The Wicked Marquess Read Online Free Page A

that he wished to kiss her.
    “No, you don’t! Take my word on it.” Benedict entered the little grove. “What is your desire, Miss Russell? Shall I horsewhip this impudent young pup?”
    The coxcomb screwed his head around so quickly that he almost decapitated himself. He blanched. “Baird.”
    “Just so,” Benedict said dryly. His prowess with fisticuffs and pistol was as legendary as his amatory expertise. “You have suddenly recalled an urgent appointment that requires you to immediately depart the premises. Not a word of this to anyone or I will be even more displeased with you than I already am.”
    Miranda’s thwarted suitor swallowed, setting aquiver his shirt points. He loosened his grip on her arms. “Beg pardon — a misunderstanding — your servant, Miss Russell!” His self-possession shattered, he scurried away.
    Benedict bowed. “Good evening, Miss Russell. You are very fine tonight. Although I rather miss the breeches, I think.”
    The lush lips parted. Perhaps she would thank him. Perhaps he would tell her how she might best thank him. A kiss would do nicely. For a start. “You’ve found out who I am,” Miranda said, without any evidence of delight.
    Benedict could not confess he hadn’t made the slightest effort to discover her identity. The child would be chagrined. “All London knows who you are, Miss Russell. A large portion of it seems to be at your feet.”
    She studied him. “You have a very poorly run household. Not a single servant interfered with me going right out the front door.”
    So they had not. Most of the servants had been asleep. Martin the footman had withdrawn to the kitchen for several fortifying swallows of Cook’s brandy, which stood him in good stead when he discovered his master snugly locked away. “You gave my staff much to talk about.”
    The violet gaze flickered. “I expect your staff is accustomed to odd occurrences in the middle of the night. Now that I see you dressed – not that I saw you un dressed, precisely – you are clearly a gentleman with less than conventional tastes.”
    He was not so unconventional as all that. Benedict was intrigued by the idea of his companion seeing him in a state of undress. As well as the opposite.
    Miranda straightened her gloves. “At any rate, it should be clear to you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
    She was about as capable as a day old chick. “Ah. I misunderstood the situation. You were encouraging that buffleheaded clunch to take liberties with you.”
    “I was not!”
    She glowered. He waited. She dimpled. “He was a clunch, wasn’t he?”
     “Only a clunch would kiss a young lady who didn’t want kissing.” Miranda’s scarf had slipped from one shoulder to reveal a considerable amount of tempting flesh. What were her caretakers thinking, letting her go about in such a flimsy whisper of a dress? Scant surprise that amorous youngster had been inspired to take liberties.
    She frowned. “Why are you staring at me so strangely, sir? Are you in your cups?”
    Benedict drew Miranda’s gloved hand through his arm and led her further down the pebbled path into a little stone grotto embellished with seashells and stalactites. “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”
    Many a damsel inside Lady Sylvester’s crowded reception rooms would have been pleased to stroll with Sinbad in the shadows. The young person currently on his arm was cut from different cloth. She said, “If you’re trying to get up a flirtation with me, I must tell you that I am weary of such stuff.”
    Depraved, in his dotage, and now put firmly in his place. “I take it you are not an avid reader of romantic novels,” Benedict remarked.
    Miranda drew her scarf closer around her shoulders. “If I am an avid reader of anything, it is the Botanical Magazine ; and experience has already taught me that most gentlemen don’t care to discuss experiments in grafting and cross-pollination, or the color-changing