Benedict must say no. Yet how could he refuse her absurd request? London teemed with libertines, few of whom would try and persuade an adventurously inclined heiress not to throw her bonnet over the windmill. “Very well. You must do exactly as I tell you. We must not be too hasty off the mark, lest suspicious are aroused.”

  “No?” Miranda had looked forward to being speedily led astray.

  “No,” Benedict replied firmly. “I must have your full cooperation if we are to pull this off. For one thing, you must act as if nothing has changed.”

  “I must?” Miranda was disheartened by the thought of further wearisome encounters with Mr. Atchison and his ilk. “But you will seduce me?” she asked.

  “I will,” said Benedict, and wished he might.

  “Very well.” Came a moment’s silence, then Miranda cleared her throat. “You said that if you were going to seduce me, you should kiss me first. I would like you to kiss me, my lord. Unless you truly do not want to kiss me, in which case—”

  What harm in one little kiss, one brief embrace? “I want very much to kiss you, Miranda.” Benedict was amused to see her tip up her face and close her eyes. Amused, and something more.

  He drew her closer, brushed his mouth across her cheek. Miranda gripped his shoulders.

  Benedict could not recall how many women he had kissed. Still, he was almost certain he had never kissed anyone so young. At least not since he had been young himself, in some dim distant past.

  Miranda’s mouth looked soft and warm and welcoming. Benedict traced it with his thumb.

  She parted her lips for him. Hesitantly. A little bit. It was more than obvious that the little Russell had never been kissed before.

  If he was going to take advantage of her innocence, which apparently he was – for her own good, of course, so that some other rogue would not — he must make the experience memorable for her. Benedict gently grasped Miranda’s chin. He nibbled on her lower lip, traced the soft fullness of the upper with his tongue, teased and tempted and slipped at last between her parted teeth to claim her mouth.

  Ah. A proper kiss, at last. Although Miranda found it odd to have another tongue inside her mouth alongside her own. Odd, but not unpleasant. Indeed, the sensation grew more pleasant the longer the tongue remained there. And only a pig-widgeon would choose this moment to consider all the other women Sinbad must have kissed to become so very good at the exercise.

  Women who doubtless had taken a more active part in the business than she had done thus far. Miranda rose up on her tiptoes and wrapped one arm around Benedict’s neck.

  He drew her closer. Conscience gave him a good poke. Benedict disengaged himself and dropped an avuncular kiss on the tip of Miranda’s nose.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “Now I understand why everyone is so determined that young ladies should not be kissed.”

  “Not every young lady is as kissable as you.” Benedict touched her rosy cheek. “Go, before your people miss you. We will continue with your fall from grace on another day.”

  Chapter Nine

  The afternoon sun shone brightly on the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, caressed with its warmth the rural beauty of the bluebell woods, the glorious azaleas, the spectacular rose garden, extensive lawns and tranquil lake; filtered through greenhouse walls to lightly brush the leaves of exotic tropical plants. The gardens had been famous since the seventeenth century for a wide collection of vegetation brought back to England by explorers and housed in conservatories set in an attractive historic landscape which displayed such splendid structures as the Botany Bay Greenhouse, named after Captain James Cook, and the Ruined Arch. Merlin’s Cave had been torn down, unfortunately, when the grounds were remodeled by Capability Brown. This whimsy of George II’s Queen had most resembled a beehive (some said a haystack) with a thatched roof, flanked by two smaller buildings, also thatched. Inside, a gloomy passage had led to a room where Merlin sat at a table laden with conjuring books and mathematical instruments, attended by Queen Elizabeth, Minerva, his secretary and a witch. The Temple of Bellona, however, remained intact, complete with four-column Doric façade, pediment, and rectangular dome; as did the gilded ten-storied Pagoda, which had been erected in 1762 for Princess Augusta, mother of the Hanoverian who currently sat upon the throne. The roofs of the Pagoda were covered with varnished iron plates and adorned at each edge with an iron dragon holding a glass ball in its mouth. The structure shimmered in the sunlight, and chimed in the breeze.

  Among the curiosities on display in the gardens this day — from habitats so diverse as arctic tundra and alpine screen, temperate lowland and equatorial forest and tropical rain forest — were specimens of a less or perhaps more exotic nature: fine examples of British manhood in its prime. Mr. Dowlin was notable for the height and breadth of his neckcloth, and Mr. Burton for the bold color of his waistcoat; while Mr. Atchison, who was quite properly attired in green frockcoat, buff trousers, Hessian boots and black felt hat, was notable for being notable for nothing at all.

  The gentlemen were not flourishing, but trailing in a somewhat wilted manner after Miss Russell as she conducted her inspection of the grounds. She made a pretty picture in her round gown of figured muslin and Venetian bonnet. If none of the gentlemen shared the young lady’s enthusiasm for botany, neither would any forego this excursion, thereby leaving his rivals a clear field.

  Miranda could have cared less if her companions weren’t enjoying themselves, save Nonie, who seemed to feel about the gardens exactly as she should, accompanying Miranda on her inspection of the plants without protest, even venturing into the damp warmth of the hot-houses, currently that hot-house known as the Great Stove, which when built in 1761 had been the largest of its day.

  Miranda noticed that Nonie looked unhappy, despite her new dress of lilac silk with lace-edged satin sleeves, her straw bonnet and yellow shoes. She left off her inspection of the tropical plants and ornamental foliage to draw her companion outside. “Poor Nonie! Are you feeling unwell?”

  “Not in the least,” fibbed Nonie. Miranda had already subjected her to any number of home remedies, from chamomile and peppermint and pennyroyal to water betony, which according to the estimable Mr. Culpeper was an excellent remedy for sick hogs.

  Miranda was not surprised that Nonie was in low spirits. Miranda would be in low spirits also if her heart had been broke.

  Odd to speculate that she knew more about kissing than did Nonie. The memory of kissing Sinbad sent a shiver down her spine. Not that ‘shiver’ was the right word, implying as it did a lack of heat. A definite warmth accompanied Miranda’s memories of her encounter with a rogue. Not that ‘warmth’ was the right word, either, to describe these feelings, which involved twitches and tingles in places never heeded much before. She was beginning to understand why her forebears had misbehaved.

  Nonie saw Miranda shiver, which was odd of her, the day being very warm. “Have you taken a chill?”

  “Oh, no!” Miranda decided that Nonie was too prone to notice things. She needed something to occupy her mind. Such as finding a husband for herself.

  Unlikely that Nonie would attract a husband without putting forth some effort. Nonie probably didn’t know how to put forth an effort. Miranda would demonstrate how to enchant a gentleman.

  She smiled on her entourage. “How very kind of all of you to escort us here today! I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself half so much without your company.”

  The gentlemen promptly stumbled all over themselves and each other in an attempt to impress. Mr. Burton, who had a military background, sought to take the field with an enthusiastic albeit insincere declaration that he had pas
sed a charming interval among the posies, and a vow that he liked nature above all things; Mr. Dowlin, who was a quiet watchful sort of fellow, turned red as a beet and remained silent as a clam. Mr. Atchison outdid them both by stating that it was ever his pleasure to be of service to Miss Russell, and in this instance he had the additional privilege of inspecting the exceptional ornamental beauty of Kew. Was Miss Russell aware of the history of the gardens, which consisted of two estates joined together by the present monarch? Did she know that Sir Joseph Banks, as unofficial director, was largely responsible for the gardens’ world-wide fame? That the maidenhair tree, Ginko biloba, had been introduced to Europe about 1730 from Japan, and the famous male tree at Kew – for the maidenhair was a deciduous tree, with the male and female separate — had been transferred in 1761 from the Duke of Argyle’s estate in Twickenham?

  Amazing, mused Miranda, that a paragon of all the virtues should be so very dull. “You are a veritable encyclopaedia, sir.”

  Mr. Atchison beamed with pleasure. “Have you seen the Orangery? I am eager to inspect it. Perhaps I might escort you there.”

  “What an excellent suggestion.” Miranda felt mildly ashamed of herself for taking advantage of the poor man’s infatuation. “I should like of all things to see the Orangery. And you must call me Miranda, if you please.”

  If he pleased? Here was a sign of favor. One did not generally go about addressing unmarried ladies by their Christian names. Mr. Atchison offered her his arm. “And I would be honored if you would call me William. Will you favor me with your company, Miranda?” he asked.

  Miranda hoped Nonie was paying strict attention, and thus understood how very predictable gentlemen could be. To further underline the point, she dimpled. “I should be delighted, sir.”

  Good Lord, thought Nonie. All the girl needed was a fan so she might flutter it and say, ‘La!’ In company with the remaining gentlemen, both of whom were wholly out of charity with Mr. Atchison, who had stolen a march on them when their backs were turned, Nonie followed Miranda and her escort. Mr. Burton voiced an opinion that Mr. Atchison was a scheming sort, too cunning by half, for he had slyly lured Miss Russell into private conversation, and damned if it wasn’t a case of the wolf and the lamb.

  Nonie had reservations about which of the individuals concerned was wolf and which was lamb. “Moderate your manner!” she advised. “Brangling in Kew Gardens would not be conduct befitting a gentleman.”

  Mr. Atchison would never get into a brangle in Kew Gardens, brooded Mr. Burton. Mr. Atchison was too curst stiff-rumped. This was probably a good thing for Mr. Atchison, because Mr. Burton had a handy bunch of fives and an increasingly short temper, and he longed to smash his rival’s nose.

  Mr. Burton would resist temptation, lest the ladies think him uncivilized. He was uncivilized, and so would Messrs. Atchison and Dowlin also be, and maybe even Miss Russell and Miss Blanchet, if they had served with Colonel Wellesley in India.

  He had been Lieutenant Burton then, when he discovered that the excitement he sought brought with it drowning and dysentery, death by the hot fire of muskets and rockets as well as by various heathen methods such as having one’s neck wrung by a Jetti or having nails driven into one’s skull. Those of his comrades who died in battle had been more fortunate that those captured alive.

  The Orangery was a large classical-style building built – as Mr. Atchison informed the party – in 1761. Inside the glasshouse, oranges and lemons thrived in moist heat provided by flues built into the floor and rear wall. Was Miss Russell – Miranda! – aware that the plants in the original Arboretum had been arranged following the Linnaean system? She was of course familiar with the system devised by Linnaeus for the arrangement of plants.

  Mr. Burton didn’t give a damn about the arrangement of plants. This Linnaeus sounded to him like a curst rum touch. Not so very curst rum a touch as the favorite of the moment, however, who was conducting himself in a proprietary manner that set Mr. Burton’s teeth on edge. “The devil you say!” he interrupted. Mr. Dowlin prudently ventured no comment.

  William was a very bookish sort of fellow, decided Miranda. She inquired whether he had read Withering’s A Botanical Arrangement of all the Vegetables Naturally Growing in Great Britain with Descriptions of the Genera and Species according to Linnaeus, and was enthusiastically informed that he had. “Did you try the juice of scabious?” Miranda interrupted.

  Mr. Atchison was taken aback. He thought at first that his companion referred to some alcoholic beverage such as Strip-Me-Naked or Blue Ruin. Then he realized she was referring to his freckles, and turned beet-red.

  William wasn’t truly the prosy fellow he might seem. Where Miss Russell’s attention rendered Mr. Dowlin mute, it inspired his own tongue to flap at both ends. He thought it was kind of her to listen while he gabbled like a goose. If she wished him to be rid of his freckles – an accident of birth to which William had previously paid little attention beyond noticing they were on his face – then be rid of them he would. Alas, juice of scabious had not come his way, and so he confessed.

  Miranda frowned. “I will make up a mixture for you. Although you might prefer cucumber water, or an oil made from broomrape. Or I could make you a decoction of centuary, which if dropped into the ears will also take away worms.”

  Mr. Burton brightened at this suggestion, which if not so bad as nails pounded into one’s brain still sounded damned uncomfortable. “That’s the ticket!” he said. “I’ll go bail that decoction of whatever-it-was would fix him up all right and tight.”

  William chose to ignore this interruption. Mr. Burton was jealous, as Mr. Dowlin must be also, but the latter was much better behaved. Though William couldn’t imagine he had worms in his ears, he was encouraged by Miranda’s interest. He hoped that her determination to rid him of his freckles meant she liked him a little bit.

  Miranda was careful not to pay too much attention to any one of her admirers. Next, she spoke so kindly to Mr. Dowlin that the young gentleman was reduced to a state of even more inarticulate bliss; and she thanked Mr. Burton very prettily when he told her she was in high bloom. However, when he continued to wax loquacious – she had all the exotic posies around them beat to flinders, he proclaimed – her patience wore thin. “If you are going to go on like this, I shall be very displeased with you. I do not enjoy having the hatchet thrown at me, sir.”

  Mr. Burton was astonished. Hadn’t he been spouting just the sort of flummery that young ladies liked to hear? “Beg pardon. Only trying to do the civil. Didn’t mean to put you in a tweak.”

  Miranda had not meant to be unkind. “Pray try and understand. When a subject is mentioned over and over again, it can make a person very cross.”

  Mr. Burton understood that his courtship of Miss Russell was curst heavy going. This was hardly the first rebuff she had given him, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, and Mr. Burton remembered from his military days that one should always try to get over heavy ground as lightly as one could. “I suppose it would grow tedious to be always told that you’re quite top of the trees. Will you forgive me if I promise to pay you no more compliments?”

  This was the most interesting conversation Miranda had ever had with Mr. Burton. She studied the young man, who was of medium height and athletic build, and had blue eyes and yellow hair. “Would you make me such a promise?”

  “I would promise to try,” Mr. Burton glanced at Mr. Atchison, who was deep in conversation with Miss Blanchet. Lacking military experience, Mr. Atchison was unaware that one should look sharp to one’s flanks at all times. “I would be honored if you would call me Thomas,” he added.

  “Very well, Thomas,” murmured Miranda. At this rate, she would soon be addressing half the gentlemen in London by their Christian names. She abandoned Mr. Burton to the tongue-tied Mr. Dowlin, fixed her attention on a very nice example of Strelitzia Reginae, and scolded herself for hoping that a certain rakehell might pop up among the exotic specimens at Kew.

  Ther
e was a great deal more to this seduction business than Miranda had realized. But better she be ruined now and by her own decision than seduced later by some faithless philanderer. This way there would be no doting husband to break his heart over her desertion, no child to grow up parentless. And if Miranda was to be truthful with herself – as usually she was, for self-deception was not among her many faults – she liked it very well that Sinbad was to be the instrument of her downfall, because she doubted that any other libertine could sweep her off her feet so well.

  Mr. Dowlin had the opportunity, while listening to Mr. Atchison prose on about the Royal Catalogue of 1773, when the botanic collection had included seven hundred and ninety-one species and varieties from one hundred and seventy-seven genera, to screw up his resolve. A young barrister-at-law with chambers facing the pleasant gardens at Grey’s Inn, Mr. Dowlin was not a coward, but merely shy. The circumstance that the object of his admiration was conversing in low tones with a bird-of-paradise plant made her more approachable somehow. “Do you enjoy the theater, Miss Russell? There is to be a production of Blue Beard at Drury Lane.”

  Perhaps Benedict would attend the theater. Maybe if she encountered Benedict at the theater, Miranda might proceed further along the pathway to perdition. “You must call me Miranda!” she said gaily. “As for the theater, I like it above all things.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Confound the girl! I wish she would develop a preference for someone so we could be done with all this frivolity and fuss!” Sir Kenrick was feeling particularly peevish due to the antics of Miranda’s swains, a couple of the more daring of whom – in response to having been excluded from the expedition to the Botanical Gardens at Kew – had set out to serenade her the previous night, but had mistakenly arranged themselves under his own window instead, as result of which he had derived considerable satisfaction from emptying the contents of his chamber pot over the player of the French horn. “Never think I am blaming you. I don’t know how we would go on without you, either Miranda or myself.”