The Wicked Marquess (31 page)

As would Percy Pettigrew, she made no doubt.

Meggs waited silently by the sideboard. “Don’t just stand there gawping!” Odette snapped. “I dislike to drink alone.”

The abigail poured brandy into another glass. Her mistress inhaled a pinch of snuff and sneezed, thereby waking Chimlin. “Whither now?” Odette inquired. “Brighthelmstone? A course of the waters at Bath? This time, you may choose.”

Meggs drew up a stool by Lady Darby’s chair. Chimlin growled and unsheathed his claws.

Cats didn’t like the sea shore. Meggs put forth an opinion that a visit to Brighton would prove most beneficial to all concerned.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Miranda huddled beneath her bedclothes, shamming sleep with all her might. No sooner was Nonie’s back turned than she had dumped her syrup of poppies out the window, praying the concoction would harm no innocent plant.

Finally, after an interval passed pacing, Nonie slipped from the room. Miranda hopped out of her bed and locked the door. One might think that a person who had almost been pitched over a parapet was due some consideration. But instead of having her questions answered, she’d been sent off to bed.

They didn’t want her present during the interrogation of the villain. Her youthful sensibilities were being spared. Miranda’s sensibilities were not so tender. She wanted to smash something over Paul Hazelett’s head.

She had come close to death tonight. Miranda would have died a virgin, had Benedict not intervened. She would
remain
a blasted virgin if he did not further intervene, which brought her right back to the point where they had begun.

She picked up
The History of Serpents
, which she had borrowed from the library, and settled back in bed. Dragons grew fat on eggs, she learned; the dragon swallowed the eggs whole, then rolled about until the shells were crushed. Nothing was worse for a dragon’s digestion than apples, furthermore. Since dolphins liked to be addressed as Simon, mused Miranda, what might a dragon like to be called? Frederick? Archibald?

The door of the mahogany wardrobe swung open. Miranda gripped her book. No ghostly intruder stepped down from the wardrobe. The marquess was carrying a steaming cup on a silver tray.

He had not changed his clothing. He was dusty and disheveled, his boots scuffed, his hair coming loose from its clasp. He looked very much like an adventurer about to walk outside at any moment and call for his horse.

Miranda was having an adventure of her own. Although she had been in his bedchamber, Benedict had never before visited hers. At least, not while she was occupying it. Her heart thumped erratically as she watched him approach the bed.

He set his tray on a bedside table, and handed her the cup. “Drink,” he said.

Miranda eyed the liquid. “What is it?” Powdered periwinkle and earthworm sprang to mind.

Benedict sat down on the edge of the bed. “‘Take of the roots of Cicers, Acorus, Pine-nuts, of each a pound and a half,’” he recited. “‘Let the Cicers root, being cleansed, cut, boiled and pulped, be added to ten pounds of clarified honey, and again boiled. Add the Acorus roots beaten, the Pine-nuts cut. Take of each of these half an ounce, add Nutmegs, Galanga, Cardamon, and mix them with the roots and Honey in an electuary according to art.’”

Miranda regarded him with interest. “You’ve been reading Mr. Culpeper.”

“‘This electuary heats the brain, strengthens the nerves, quickens the senses, eases pains in the head, helps the falling-sickness and convulsions, coughs and catarrhs.’” Benedict pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor. “According to Mr. Culpeper, it also provokes lust.”

The man was going to provoke a heart attack if he went on in this manner. Miranda sniffed the cup. “It smells like chocolate.”

“It
is
chocolate.” Benedict leaned back against a bed post and stretched out his long legs. “I was teasing you. You may safely drink it, brat.”

Gingerly, Miranda tasted the beverage. It was indeed plain chocolate, alas.

He did not need to prepare her a love philter. If she reached out her hand, just a little bit, she could rest it on his muscular calf.

Miranda clamped her fingers around the cup and bade them stay here. Benedict was still weak from his illness, and exhausted by his recent exertions on the roof. “You haven’t told me why you came to the battlements.”

“Lady Dulcibella sent me.” He pulled off his jacket, united his cravat, and tossed them both aside.

“Lady Dulcibella?” echoed Miranda, more interested by the sight of the marquess shedding his clothes than in the notion that the marquess might converse with the dead.

Benedict unfastened his shirt and pulled it off over his head. “I do have a history of preventing you from getting your neck broke.”

Miranda recalled their first meeting, when she had tumbled off her horse right into his arms. Now here they were, together, and she was going to be ravished at last.

Or so she hoped. Miranda could think of no other reason why a gentleman might sit down on her bed and then remove his coat and shirt. Unless he intended for her to admire his shoulders and chest. Which she did, very much. She would probably admire his feet also, if he took off his stockings, which he hadn’t got around to yet. “I had so wanted to see Lady Dulcibella, and she didn’t even speak to me.”

Benedict took the cup from her hand and tossed it over his shoulder. It made a clunking noise as it landed atop his boots.

He settled himself and his bare chest more comfortably on the pillows. “Lady Dulcibella did speak to you. I heard her. She called you a silly twit.”

 Perhaps there
had
been something in the chocolate. Or perhaps it was simply being so close to a half-naked man that made Miranda feel so faint. “I thought that was you.”

“It was not. At least I don’t think it was, though I’m hardly at my best. It certainly wasn’t Hazelett, whose true name incidentally is Devries. He is my heir, but not for long, because tonight’s business will see him hanged. Percy Pettigrew should hang as well, but he has fled, with the help of Phineas, who intervened for Ceci’s sake. I promise I will explain everything later, in greater detail. At any rate, unless Chimlin has learned to talk we were the only people on the roof at that point.” Benedict wrapped a strand of tawny hair around his hand. “Devries said that he kissed you.”

Miranda was finding it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. “Um?” she said.

He tugged on the captive strand of hair. “Devries kissed you?”

Miranda felt her cheeks redden. “It was very bad of me, I know. But I was curious. And as it turned out, he kissed like a toad. If that is how other gentlemen go about seducing a lady, it is scant surprise that you are so successful, my lord.”

Benedict had indeed had some small success in seduction. None of those previous seductions had felt the least little bit like the one he was embarked on now. Nor was the object of this seduction behaving in the usual manner. She seemed unable to decide whether to leap on him or pull the coverlet over her head.

“If you kiss someone and do not like it, then the kiss doesn’t count,” he said. “However, I hope you will not make a habit of kissing other men.”

Miranda wished Benedict would kiss her. Despite his damnable habit of kissing her and then running away. In the ordinary way of things, Benedict was not likely to go far without his coat and shirt and boots, but this was his home and he could run about it half-naked if he pleased, in which case the maidservants’ work would greatly suffer, if their own reaction to that half-nakedness was anything like hers.

Miranda moved her arm, a little bit. Her skin fizzled as it brushed against his. “Are you certain there was only chocolate in that cup?”

“Positive.” 

She fingered the neckline of her nightdress, gave the drawstring a discreet tug. “May we ravish one another now? Unless you still think I am too young.”

 “You
are
too young,” said Benedict. “You are also exactly the right age. There will be no ravishing, Miranda, until you agree to become my bride.”

He disavowed ravishment yet sprawled half-clad beside her. Miranda gave a little wriggle and the nightdress slipped. “You don’t really want to marry me. You don’t want to marry anyone.”

Benedict eyed her exposed shoulder. Master Conscience stirred. Benedict shoved Master Conscience into the deepest well of his psyche and firmly shut the lid.

“That is only partly true,” he said. “I do not want to marry anyone but you.”

Then Heaven help them both. “I have already told you that I am destined to run off with a rakehell.”

He smiled. “Has it not occurred to you, my foolish darling, that
I
am a rakehell? Sinbad, remember? A thousand mistresses? The harem of the Raj?”

“You are teasing me, you wretch!” Miranda beat her fist against his arm.  “You said that you weren’t truly wicked! Which I think was a great lie. No one who wasn’t truly wicked would toy with me this way.”

She was rosy with temper. Benedict caught her fist and gave it a quick kiss. “You will have no need to run away, my darling. I will be every bit as wicked as you like. You must marry me, Miranda. Because you will break my heart in truth if you do not.”

Was this how her mama had felt — and her grandmama, and the rest – when they teetered on the precipice? “If I can break your heart, then you must be in love with me,” Miranda said.

“I believe I must. Shocking in me, is it not? I told myself that I should wait until you are at least eighteen.”

Wait?
Eighteen?
“Damnation!” Miranda sat straight up. Her nightdress slipped further still, baring one pink-tipped breast.

The marquess was reminded of a certain charming mole. Ah, there it was. “But then I reminded myself that you are already all but ruined.”

Miranda leaned a little forward, the better to enjoy the feel of his hand against her breast. “And so?”

 “And so I could probably be persuaded to overcome my scruples. Being the scoundrel that I am.
If
you agree to marry me.”

He would abandon his scruples? Really, Miranda could do no less. “Very well. If you are certain that is what you want, I will marry you.”

“In that case—” Benedict leaned back on the pillows and looked wicked indeed.

He was laid out before her like a scrumptious feast. Miranda was briefly at a loss as to where she should begin. But she had made an extensive study of such matters, complete with illustrations and diagrams. She flung off her nightdress and divested her companion of the remainder of his clothing, then embarked upon The Kiss That Kindles Love, after which she nibbled his earlobes and licked his nipples and in general sampled everything in between; brushed her long hair along the length of his body, during which she had ample opportunity to acquaint herself with the excellent working condition of his masculine parts; and then embarked upon The Climbing of a Tree. The marquess made his own contribution to these endeavors, and Miranda learned what very nice sensations resulted from caresses on the inside of the elbows, and the toes and knees. When his lordship pressed his lips to the soft skin of her inner thighs, however, she gasped and groaned and ceased to think at all. After a brief rest, they moved on to Butterflies in Flight, and Karma’s Wheel, and concluded at length with the Crab Embrace. More explicit details will not be included here, lest they cause the reader to require a dose of lettuce-water. Suffice it to say that Miranda achieved her ruination, despite some lingering reservations about the logistics of the thing; and deduced that hearts must not explode from excitement, because hers would have burst into a million pieces if they did.

“Benedict,” she said, after she regained her powers of speech.

Lord Baird was still recuperating. “Umm?”

“I should dislike it very much if my husband paid his attentions to another woman.”

“Then I shan’t.”

“Benedict?”

“What is it, Miranda?”

 “I love you, too.” And then – for the literature warns that it is impolite to snooze too soon after making love – Miranda proceeded to satisfy her curiosity, and in the process gratify the marquess immensely, as regarded Sucking A Mango Fruit.

* * * *

And so Lord Baird and Miss Russell became truly betrothed, and soon thereafter wed; and if they did not live forever, they were happy a good long while. Though Miranda and Colum between them failed to graft a pear onto a willow tree, Lord and Lady Baird did contrive to raise a goodly crop of offspring.

Jem remained in his guv’nor’s service. He and Mary eventually married and had offspring of their own, all of whom were strictly raised and given no opportunity to lead other than honest lives. Lady Darby, Meggs, and Chimlin retired to Brighton, where they rubbed along tolerably well together, or not, until Odette died in her sleep at the age of ninety-three. Phineas and Lady Cecilia (who had won a certain wager) derived a great deal of pleasure from each other, and their relationship endured many years until the duke’s demise, upon which sad event Ceci found herself in possession of immense wealth. This circumstance greatly annoyed her father, who had disowned his daughter yet again upon discovering she had set up a gaming hell. Lord Wexton never did remarry, his experience with Miss Russell having left him soured on the fair sex. Sir Kenrick Symington taught Miss Blanchet all he knew about the amatory congress, which was considerable; and Nonie discovered that as daily exposure to Miranda lessened, her various physical discomforts miraculously ceased.

Mr. Atchison, Mr. Dowlin and Mr. Burton were distressed by Miss Russell’s marriage, but there was nothing to be done. Since all that had drawn them together was their mutual interest in the young lady, the gentlemen soon drifted apart. Mr. Dowlin became a very successful barrister, and traded his stuff gown for one of silk, and wrote the initials ‘Q.C.’ after his name. Mr. Atchison settled into his responsibilities as a man of property, and took himself a comfortable little wife, and often bored other landed gentlemen in the House of Commons with dissertations upon such weighty matters as whether a particular road should or should not have a turnpike, and whose fields should be enclosed. Mr. Burton rejoined his regiment, served under Wellington during the Peninsular Campaign, and conducted himself heroically at Salamanca, where he was slain. Mr. Hazelett  — or Devries – died also, in an unpleasant manner befitting one who attempted to dispose of a peer of the realm.