She ignored a twinge of guilt. Fairness be damned. Ceci needed a fortune. Baird needed an heir.
She must convince him that marriage was the perfect solution to both their dilemmas. As soon as possible. All Ceci had to barter was her own fair person, and her assets were depreciating even as she sat and thought.
She leaned closer to the marquess, cleverly arranging her hooded evening cloak of purple-blue taffeta, lined with rose, to display a great deal of
décolletage.
. “You do not care for Vauxhall. Yet you escorted me here, nonetheless. No matter what anyone may say of you, you are very kind.”
Lady Cecilia was suffering a misapprehension. The marquess was not the least bit kind. He had been commanded to present himself at Vauxhall this evening. Inviting Ceci and her friends to accompany him was in the nature of killing two birds with one stone.
The orchestra struck up another selection, ‘
What tho’ his guilt’
, performed by two flutes, a cello, and a harpsichord. Benedict did not appreciate the tune. Nor did he admire the supper box, decorated though it was with a romantic mural by Francis Hayman, and lighted by variegated lamps, or exotic faux minarets and splashing waterfalls and shadowy columned ways.
Ceci sipped her punch. Baird had a talent for silence. Fortunate for their future together that she could talk enough for two. She engaged her companions – Major and Mrs. Watson, Viscount Penworthy and Lady Margaret Smythe – in animated conversation that ranged from the most recent antics of various members of the Buonoparte family, past the very odd business that Tallyrand’s mistress presided over the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and arrived finally at the return of Napoleon’s wife to Plombieres, where she was again attempting to overcome her barrenness in an atmosphere of sulphuric waters and pine woods.
Benedict could bear no more of Lady Cecelia’s practiced chatter. He excused himself and exited the supper box. His companions were not surprised by his departure. Sinbad easily became bored.
Vauxhall was crowded on this as every other evening, its tree-lined graveled walks festooned with countless shimmering globe lamps hung among the boughs. The revelers promenaded in all directions: along the Grand Walk, a stately avenue of elms nine hundred feet long and thirty feet wide; the South Walk, spanned by three triumphal arches which were a part of a realistic painting of the Ruins of Palmyra; the Hermit’s Walk, which boasted mountains, precipices and valleys, and a large cat with fiery eyes, all worked in canvas and pasteboard, and which was populated also by an old man with white beard and stiff staff who emerged from the depths of a pasteboard ravine carrying the Future, carefully copied out on cream-colored paper, in his arms.
Benedict made his way to the eastern end of the garden, paused at a large open space in front of the firework tower where scenic displays of various kinds took place. In the distance, a fountain burbled, accompanied by
‘The Lover’s Recantation’,
performed by two flutes, two oboes, bassoon and strings.
He heard a whispered, “Psst!” Large violet eyes peered at him through the leaves of a nearby bush.
“Alone again?” Benedict inquired, as he entered the secluded grove. Enough light shone in through the trees to illuminate his companion’s gown of blue muslin trimmed with knots of white ribbon, and the very stubborn expression on her very young, very lovely face.
“I am not alone, exactly,” she retorted. “I left Mr. Atchison prosing on about the history of Vauxhall – it was laid out circa 1661, and originally called the New Spring Gardens, to distinguish them from the Old Spring Gardens at Charing Cross — and Nonie hanging rapt on every word.” Both of those worthies were out of charity with Miranda, but she had meant only to be helpful by mentioning that juice of scabious, mixed up with powder of borax and samphire, was an excellent means by which to clear freckles from the skin.
She had fallen silent. Benedict knew he must apologize for his conduct during their last meeting, but Miranda had something on her mind, and so he would wait a few more minutes before abasing himself.
“I had your note,” he said. A shocking thing it was that she had sent him, which was why he had put it away in a safe place. If he had any sense, which obviously he hadn’t, else he wouldn’t be here, he’d burn the damned thing. But Benedict was touched by the child’s naïveté, and curious about her request. “What is so urgent, little one?”
Miranda stepped closer to him. This business must be concluded quickly, lest Nonie grow suspicious and send out a search party. “My lord, I don’t like you above half.”
Naturally, she didn’t like him. Benedict had damned near ravished her in an alcove off Lady Sylvester’s music room. “I make you my apologies. My conduct was inexcusable.”
“You don’t understand!” So far was this from what Miranda wished to hear that she stamped her foot. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
He had been curious about how she would behave toward him when next they met; had expected embarrassment, or a display of cold hauteur. Benedict said, “Have you been into the punch?”
So much for flirtation. Miranda sighed. “You were supposed to kiss me if I acted like I didn’t want you to, which sounds very foolish to me, but that’s what Nonie said. Because though you did kiss me, it wasn’t a
real
kiss, and so it doesn’t count.”
Benedict contemplated his tormentor. “Do you want a real kiss so badly, brat?”
She nodded. “If you are going to seduce me, it seems like you should kiss me first.”
Seduce Miranda? Benedict was intrigued by the suggestion, and also appalled. “Under those circumstances, I should definitely kiss you first,” he responded gravely. “What gives you the notion that I am going to seduce you?”
Looking very earnest, Miranda grasped his arm. “Since you do not mean to marry, you can ruin me with impunity. It is the perfect solution. That’s what I wanted to discuss.”
Benedict had, in the course of his adventures, received invitations beyond count. Quite a few, he had accepted; even more, he had politely declined. Since he could not bring himself to decline this invitation outright, he took a prudent step backward. “Perhaps you should ask your Nonie what seduction involves.”
Miranda had hoped for more enthusiasm. Since long experience with her uncle had taught her that gentlemen didn’t care to have their garments mussed, she loosened her grip on Benedict’s sleeve. “I’m not sure Nonie is an expert. She certainly got the kissing business wrong. It seems reasonable to me that I cannot be forced to marry if I am already ruined. I expect I could find some other gentleman to besmirch my good name, but it seems a waste of time since I already know
you
. I daresay you have been told before that your looks are more than passable, my lord.”
So Benedict had, but not in so artless a manner. He found himself perversely charmed.
Charmed, but not persuaded. “There must be an easier way to avoid parson’s mousetrap.”
Miranda released him. “Maybe for you. But to be ruined is my fate. My mama ran off with a philanderer, my grandmama had a great number of, er, admirers, and my great-grandmama was upon the stage. So you see I merely anticipate the inevitable. Besides, when you touched me – I liked it very well.”
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.