“I am in a dark corner of the garden with you, and you aren’t overwhelmed with a desire to kiss me.” Came a pregnant pause, and then Miranda added, “Are you, sir?”
She practically invited him to accost her. So that she might damage him further, no doubt. Benedict touched her smooth cheek. “Has anyone ever kissed you, Miss Russell?”
“Certainly! Lots and lots of people!” she retorted, and blushed.
She was so very beautiful, and so very young, and he should be shot for amusing himself with her. Gently, Benedict said, “Relatives don’t count.”
Miranda looked reproachful. He could kiss her now, and she would not try and stop him. Instead, Benedict placed her hand on his arm and led her up the pathway toward the house. “You had better go back inside before that young cawker takes it in his head to rescue you from me.”
Miranda hesitated. “You won’t tell anyone how we met?”
Benedict was sorely tempted to suggest Miss Russell try and persuade him to be silent. Conscience wakened belatedly, and gave him a sharp kick.
He stepped away from her. “Your secrets are safe with me, brat.”
Chapter Four
Morning had dawned in Portman Square, or rather early afternoon, for that was considered morning by the ton. Sir Kenrick Symington’s family was gathered in the breakfast room. This was a cheerful chamber, with high windows and coved ceiling, polished floors and boldly painted walls. A chandelier descended from a central ornament of leaves in a swirling design.
The small group of people seated around the semicircular table was not in accord with their peaceful surroundings. “You did what to young Cartwright?” Sir Kenrick demanded. “With a hatpin? Nonie can’t have got it right.”
In point of fact, Nonie hadn’t got it right. Miranda had failed to acquaint her companion with the full scope of the previous evening’s adventure. “There is no need to do violence to your feelings, uncle. As I have told Nonie several times already, no great harm was done.” Miranda directed a reproachful look at that Judas, who was gloomily contemplating a gilt sugar vase. She would have preferred not to mention the episode at all, but Nonie had insisted on an explanation of her absence from Lady Sylvester’s overheated rooms.
“Don’t try and change the subject,” Kenrick said sternly. “Antoinette behaved exactly as she should.”
Nonie felt as though her breakfast was stuck in her throat. She had not behaved exactly as she should. Instead she had succumbed to the lure of the card table; had allowed Miranda to tumble into mischief while she enjoyed a game of whist.
Sir Kenrick was trying very hard to understand his niece’s behavior. “Why a hatpin?” he inquired.
Miranda spread marmalade on a muffin. “Mr. Cartwright was too particular in his attentions. He wouldn’t listen when I said he should stop.”
Kenrick regretted he had not overheard that conversation. “A well-brought-up young lady is not permitted to be alone with a gentleman for even half an hour,” Nonie stated somberly, and not for the first time.
“I have told you nothing happened,” Miranda retorted. Nothing, that was, except for Sinbad popping out of the shadows. For the first time in her life, she had thought that she might swoon. “Mr. Cartwright will never admit he encountered my hatpin because he won’t care to be a laughing-stock.” She popped the muffin into her mouth.
Nonie left off staring at the sugar vase to brood upon a colorful japanned tea urn instead. “I hope you may not be mistaken in that belief.”
“Of course I’m not mistaken.” Miranda licked marmalade from her fingers. “I don’t see why you should be in such a fret.”
Miranda didn’t see? Nonie experienced an unladylike impulse to skewer her charge with the bread-knife. Remarked Sir Kenrick, “Only a pig-widgeon would have gone into the gardens in the first place.”
And only a gentleman with his nose in the clouds would fail to see what was going on right under that appendage. Nonie would wager her last button that Miranda had admitted only a portion of the truth. She wavered between a longing for blissful ignorance and an equally keen desire, born of self-preservation, to discover exactly what had transpired.
Having disposed of the muffin, Miranda grasped an ivory-inlaid silver fork and attacked her breakfast-plate. “I went into the gardens because I was interested in Lady Sylvester’s roses. She has a new variety called Mutabilis that I was eager to inspect. If Mr. Cartwright misinterpreted my interest, I am not to blame.”
It was he who was to blame, reflected Kenrick, as he applied himself to his own plate. Miranda had been in his charge since the death of both her parents when she was very young. He had alternately spoiled her shockingly and ignored her altogether and here was the result: a defiant damsel set on doing as she pleased. “Did young Cartwright kiss you?” he asked.
Miranda wrinkled her nose. “He most certainly did not.”
Kenrick bit into a slice of toasted bread. Even in the country, Miranda had drawn the attention of lovesick suitors from miles around. He had brought her to London in hope that she might attract admirers of a more suitable sort.
Silence reigned briefly in the breakfast room while Sir Kenrick ruminated over his eggs and kidneys, and Nonie fidgeted with the jam pot. There were no servants in attendance, Kenrick having dismissed them before embarking upon his scold.
Miranda applied a dampened fingertip to a biscuit crumb. Most difficult, this business of behaving badly enough to be sent back to the country while at the same time not behaving so badly that she was forced to do something she would rather not. “You have been touchy as a bear with a sore paw ever since we came to London, uncle. May I remind you that it was your decision? I wanted to stay at home and plant a nursery-garden. If we were home, I could be working with the gardeners in the greenhouse.”
Kenrick pushed away his plate. “Young Cartwright is a man-milliner, Atchison is a pudding-heart, and Dowlin is a block. I’ll tell you what it is, my girl, you’re a great deal too nice in your tastes. Does there exist a man who will please you? I wish you would find him speedily. And then we may go home.”
Miranda leaned her elbows on the table. “Why won’t you listen to me? I don’t mean to wed. I also don’t want a blasted Season, or to be auctioned off like a prize mare.”
His niece’s language was appalling, another thing for which Kenrick must be held accountable. And her insistence on remaining unwed was patently absurd. Countless beaux were dangling at her slipper strings, spouting all manner of romantical nonsense, vowing to die broken-hearted in the middle of the drawing room, and inspiring her long-suffering guardian with a desire to bundle the whole pack of lovesick puppies into a burlap sack and drown them in the Thames.
He strove for patience. “Do you hope to marry for love? The women of our family are unlucky in that regard. Better to wed for property and position and leave romantical high flights for someone else.”
“I don’t care a fig about a title, or a handsome face,” retorted Miranda, “and I already have a fortune of my own. Not that I’m supposed to say so, but so far as I can determine, I’m not supposed to do or say anything.”
Definitely, he had spoiled her. Kenrick drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “You are a very wealthy young woman, and as such will be the target of fortune-hunters and other unscrupulous sorts. There must be no more strolls in dark gardens, miss.”
There would have been no strolls in dark gardens had Nonie not been remiss in her duties. If Sir Kenrick banished Miranda to the country, Nonie would be without a place. The prospect terrified her. She would also be without Miranda, o joyful thought.
Miranda leaned back in her chair. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a fortune, because then no one would wish to marry me, and we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about such boring stuff.”
The girl would be the death of him! Still, Kenrick couldn’t doubt that her distress was genuine. “Not all your suitors are interested only in your fortune. You are a very lovely young woman, Miranda.”<
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She shrugged. “That only makes it worse. If I were only pretty, or only rich, things would be much simpler. I would know specifically why people were trying to turn me up sweet.”
Nonie shuddered. “Miranda, please!”
Miranda, as usual, ignored her protest. “May I remind you of what happened to my papa, uncle? Would you want to be responsible for some other gentleman suffering the same fate?”
“Can’t say that I would.” Kenrick shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But just because you look like your mama don’t—”
“I look like my mama, and my grandmama, and her mama before her! As I’ve been told often enough. But I don’t intend to act like them, and so therefore—”
“And so therefore you shan’t. This is a tempest in a teacup.” Nonie’s heartburn had increased apace with her charge’s abominable behavior and her employer’s reddening cheeks.
Since Kenrick had recently been scolded for lashing out in temper, he counted to three hundred. Antoinette was the most admirable of females, but sometimes her tendency to see the best in everyone led her to conclusions that were patently absurd, in this instance the conclusion that Miranda did not take after her female ancestors, all of whom had been prone to love unwisely and too well, the object of their affections most often not the gentlemen to whom they were wed. “In point of fact, Miranda is the exact likeness of her mama and her grandmama, not only in looks but temperament. Everything she does will fascinate the gossips, once they discover her background.”
First Kenrick warned her that she would be the target of gabble-grinders and fortune hunters, then he dragged her to London so that the gabble-grinders and fortune hunters might all take careful aim. Her uncle’s behavior, Miranda reflected, argued a certain confusion of ideas. “If I do not marry, I cannot abandon husband and hearth to run off with someone else. You will be spared the mortification of seeing the family’s dirty linen hung out to air yet once again.”
Kenrick intended to be spared just that. “I’ll tell you what, my girl: you’re a great deal too nice in your tastes. If you don’t soon find someone to suit you, I shall take matters into my own hands.” Satisfied that he had made his point, he picked up the Times. A profound silence descended upon the room.
Chapter Five
The violins sobbed, the viola wailed, and the cello moaned. Dissonance of pitch and intonation set up an unsympathetic vibration reminiscent of tomcats screeching in discord. The plumes in Lady Underwood’s unnaturally red hair swayed gently as she kept time with a cadence appreciated by few of her guests.
The musicians paused to catch up with one another. Nonie hoped that when they resumed, if resume they must, they would omit the pizzi strings.
Lady Underwood’s music room was adorned with marbles and bassi-relievi. The wall decorations were classic Adam, rectangular panels of stucco design alternating with Zucchi paintings of Piranese ruins. The carpet design, a circle in a square surrounded by paterae and swags, echoed the Kauffman medallions in the ceiling. The Polite World, or that portion of it present, perched upon satinwood chairs embellished with floral designs set in fan-shaped cane-worked panels.
And very uncomfortable those chairs were. Nonie didn’t fidget, because fidgeting was unladylike. She was determined to set a good example, and never mind if Miranda paid her no more attention than if she was a flea. Sir Kenrick had abandoned them this evening, preferring to inspect the first all-iron hand press, patented by Earl Stanhope a couple years previous. When the musicians broke off, result of each having arrived in his own time at different places in the piece, Nonie said as much to the young man who was trying without success to catch Miranda’s eye.
Mr. Atchison would also have liked to inspect the first all-iron hand press. He knew a great deal about both engraving and the newer process of lithography, including the various attempts made to solve the problems of casting and composing tile by machine. From hand presses, the conversation moved to music, because the players gave indication of returning to the attack. Mozart, confided Mr. Atchison, had composed his first musical piece in a mere thirty minutes three days before his fifth birthday, and had been the toast of Viennese society when still months shy of his seventh; Beethoven had created great music that he could only hear in his own head; and then there was the odd circumstance that the last English oculist to treat Handel for his impaired vision had also cared unsuccessfully for J. S. Bach – who, in Mr. Atchison’s opinion, had been unfortunately obsessed with the fugue.
Miranda clutched her delicate painted fan so tightly that one of the ivory sticks cracked. She found Mr. Atchison’s observations even more tedious than Scotch ballads, or Milton’s verse. If Kenrick thought she would shackle herself to such a dull young man, her uncle was a bigger pig-widgeon than he considered her.
Nonie seemed to enjoy Mr. Atchison’s conversation. Miranda studied the young man. Mr. Atchison possessed a respectable fortune, if not so respectable as her own; an unexceptionable lineage; sandy hair, light blue eyes, and a pleasant enough countenance despite the freckles on his nose. Miranda had discovered several sovereign remedies for freckles. She wondered if Mr. Atchison would be offended if she offered him advice.
Two latecomers entered the music room. Miranda abruptly abandoned all consideration of freckle cures. Hanging on Benedict’s arm was a stunningly beautiful woman with artfully tousled short dark curls and rosy lips and creamy flawless skin.
If Miranda was going to see the blasted man everywhere she went, her nerves would never stand the strain. “Who is that?” she asked.
Nonie did not answer. She had become entangled in conversation with a matron wearing an unflattering puce gown, leaving Mr. Atchison to try his utmost to fix Miranda’s affections, or at least to get her attention, which was proving very uphill work.
A moment passed before Mr. Atchison understood that Miranda was not referring to the young lady who was seating herself at the harpsichord. He, too, glanced at the door. “Sinbad,” he explained. “And Lady Cecilia Montague.”
“Sinbad?” echoed Miranda. Benedict was dressed again in black. Such severity suited him, as did his overlong hair. His companion’s voluptuous figure was displayed to advantage in a high-waisted gown of gold raw silk vandyked around the petticoat, worn with a shawl of cream-colored cashmere. Only moments past, Miranda had felt very pretty in her own gossamer satin gown bordered with rose-pink rouleaux, her little rosebud-ornamented cap. Now she felt like a virginal rosebush.
Mr. Atchison was encouraged by his companion’s sign of interest, slight as it might be. “Marquess of Baird, Earl of Kingscote, family name of Davenham. Lady Cecilia is the daughter of an earl, though there is some estrangement there. She is a dashing widow, held by some to be a trifle bold perhaps, but with connections that gain her the entrée; a very clever sort of person, who can discuss everything from politics to peas.”
In other words, Lady Cecilia was the perfect companion for a gentleman of unconventional tastes. Miranda regarded the woman with intense dislike.
“Wages are being laid as to whether Lady Cecilia can bring Baird up to snuff,” Mr. Atchison continued. “Myself, I doubt she will pull it off. Sinbad would find a wife deuced inconvenient in his— Ah! His usual pursuits.”
Miranda was still staring. “What usual pursuits?”
Mr. Atchison knew he shouldn’t mention such things to a young lady. However, this was one of the few occasions on which this particular young lady had shown the least interest in anything he said. ‘Sinbad’, he confided, was a pun not only on an adventurous nature and notorious wanderlust. The man had had a thousand mistresses. Females had been running mad for him since he was barely out of leading strings. Mr. Atchison broke off, expecting that Miss Russell would gasp, blush, or scold.
Miranda did none of those things. She was less shocked by her companion’s words than dismayed by the realization that she indeed shared her forebear’s weakness for gentlemen of a rakish bent. Although she hadn’t realized Benedict was of a
rakish bent until Mr. Atchison told her, which clearly demonstrated the drawbacks of inexperience.
Was she angry with him? Mr. Atchison bemoaned his wayward tongue. “Beg pardon. Didn’t mean to— It was improper of me – But, dash it, you asked!”
What was the silly man nattering on about? As if in response to Miranda’s scrutiny, Benedict turned his head. His eyes met hers.
Miranda fixed her own gaze on her admirer, and treated him to a dazzling smile. “It has grown quite close in here. Perhaps, some refreshment?” Relieved that he had not distressed the object of his admiration, Mr. Atchison hastened off to fetch a glass of lemonade.
Her beau dispatched on his errand, and Nonie’s attention distracted by the puce-clad matron, Miranda slipped out of her seat and made her way into a curtained alcove. The small space held a flambeau of four lights supported by elephants’ heads, and a lacquered wood settee. Miranda wished her uncle had not insisted she had a Season. She wished oh, so many things.
Chief among Miranda’s wishes was fulfilled when Benedict stepped into the alcove. His body blocked the entrance. She had a sudden, not unpleasant, sensation of being trapped. He said, “We meet again, Miss Russell. I had the oddest notion that you wished to speak with me.”
So this was what a rakehell looked like. Felt like. Fizzles and sizzles and goosebumps— Really, she should have known. “You didn’t tell me that you are Lord Baird.”
“I’m certain that I did. Shortly before you assaulted me. Does it signify?”
The man had picked her up as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather, had borne her in his arms. It hadn’t seemed especially romantic in the moment, since he had carried her upside down, but the recollection left Miranda positively light-headed now.
The Wicked Marquess Page 3