by Julia Quinn
“If we marry right away,” he said, “it will be obvious that wehad to.”
“Thatyou had to,” Miranda muttered.
He leaned in. “Hmmm?”
“Nothing.” Because it would be humiliating to say it again. Because it was humiliating that she’d said it once already.
“We should go in,” he said.
She nodded. She was getting very good at nodding.
Ever the gentleman, Turner inclined his head and took her arm. Then he led her into the drawing room and acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
3 JULY1819
And after it happened, he did not speak to me once.
Chapter 12
When Turner returned home the next day, he retreated into his study with a glass of brandy and a muddled mind. Lady Chester’s house party wasn’t due to conclude for a few more days, but he had made up some story about pressing matters with his solicitors in the city and left early. He was fairly certain that he could behave as if nothing had happened, but of Miranda he was not so sure. She was an innocent—or at least she had been—and unused to such playacting. And for the sake of her reputation, all must appear scrupulously normal.
He did regret that he had been unable to explain to her the reasons for his early departure. He did not think that she would be affronted; he had, after all, told her that he needed time to think. He had also told her that they would marry; surely she would not doubt his intentions for his having taken a few days to ruminate upon his unexpected situation.
The enormity of his actions was not lost on him. He had seduced a young, unmarried lady. One he actually liked and respected. One his family adored.
For a man who had not wished to remarry, he had clearly not been thinking with his head.
Groaning, he sank down into a chair and remembered the rules he and his friends had set down years ago when they’d left Oxford for the pleasures of London and theton . There were only two. No married ladies, unless it was extremely obvious that her husband did not mind. And above all, no virgins. Never, never, never seduce a virgin.
Never.
He took another swig of his drink. Good Lord. If he’d needed a woman, there were dozens who would have been more suitable. The lovely young widowed countess had been coming along quite nicely. Katherine would have been the perfect mistress, and there would have been no need to marry her.
Marriage.
He’d done it once, with a romantic heart and stars in his eyes, and he’d been crushed. It was laughable, really. The laws of England gave absolute authority in a marriage to the husband, but he had never felt less in control of his life than when he’d been married.
Leticia had ground his heart into dust and left him an angry, soulless man. He was glad that she’d died.Glad . What sort of man did that make him? When the butler had found him in his study, and haltingly informed him that there had been an accident, and his wife was dead, Turner had not even felt relief. Relief would have at least been an innocent emotion. No, Turner’s first thought had been—
Thank God.
And no matter how despicable Leticia might have been, no matter how many times he wished he had never married her, should he not have felt something more charitable at her passing? Or at the very least, something that was not entirelyun charitable?
And now…and now…Well, the truth was, he did not wish to marry. It was what he had decided when they’d brought Leticia’s broken body into the house, and it was what he’d confirmed when he’d stood over her grave. He’d had a wife. He did not want another one. At least not anytime soon.
But despite Leticia’s best attempts, she had apparently not killed everything right and good in him, because here he was, planning his marriage to Miranda.
He knew she was a good woman, and he knew she would never betray him, but dear Lord she could be headstrong. Turner thought of her in the bookshop, assaulting the proprietor with her reticule. Now she would be hiswife . It would be up to him to keep her out of trouble.
He swore and took another drink. He did not want that kind of responsibility. It was too much. He just wanted a rest. Was that too much to ask? A rest from having to think about anyone other than himself. A rest from having to care, from having to protect his heart from another beating.
Was it so very selfish? Probably. But after Leticia, he deserved a bit of selfishness. Surely, he must.
But on the other hand, marriage could bring a few welcome benefits. His skin began to tingle just thinking of Miranda. In bed. Underneath him. And then when he started to imagine what the future might bring…
Miranda. Back in bed. And then back in bed. And back in bed. And back—
Who would’ve thought?Miranda .
Marriage. To Miranda.
And, he reasoned, draining the last of his drink, he did like her better than almost anyone else. She was certainly more interesting and more fun to talk to than any of the other ladies of theton . If one had to have a wife, it might as well be Miranda. She was a damned sight better than anyone else out there.
It occurred to him that he was not approaching this with a terribly romantic outlook. He was going to need more time to think. Perhaps he should go to bed and hope that his mind was clearer in the morning. With a sigh, he placed his glass back down on the table and stood up, then thought better of it and picked his glass back up. Another brandy might be just thing.
The next morning, Turner’s head was throbbing, and his mind certainly was not any more disposed to deal with the matter at hand than it had been the night before. Of course, he still planned to marry Miranda—a gentleman did not compromise a wellborn lady without paying the consequences.
But he hated this feeling of being rushed. It didn’t matter that this mess was entirely of his own making; he needed to feel that he had sorted everything out to his own satisfaction.
This was why, when he went down for breakfast, the letter from his friend Lord Harry Winthrop was such a welcome diversion. Harry was contemplating buying some property in Kent. Would Turner like to come down and take a look at it and offer his opinion?
Turner was out the door in under an hour. It was only for a few days. He would take care of Miranda when he got back.
Miranda didn’t mind terribly that Turner had left the house party early. She would have done the same had she been able. Besides, she could think more clearly with him gone, and although there wasn’t really much to debate—she had behaved in a manner contrary to every tenet of her up-bringing, and if she did not marry Turner, she would be forever disgraced—it was a bit of a relief to feel at least slightly in control of her emotions.
When they returned to London a few days later, Miranda fully expected Turner to show his face immediately. She didn’t particularly want to trap him into marriage, but a gentleman was a gentleman and a lady was a lady, and when the two of them were put together, a wedding usually followed. He knew that. He’d said he would marry her.
And surely he wouldwant to do it. She had been so deeply moved by their intimacy—he must have felt something, too. It could not have been one-sided, at least not completely.
She managed a casual tone when she asked Lady Rudland where he was, but his mother replied that she hadn’t the slightest idea except that he had left town. Miranda’s chest grew tight, and she murmured, “Oh,” or “I see,” or something like that before dashing up the stairs to her room, where she wept as quietly as she could.
But soon her optimistic side broke through, and she decided that perhaps he had been called away from town on emergency estate business. It was a long way up to Northumberland. He would certainly be gone at least a week.
A week came and went, and frustration built up next to the despair in Miranda’s heart. She could not inquire as to his whereabouts—no one in the Bevelstoke family realized that the two were close—Miranda had always been considered Olivia’s friend, not Turner’s—and if she asked repeatedly where he was, it would look suspicious. And it went without saying that Miranda
could have no logical reason to go to Turner’s lodgings and inquire herself. That would ruin her reputation completely. At least now her disgrace was still a private matter.
When another week passed, however, she decided that she couldn’t bear to remain in London any longer. She fabricated an illness for her father and told the Bevelstokes that she had to return to Cumberland immediately to care for him. They were all terribly concerned, and Miranda felt somewhat guilty when Lady Rudland insisted that she travel back in their coach with two outriders and a maid.
But it had to be done. She could not remain in London any longer. It hurt too much.
A few days later, she was home. Her father was perplexed. He didn’t know very much about young women, but he’d been assured that they all wanted seasons in London. But he didn’t mind; Miranda was certainly never a bother. Half the time he didn’t even realize she was there. So he patted her on the hand and returned to his precious manuscripts.
As for Miranda, she almost convinced herself that she was happy to be back at home. She’d missed the green fields and clean air of the Lakes, the sedate pace of the village, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise attitude. Well, perhaps not that—with no commitments and nothing to do, she slept in until noon and stayed up late every night, scribbling furiously in her journal.
A letter arrived from Olivia only two days after Miranda did. Miranda smiled as she opened it—trust Olivia to be so impatient that she would send up a missive right away. Miranda’s eyes flew over the letter for Turner’s name before reading it, but there was no mention of him. Not quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved, she turned back to the beginning and began to read. London was dull without her, Olivia wrote. She hadn’t realized how much she had enjoyed Miranda’s wry observations of society until they were gone. When was she coming home? Was her father improved? If not, was he at least improving? (Thrice underlined, in typical Olivia fashion.) Miranda read those sentences with a pang in her conscience. Her father was downstairs in his study poring over his manuscripts without even the teeniest of sniffles.
With a sigh, Miranda shoved her conscience over to the side and folded Olivia’s letter, placing it in her desk drawer. A lie wasn’t always a sin, she decided. Surely she was justified in whatever she had to do to get away from London, where all she could do was sit and wait and hope that Turner would stop by.
Of course, all she did in the country was sit and think about him. One evening she forced herself to count how many times his name appeared in her journal entry, and to her supreme disgust, the total was thirty-seven.
Clearly, this trip to the country was not clearing her mind.
Then, after a week and a half, Olivia arrived on a surprise visit.
“Livvy, what are you doing here?” Miranda asked as she rushed into the parlor where her friend was waiting. “Is someone hurt? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Olivia returned breezily. “I’ve just come up to retrieve you. You are desperately needed in London.”
Miranda’s heart began to thump erratically. “By whom?”
“By me!” Olivia linked arms with her and led her into the sitting room. “Good heavens, I am an utter disaster without you.”
“Your mother let you leave town in the middle of the season? I don’t believe it.”
“She practically shoved me out the door. I’ve been beastly since you left.”
Miranda laughed despite herself. “Surely it hasn’t been that bad.”
“I do not jest. Mama always told me that you were a good influence, but I don’t think she realized just how much until you left.” Olivia flashed a guilty smile. “I can’t seem to curb my tongue.”
“You never could.” Miranda smiled and led the way to a sofa. “Would you like some tea?”
Olivia nodded. “I don’t understand why I get into so much trouble. Most of what I say isn’t half as bad as whatyou say. You’ve the wickedest tongue in London.”
Miranda pulled the bell cord for a maid. “I do not.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You are the worst. And I know you know it.And you never get into trouble for any of it. It’s terribly unfair.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I don’t say things quite asloudly as you do,” Miranda replied, biting back a smile.
“You’re right,” Olivia sighed. “I know you’re right, but it’s still vastly annoying. You really do have a wicked sense of humor.”
“Oh, come now, I’m not that bad.”
Olivia let out a short laugh. “Oh, yes you are. Turner always says so, too, so I know it’s not just me.”
Miranda gulped down the quickly forming lump in her throat at the mention of his name. “Is he back in town, then?” she asked, oh-so-casually.
“No. I haven’t seen him in ages. He’s off in Kent somewhere with his friends.”
Kent? One couldn’t travel much farther from Cumberland and still remain in Britain, Miranda thought gloomily. “He’s been gone quite some time.”
“Yes, he has, hasn’t he? But then again, he’s off with Lord Harry Winthrop, and Harry has always been more than a little wild, if you know what I mean.”
Miranda feared that she did.
“I’m sure they’ve just got carried away with wine, women, and the sort,” Olivia continued. “There won’t be any proper ladies in attendance, I’m sure.”
The lump in Miranda’s throat quickly reappeared. The thought of Turner with another woman was violently painful, especially now that she knew just how close a man and woman could be. She had made up all sorts of reasons for his absence—her days werefilled with rationalizations and excuses on his behalf. It was, she thought bitterly, her only pastime.
But she had never thought that he was off with another woman. He knew how painful it was to be betrayed. How could he do the same to her?
He didn’t want her. The truth stung and it slapped and it dug its nasty little nails right into her heart.
He didn’t want her, and she still wanted him so badly, and ithurt . It was physical. She could feel it, squeezing and pinching, and thank heavens Olivia was examining her father’s prized Grecian vase, because she did not think she could keep her agony off her face.
With some sort of grunted comment that wasn’t meant to be understood, Miranda stood and quickly crossed to the window, pretending to look out over the horizon. “Well, he must be having a good time,” she managed to get out.
“Turner?” she heard from behind her. “He must, or he wouldn’t be staying so long. Mama is in a despair, or she would be, if she weren’t so busy despairing over me. Now, do you mind if I stay here with you? Haverbreaks is so big and drafty when no one is home.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Miranda remained at the window for a few moments longer, until she thought that she could look at Olivia without bursting into tears. She had been so emotional lately. “It will be quite a treat for me. It’s a bit lonely with only Father to keep me company.”
“Oh, yes. How is he? Improving, I hope.”
“Father?” Miranda was grateful for the interruption provided by the maid who answered her earlier summons. She ordered some tea before turning back to Olivia. “Ehm, he is much improved.”
“I shall have to stop in and wish him well. Mama asked me to send her regards as well.”
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t do that,” Miranda said quickly. “He doesn’t like to be reminded of his illness. He’s very proud, you know.”
Olivia, who had never been one to mince words, said, “How very odd.”
“Yes, well, it’s amasculine complaint,” Miranda improvised. She had heard so much about feminine complaints; surely the men had to have some sort of ailment that was exclusively theirs. And if they didn’t, she could not imagine that Olivia would know otherwise.
But Miranda hadn’t counted on her friend’s insatiable curiosity. “Oh, really?” she breathed, leaning forward. “What exactly is amasculine complaint?”
“I shouldn’t talk about it,” Miranda said hastily
, offering her father a silent apology. “It would embarrass him greatly.”
“But—”
“And your mother would be most upset with me. It’s really not fit for tender ears.”
“Tender ears?” Olivia snorted. “As if your ears were any less tender than mine.”
Her ears might not be, but the rest of her certainly was, Miranda thought wryly. “No more on the subject,” she said firmly. “I shall leave it up to your magnificent imagination.”
Olivia grumbled a bit at that but finally sighed and asked, “When are you coming home?”
“I am home,” Miranda reminded her.
“Yes, yes, of course. This is yourofficial home, I know, but I assure you, the entire Bevelstoke family misses you very much, so when are you returning to London?”