The Wicked Marquess by Maggie MacKeever Page A

on his face. He hoped Miranda would not next require him to drop something in his ears. But if she did, so be it. He would have trod hot coals for her, if only she had asked.
    Mr. Atchison spoke, and the others listened, as they made their way through the noisy crowd. Rather, Mr. Atchison spoke, and Nonie and Mr. Dowlin listened; Miranda had again withdrawn. She was trying hard for patience, a lack of which was one of her many character flaws.
    She had not heard from Benedict since they met in the gardens. Should she send another note? No, Miranda had made her proposal, and he had accepted, and she didn’t want to be the pushing sort.
    She must see all she could of London before she was sent back to the country and left at last to tend her garden in peace. Oddly, the prospect of peaceful garden tending did not appeal as much as once it had.
    Suddenly her senses prickled. Miranda looked around. Strolling in their direction was Lord Baird, in company with several other people. Lady Cecilia was by his side.
    How fine they looked together. How possessively the blasted woman clung to his arm. No doubt Lord Baird had kissed Lady Cecilia any number of times, and engaged in more intimate pursuits as well.
    Miranda had known that Lady Cecilia was Benedict’s particular friend. Yet she had foolishly assumed the marquess would not continue to pay court to another woman while he contrived at her own disgrace.
    Not that the marquess was doing much contriving. One might almost think that he didn’t truly wish to do the deed. Miranda raised her chin and watched Lord Baird and his party approach, and not by the quiver of an eyelid did she reveal that she felt like Blue Beard’s wife discovering the contents of the forbidden room.
    “Miss Russell.” Percy Pettigrew executed an elegant bow. “May I present my companions?”
    Graciously, Miranda acknowledged the introductions. Carefully, she kept her expression blank. Resentfully, she discovered that Lady Cecilia was even more beautiful when viewed at close range.
    In turn, Lady Cecilia scrutinized Miranda. Every other female became a rival when one reached a certain age. Miss Russell was not only depressingly young she was also abominably attractive. Ceci discovered in herself a positive loathing for caramel hair and violet eyes, both of which, she assured herself, were altogether unfashionable.
    “Do you enjoy the theater, Lady Cecilia?” Mr. Atchison inquired politely. Ceci admitted that she enjoyed the theater very well. She had even enjoyed seeing Mrs. Jordan as Miss Racket in Fashionable Friends , and Mr. Kemble as Sir Dudley Dorimant, though the play had been withdrawn after two performances and condemned as consisting of material as flimsy and sentiments as indecent as had in many years debased the British stage. Mr. Atchison could not comment with any certitude on the subject of Fashionable Friends , not having seen the play, but he was able to converse with considerable assurance about an accident that had befallen Mrs. Jordan while she was playing the part of Peggy in The Country Girl at the Margate Theater. The actress had nearly burnt to death when her gown burst into flame quite up to the waist, and had concluded her last scene in her petticoat. So very well did Mr. Atchison and Lady Cecilia get along that Miranda grew even more annoyed. She had intended Mr. Atchison for Nonie, but Lady Cecilia was monopolizing every gentleman in the vicinity.
    Not every gentleman. Mr. Hazelett awarded Nonie a polite smile. “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Blanchet,” he said.
    “They are hardly worth so much,” Nonie replied.
    “My dear Miss Blanchet, you underestimate yourself,” interjected Percy. There was smoky something in the wind and it wasn’t the smell of the Argand lamps. Miss Russell appeared to be on the fidgets, he observed.
    Miranda was indeed on the fidgets. With each passing moment she grew more convinced that a certain rakehelly marquess had offered her false