The Wicked Marquess (25 page)

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, oh! 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

Launceston had been the ancient capital of Cornwall. It remained the chief town in the wide area lying between Dartmoor and Bodmin Moor.

Picturesque buildings and cottages lined the hilly winding streets. Hints of bygone eras lingered in the ramparts of Launceston Castle, once the home of William the Conqueror’s half-brother Richard; and the relics of a twelfth century Augustan priory; and two bridges that dated from the sixteenth century. Each Prince of Wales visited Launceston once in his lifetime, to receive the feudal dues that were his right as Duke of Cornwall.

If the present Prince of Wales was not currently visiting Launceston, this was only because the business of being royal kept him away. Like many of his subjects, Prinny enjoyed a good prizefight.

Expectations ran high for the upcoming encounter between The Cornish Bruiser and The Black. Comparisons between the two fighters, analyses of their histories and backgrounds, were being discussed throughout the town.

Mr. Atchison, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Dowlin were engrossed in other matters as they strolled along a narrow street that lay near the inn. Mr. Atchison’s companions were already aware, for he had told them, that St. Michael the Archangel was Cornwall’s patron saint; and that the national bird was the rare Cornish Clough, a member of the raven family with glossy jet-black feathers and red legs and a long sharp red bill. And that Piran, patron saint of the tin-miners – who had a taste for the bottle, and died at age 206 — had arrived in Cornwall floating on a millstone, after his original community, jealous of his miraculous healing powers, had tied the millstone round his neck and thrown him off a cliff. The name Cornwall came from
cornovii
, meaning hill dwellers, and
waelans,
meaning strangers. Cornish had started to evolve as a separate language around 2000 B.C. King Arthur had been a Cornishman, conceived at Tintagel and buried at Glastonbury, his last battle fought against his treacherous nephew Modred at Slaughterbridge.

Two of the three gentlemen weren’t interested in King Arthur, or Cornish Cloughs, or even Cornwall itself. Due largely to Mr. Dowlin’s resourcefulness, they had tracked their quarry to his lair. However, they could not agree on what should be done next. Mr. Burton, drawing from the considerable experience gained during his adventures with Colonel Wellesley in India, had put forth numerous ideas involving scaling-ladders and rockets, which his companions wisely overlooked. They also overlooked his frequently stated opinion that Sinbad should have nails pounded in his skull.

Mr. Burton was strongly urging that they storm the citadel, and Mr. Atchison was offering the information that John Macadam had used Cornish stone for his experimental roadwork, and Mr. Dowlin was striving mightily for patience, when a horseman rode into view. Horsemen were not uncommon in Launceston, even when when the town wasn’t bursting its rafters due to a prizefight scheduled to soon take place; but this horse was wild-eyed and nervous and fighting at its bit, and its rider grim.

The horse was lathered, as if it had been ridden hard. The rider was as disheveled as if had been thrown. Mr. Burton regretted that the rider had not broke his neck. Astride the lathered nervous horse was none other than Lord Baird.

Mr. Burton started forward. Mr. Atchison and Mr. Dowlin each caught an arm and dragged him back. “Not yet!” hissed Mr. Dowlin. “Wait and see what he’s about.”

Though he continued to glower, Mr. Burton did not pursue Lord Baird. He had developed a grudging respect for Mr. Dowlin’s good sense. Mr. Atchison, he still held to be a cow-handed clunch.

The gentlemen watched silently as Lord Baird rode into the inn’s courtyard, dismounted, handed his reins to an ostler with a few muttered words. He strode toward the inn’s massive front door, and disappeared inside.

Mr. Burton wanted to follow. Mr. Dowlin insisted they should not. Mr. Atchison embarked upon a discussion of experiments conducted by William Murdock at his house in Redruth, which had to do with the illuminating properties of gases produced by distilling coal, wood and peat. “Shut your damned bone box!” snapped the sorely-tried Mr. Burton, and punched Mr. Atchison smack in the nose.

* * * *

Lord Baird sought out the inn’s owner, requested a private parlor and a bite of lunch, asked that Lady Cecilia be told he was there. The landlord recognized a gentleman of substance when he saw one, dirty and disgruntled though that gentleman might be. He hastened to comply.

Benedict paced around the private parlor, which was a comfortable enough chamber with a long low ceiling supported by oak beams. His attention was not on his surroundings, nor his upcoming interview.

The door opened. Lady Cecilia walked into the room, an expression of polite inquiry on her face. She had gambled the marquess would call on her once he learned of her presence in Launceston, and had spent the interval of waiting in front of her mirror. Every hair was in its proper place, her rouge and powder artfully applied, her bosom as artfully displayed.

All concern for her appearance fled at sight of him. “Whatever has happened? Were you in an accident, Baird?”

“Something like that.” Benedict paused as the landlord entered the room carrying a platter of delicacies that included stewed carp and a squab pie. “My horse took fright.”

Ceci was astonished. The marquess was an excellent horseman. “Took fright at what?”

“Damned if I know.” Benedict recalled his manners. “Ceci, you are in looks.”

Of course she was in looks. Had she not spent all that time in front of her mirror? Ceci thought of the many things she had meant to say. She had intended to profess herself all innocence when Baird discovered that she was here. She had not realized – had she realized naturally she would not have come – but Percy had insisted that it would be good for her to leave London for a time. Percy had traveled with her, but Baird would think nothing of that, for they were cousins. Not that it wasn’t flattering if the marquess was a little bit jealous, particularly since he was on the verge of being a tenant-for-life; and as to that, she wished he might have told her, but no doubt in all the excitement it had slipped his mind.

In the end, Ceci said none of those things. “Such stories are going around London!” she sighed. “You were right to hide away.”

He had not hid well enough to avoid this conversation. Benedict surveyed his mistress. Ex-mistress, he corrected himself. Dark short curls and creamy skin and cherry lips, lush figure showed to advantage in her high-waisted golden gown—

She was as desirable as ever, and Benedict didn’t desire her one bit. “I have behaved badly toward you, Ceci.”

So he had. He had also given her an expensive sapphire necklace, among other things. “You are disturbed,” Ceci remarked.

“Disturbed? I have gone quite mad. Are you aware Wexton came to the abbey? I take it you are again on terms.”

“If you can call it that.” Ceci sank down on a hard bench. “I am fed up to the teeth with my entire family. Percy and my father are welcome to each other. How on earth did you come to let Percy walk in on you?”