by Julia Quinn
She ground her teeth together and kept walking. They reached the steps leading up to her grandparents’ house, and Miranda marched up. But before she could enter, Turner’s hand settled upon her wrist with just enough pressure to assure her that he had lost his levity.
And yet he was still smiling when he said, “You see? Not a single reason.”
She should have been nervous.
“Perhaps not,” she said icily, “but nor is there a reasonto do it.”
“Your reputation is not a reason?” he asked softly.
Her eyes met his warily. “But my reputation is not in danger.”
“Is it not?”
She sucked in her breath. “You wouldn’t.”
He shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulder that sent a shiver down her spine. “I am not ordinarily described as ruthless, but do not underestimate me, Miranda. Ishall marry you.”
“Why do you evenwant to?” she cried. He didn’t have to do it. No one was forcing him. Miranda had practically offered him an escape route on a silver platter.
“I am a gentleman,” he bit off. “I take care of my transgressions.”
“I am a transgression?” she whispered. Because the air had been knocked from her lungs. A whisper was all she could do.
He stood across from her, looking as uncomfortable as she had ever seen him. “I should not have seduced you. I should have known better. And I should not have abandoned you for so many weeks following. For that I have no excuse, save my own shortcomings. But I will not allow my honor to be tossed aside. And you will marry me.”
“Do you want me, or do you want your honor?” Miranda whispered.
He looked at her as if she had missed an important lesson. And then he said, “They are the same thing.”
28 AUGUST1819
I married him.
The wedding was small. Tiny, really, the only guests Miranda’s grandparents, the vicar’s wife, and—at Miranda’s insistence—MacDownes.
At Turner’s insistence, they departed for his home in Northumberland directly following the ceremony, which, also at his insistence, had been held at a shockingly early hour so that they might get a good start back to Rosedale, the Restoration-era manse that the new couple would call home.
After Miranda said her good-byes, he helped her up into the carriage, his hands lingering at her waist before he gave her a boost. An odd, unfamiliar emotion washed over him, and Turner was slightly bemused to realize that it was contentment.
Marriage to Leticia had been about many things, but never peace. Turner had entered into the union on a giddy rush of desire and excitement that had turned quickly to disillusionment and crushing sense of loss. And when that was through, all that had been left was anger.
He rather liked the idea of being married to Miranda. She could be trusted. She would never betray him, with her body or with her words. And although he did not feel the obsession he had done with Leticia, he desired her—Miranda—with an intensity that he still could not quite believe. Every time he saw her, smelled her, heard her voice…He wanted her. He wanted to lay his hand on her arm, to feel the heat from her body. He wanted to brush up close, to breathe her in as they crossed paths.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at the hunting lodge, covering her body with his, powered by something deep within him, something primitive and possessive, and just a little bit wild.
She was his. And she would be again.
He entered the carriage after her and sat down on the same side, although not directly next to her. He wanted nothing more than to settle at her side and pull her into his lap, but he sensed that she needed a bit of time.
They would be many hours in the carriage this day. He could afford to take his time.
He watched her for several minutes as the carriage rolled away from Edinburgh. She was tightly clutching the folds of her mint green wedding gown. Her knuckles were turning white, a testament to her frayed nerves. Twice, Turner reached out to touch her, then pulled back, unsure if his overture would be welcome. After a few more minutes, however, he said softly, “If you wish to cry, I shan’t judge you.”
She didn’t turn around. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
She swallowed. “Of course. I just got married, didn’t I? Isn’t that what every woman wants?”
“Is it what you want?”
“It’s a little late to worry about that now, don’t you think?”
He smiled wryly. “I’m not so dreadful, Miranda.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “Of course not. You’re what I’ve always wanted. That’s what you’ve been telling me for days, have you not? I’ve loved you forever.”
He found himself wishing that her words did not hold such a mocking tone. “Come over here,” he said, taking hold of her arm and hauling her over to his side of the carriage.
“I like it here…wait…Oh!” She was firmly pressed against his side, his arm an iron band around her.
“This is much better, don’t you think?”
“I can’t see out the window now,” she said sourly.
“Nothing there you haven’t seen before.” He pushed aside the curtain and peeked outside. “Let’s see, trees, grass, a cottage or two. All fairly ordinary stuff.” He took her hand in his and idly stroked her fingers. “Do you like the ring?” he asked. “It’s rather plain, I know, but simple gold bands are a custom in my family.”
Miranda’s breathing grew quicker as her hands were warmed by his caress. “It’s lovely. I—I shouldn’t like anything ostentatious.”
“I didn’t think you would. You’re a rather elegant little creature.”
She blushed, nervously twisting her ring ’round and ’round on her finger. “Oh, but it’s Olivia who picks out all my fashions.”
“Nonetheless, I’m sure you wouldn’t let her choose anything loud or garish.”
Miranda stole a glance at him. He was smiling at her rather gently, almost benignly, but his fingers were doing wicked things to her wrist, sending flutters and sparks to her very core. And then he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a devastatingly soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “I’ve something else for you,” he murmured.
She didn’t dare look at him again. Not if she wanted to maintain even a shred of her composure.
“Turn around,” he ordered gently. He placed two fingers below her chin and tilted her face toward his. Fishing into his pocket, he pulled out a velvet-covered jeweler’s box. “In all the rush this week, I forgot to give you a proper engagement ring.”
“Oh, but that’s not necessary,” she said quickly, not really meaning it.
“Shut up, puss,” he said with a grin. “And accept your gift gracefully.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, easing the lid off the box. Inside sparkled a brilliant diamond, oval-cut and framed by two small sapphires. “It’s lovely, Turner,” she whispered. “It matches your eyes.”
“That wasn’t my intention, I assure you,” he said in a husky voice. He took the ring out of the box and slid it on her slender finger. “Does it fit?”
“Perfectly.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m positive, Turner. I…thank you. It was very thoughtful.” Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
He captured her face in his hands. “I’m not going to be such a terrible husband, you’ll see.” His face drew closer until his lips brushed hers in a gentle kiss. She leaned in toward him, seduced by his warmth and the soft murmurings of his mouth. “So soft,” he whispered, pulling the pins from her hair so that he could run his hands through it. “So soft, and so sweet. I never dreamed…”
Miranda arched her neck to allow his lips greater access. “Never dreamed what?”
His lips moved lightly across her skin. “That you’d be like this. That I’d want you like this. That itcould be like this.”
“I always knew. I always knew.” The words slipped out b
efore she could judge the wisdom of speaking them, and then she decided she didn’t care. Not when he was kissing her like this, not when his breath was coming in ragged gasps to match her own.
“Such a clever one, you are,” he murmured. “I should have listened to you long ago.” He began to ease her dress from her shoulders, then pressed his lips against the top of her breast, and the fire of it proved to be too much for Miranda. She arched her back against him, and when his fingers went to the buttons of her dress, she offered no resistance. In seconds, her gown slid down, and his mouth found the tip of her breast.
Miranda moaned at the shock and the pleasure. “Oh, Turner, I…” She sighed. “More…”
“A command I am only too happy to obey.” His lips moved to her other breast, where they repeated the same torture.
He kissed and he suckled, and all the while, his hands wandered. Up her leg, around her waist—it was as if he was trying to mark her, to brand her forever as his own.
She felt wanton. She felt womanly. And she felt a need that burned from some strange, fiery place, deep within her. “I want you,” she breathed, her fingers sinking into his hair. “I want…”
His fingers wandered higher, to her most tender flesh.
“I wantthat .”
He chuckled against her neck. “At your service, Lady Turner.”
She didn’t even have time to be surprised by her new name. He was doing something—dear God, she didn’t even knowwhat —and it was all she could do not to scream.
And then he pulled away—not his fingers; she would have killed him if he’d tried—but his head, just far enough to gaze down on her with a delicious smile. “I know something else you’ll like,” he taunted.
Miranda’s lips parted with breathless surprise as he sank to his knees on the floor of the carriage. “Turner?” she whispered, because surely he could do nothing from down there. Surely he wouldn’t…
She gasped as his head disappeared under her skirts.
Then she gasped again when she felt him, hot and demanding, kissing a trail along her thigh.
And then there could be no more doubt as to his intention. His fingers, which had been doing such a fine job arousing her, shifted position. He was spreading her open, she realized wildly, separating her, preparing her for…
His lips.
After that there was very little rational thought. Whatever she’d thought she’d felt the first time—and the first time had been very good, indeed—it was nothing compared to this. His mouth was wicked, and she was bewitched. And when she shattered, it was with every ounce of her body, every last drop of her soul.
Dear heavens, she thought, trying desperately to find her breath.How could anyone survive such a thing ?
Turner’s smiling face suddenly appeared before hers. “Your first wedding gift,” he said.
“I…I…”
“‘Thank you’ will suffice,” he said, cheeky as ever.
“Thank you,” she sighed.
He kissed her gently on the mouth. “You are very, very welcome.”
Miranda watched him as he adjusted her dress, covering her carefully and finishing with a platonic pat on the arm. His passion seemed to have completely cooled, whereas she still felt as if a flame were licking at her from the inside out. “Don’t you…er, you didn’t…”
A wry smile touched his features. “There isn’t much I want more, but unless you want your wedding night in a moving carriage, I’ll find a way to abstain.”
“That wasn’t a wedding night?” she asked doubtfully.
He shook his head. “Just a little treat for you.”
“Oh.” Miranda was trying to remember why she had protested the marriage so fiercely. A lifetime of little treats sounded rather lovely.
Her body spent, she felt a languor descending over her, and she settled sleepily into his side. “We’ll do this again?” she mumbled, burrowing into his warmth.
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, smiling to himself as he watched her drift off. “I promise.”
Chapter 16
Rosedale was, by aristocratic standards, of modest proportions. The warm and elegant home had been in the Bevelstoke family for several generations, and it was customary for the eldest son to use it as his country home before he ascended to the earldom and the much grander Haverbreaks. Turner loved Rosedale, loved its plain stone walls and crenellated roofs. And most of all, he loved the wild landscape, domesticated only by the hundreds of roses that had been planted with wild abandon around the house.
They arrived fairly late at night, having stopped for a leisurely lunch near the border. Miranda had long since fallen asleep—she’d warned him that the motion of a carriage always made her drowsy—but Turner did not mind. He liked the quiet of the night, with only the sounds of the horses and the carriage and the wind in the air. He liked the moonlight, drifting in through the windows. And he liked glancing down at his new wife, who was not at all elegant in her sleep—her mouth was open, and truth be told, she snored just a bit. But he liked that. He didn’t know why he liked it, but he did.
And he liked knowing it.
He hopped down from the carriage, placed one finger on his lips when one of the outriders approached to help, then reached back in and scooped Miranda into his arms. She had never been to Rosedale, even though it was not so far from the Lakes. He hoped she would grow to love it as he did. He thought she would. He knew her well, he was beginning to realize. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he could look at something and think,Miranda would like that .
Turner had stopped here on his way up to Scotland, and the servants had been instructed to have the house ready. It was, although he had not sent word of their exact arrival, and so the staff had not been assembled for an introduction to the new viscountess. Turner was glad for that; he wouldn’t have wanted to wake Miranda up.
When he made his way inside his bedchamber, he noticed thankfully that a fire was burning in the hearth. It might have been August, but the Northumberland nights held a distinctive chill. As he set Miranda softly down on the bed, a pair of footmen brought in their meager luggage. Turner whispered to the butler that his new wife could meet the staff in the morning, or perhaps later in the day, and then shut the door.
Miranda, who had gone from snoring to restless mumbling, shifted position and hugged a pillow to her chest. Turner returned to her side and shushed softly in her ear. She seemed to recognize his voice in her sleep; she let out a contented sigh and immediately rolled over.
“No sleep just yet,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.” She was lying on her side, so he went to work on the buttons marching down her back. “Can you sit up for just a moment? So I can remove your dress?”
Like a sleepy child, she allowed herself to be pulled into a sitting position. “Where are we?” she yawned, not quite awake.
“Rosedale. Your new home.” He wiggled her skirts up past her hips so that he could pull them over her head.
“Oh. It’s nice.” She flopped back down on the bed.
He smiled indulgently and nudged her back up. “Just another few seconds.” With one deft motion, he pulled her dress over her head, leaving her clad in her chemise.
“Good,” Miranda murmured, trying to crawl under the covers.
“Not so fast.” He caught hold of her ankle. “We don’t sleep with clothing here.” The chemise joined her gown on the floor. Miranda, barely realizing that she was nude, finally made it under the bedclothes, sighed in utter contentment, and promptly fell asleep.
Turner chuckled and shook his head as he watched his wife. Had he noticed before that her eyelashes were so long? Perhaps it was just the candlelight. He, too, was tired, so he stripped off his clothing in quick, efficient movements and crawled into bed. She was lying on her side, curled up like a child, so he snaked an arm around her and pulled her to the center of the bed, where he could cuddle up against her warmth. Her skin was unbearably soft, and he idly stroked his hand against he
r midriff. Something he touched must have tickled her, for she let out a soft squeal and rolled over.
“Everything is going to be just fine,” he whispered. They had affection and they had attraction, and that was more than most couples. He leaned forward to kiss her sleepy mouth, tracing its outline lightly with his tongue.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
“You must be Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured. “Awakened by a kiss.”
“Where are we?” she asked, her voice groggy.