by Julia Quinn
Olivia scowled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
For a moment, Turner could do nothing but stare. And then he found his sense—and his voice—and bit off, “Well, you do know better. So I will thank you not to make unfounded accusations.”
Jealous of Miranda. Good Lord, what would she think of next?
Olivia crossed her arms. “Well, you were certainly acting strangely.”
Turner had, in his lifetime, treated his younger sister in a number of ways. Generally speaking, he employed benign neglect. Occasionally, he adopted a more avuncular role, surprising her with gifts and flattery when it was convenient for him to do so. But the gap in their ages had ensured that he had never treated her as an equal, never spoken to her without first considering her a child.
But now, with her accusing him of this, of wanting Miranda, of all things, he lashed out without measuring his words, without scaling them down in size and sentiment. And his voice was hard, biting, and sharp as he said, “If you would look beyond your own desire to have Miranda constantly at your beck and call, you would see that she and Winston are extremely ill-suited.”
Olivia gasped at the unexpected attack, but she recovered quickly. “Beck and call?” she repeated furiously. “Now who is making unfounded accusations? You know as well as anyone that I adore Miranda and want nothing more than her happiness. Furthermore, she lacks beauty and a dowry, and—”
“Oh, for the love of—” Turner clamped his mouth shut before he cursed in front of his sister. “You sell her short,” he snapped. Why did people persist in seeing Miranda as the gangly girl she’d once been? She might not fit the society’s current standards of beauty, as did Olivia, but she had something far deeper and more interesting. One could look at her and know that there was something behind the eyes. And when she smiled, it wasn’t practiced, it wasn’t mocking—oh, very well, sometimes it was mocking, but he could excuse that, as she possessed the exact same sense of humor as he did. And truly, trapped in London for the season as they were, they were bound to come across any number of things worth mocking.
“Winston would be an excellent match for her,” Olivia continued hotly. “And she for—” She stopped, gasped, and clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh, what now?” Turner said irritably.
“This isn’t about Miranda, is it? It is about Winston. You don’t think she is good enough for him.”
“No,” he retorted, instantly and in a strange, almost indignant voice. “No,” he said again, this time measuring the word more carefully. “Nothing could be further from the truth. They are too young to marry. Winston especially.”
Olivia immediately took umbrage. “That is not true, we are—”
“He is too young,” he cut in coldly, “and you need look no further than this room to see why a man should not wed too young.”
She did not understand right away. Turner saw the exact moment that she did, saw the comprehension, and then the pity.
And he hated the pity.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia blurted out—the two words guaranteed to set him even more on edge. And then she said it again. “I’m sorry.”
And ran off.
Miranda had been waiting in the rose salon for several minutes when a maid arrived in the doorway and said, “Beg pardon, miss, but Lady Olivia has asked me to tell you that she will not be down.”
Miranda set down the figurine she’d been examining and looked to the maid with surprise. “Is she unwell?”
The maid looked hesitant, and Miranda did not wish to put her in a difficult position when she could simply seek out Olivia herself, so she said, “Never you mind. I shall ask her myself.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, and Miranda turned to the table next to her to make sure she’d put the figurine back in its proper position, then, giving it one more backward glance—she knew Lady Rudland liked her curios to be displayed just so—she stepped toward the door.
And crashed into a large, male body.
Turner. She knew it even before he spoke. It could have been Winston, or it could have been a footman, or it could have even been—heaven help her, the embarrassment—Lord Rudland, but it wasn’t. It was Turner. She knew his scent. She knew the sound of his breath.
She knew the way the air felt when she was near him.
And that was when she knew, for sure and forever, that it was love.
It was love, and it was the love of a woman for a man. The young girl who’d thought him a white knight was gone. She was a woman now. She knew his flaws and she saw his shortcomings, and still she loved him.
She loved him, and she wanted to heal him, and she wanted—
She didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted it all. She wanted everything. She—
“Miranda?”
His hands were still at her arms. She looked up, even though she knew it would be almost unbearable to face the blue of his eyes. She knew what she would not see there.
And she didn’t. There was no love, no revelation. But he looked strange, different.
And she felt hot.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, pulling away. “I should be more careful.”
But he didn’t release her. Not right away. He was looking at her, at her mouth, and Miranda thought for one lovely, blessed second that maybe he wanted to kiss her. Her breath caught, and her lips parted, and—
And then it was over.
He stepped away. “My apologies,” he said, with almost no inflection whatsoever. “I should be more careful, as well.”
“I was going to find Olivia,” she said, mostly because she had no idea what else to say. “She sent word that she will not be coming down.”
His expression changed—just enough and with just enough cynicism that she knew he knew what was wrong. “Leave be,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“For once,” he said sharply, “let Olivia deal with her own problems.”
Miranda’s lips parted with surprise at his tone. But she was saved from having to respond by the arrival of Winston.
“Ready to leave?” he asked jovially, completely unaware of the tensions in the room. “Where’s Olivia?”
“She’s not coming,” Miranda and Turner said in unison.
Winston looked from one to the other, slightly nonplussed by their joint reply. “Why?” he asked.
“She’s not feeling well,” Miranda lied.
“That’s too bad,” Winston said, not sounding particularly unhappy. He held out his arm to Miranda. “Shall we?”
Miranda looked to Turner. “Are you still coming?”
“No.” And it didn’t take him even two seconds to reply.
11 JUNE 1819
My birthday today—lovely and strange.
The Bevelstokes held a family supper in my honor. It was so very sweet and kind, especially as my own father has likely forgot that today is anything other than the day that a certain Greek scholar did a certain special mathematical computation or some such other Very Important Thing.
From Lord and Lady Rudland: a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings. I know I should not accept something so dear, but I could not make a fuss at the supper table, and I did say, “I can’t…” (if with something of a lack of conviction) and was roundly shushed.
From Winston: a set of lovely lace handkerchiefs.
From Olivia: a box of stationery, engraved with my name. She enclosed a little note marked, “For Your Eyes Only,” which said, “I hope you shan’t be able to use this for long!” Which of course means she hopes my name shall soon be Bevelstoke.
I did not comment.
And from Turner, a bottle of scent. Violets. I immediately thought of the violet ribbon he pinned to my hair when I was ten, but of course he would not have remembered such a thing. I said nothing about it; it would have been far too embarrassing to be revealed as so maudlin. But I thought it a lovely and sweet gift.
I cannot seem to sleep. Ten mi
nutes have passed since I wrote the previous sentence, and although I yawn quite frequently, my eyelids do not seem the least bit heavy. I think I shall go down to the kitchens to see if I might get a glass of warm milk.
Or perhaps I will not go to the kitchens. It is not likely that anyone will be down there to assist me, and while I am perfectly able to heat some milk, the chef will probably have palpitations when he sees that someone has used one of his pots without his knowledge. And more importantly, I am twenty years old now. I can have a glass of sherry to help me sleep if I want.
I think that is what I will do.
Chapter 7
Turner had been through one candle and three glasses of brandy, and now he was sitting in the dark in his father’s study, staring out the window, listening to the leaves of a nearby tree rustle in the wind and slap up against the glass.
Dull, perhaps, but just now he was embracing dull. Dull was precisely what he wanted after a day such as this.
First there had been Olivia, accusing him of wanting Miranda. Then there had been Miranda, and he had—
Dear Lord, he had wanted her.
He knew the exact moment he had realized it. It wasn’t when she had bumped into him. It wasn’t when his hands had gone ’round her upper arms to steady her. She’d felt nice, yes, but he hadn’t noticed. Not like that.
The moment…the moment that could quite possibly ruin him had occurred a split second later, when she looked up.
It was her eyes. It had always been her eyes. He had just been too stupid to realize it.
And as they stood there, for what felt like an eternity, he felt himself changing. He felt his body coiling and his breath ceasing altogether, and then his fingers tightened, and her eyes—they widened even more.
And he wanted her. Like nothing he could have imagined, like nothing that was proper and good, he wanted her.
He had never been so disgusted with himself.
He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was quite certain he could not love anyone, not after the destruction Leticia had wrought on his heart. It was lust, pure and simple, and it was lust for what was quite possibly the least suitable woman in all England.
He poured himself another drink. They said that what didn’t kill a man made him stronger, but this…
This was going to kill him.
And then, as he sat there, pondering his own weaknesses, he saw her.
It was a test. It could only be a test. Someone somewhere was determined to test his mettle as a gentleman, and he was going to fail. He would try, he would hold back as long as he could, but deep down, in a little corner of his soul that he didn’t particularly like to examine, he knew. He would fail.
She moved like a ghost, almost glowing in some billowy white gown. It was plain cotton, he was sure, prim and proper and perfectly virginal.
It made him desperate for her.
He clutched the sides of his chair and held on for all he was worth.
Miranda felt a little uneasy at entering Lord Rudland’s study, but she had not found what she was looking for in the rose salon, and she knew that he kept a decanter on a shelf by the door. She could be in and out in under a minute; surely mere seconds would not count as an invasion of privacy.
“Now where are those glasses?” she murmured, setting her candle down on the table. “Here we are.” She found the bottle of sherry and poured herself a small amount.
“I hope you are not making this a habit,” a voice drawled out.
The glass slipped through her fingers and landed on the floor with a loud smash.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
She followed his voice until she saw him, seated in a wingback chair, his hands perched awkwardly on the arms. The light was dim, but even so, she could see the expression on his face, sardonic and dry. “Turner?” she whispered foolishly, as if maybe, possibly, it could be someone else.
“The very one.”
“But what are you—why are you here?” She took a step forward. “Ouch!” A shard of glass pierced the skin on the ball of her foot.
“You little fool. Coming down here with bare feet.” He rose from his chair and strode across the room.
“I wasn’t planning on breaking a glass,” Miranda replied in a defensive tone, leaning down and plucking the splinter out.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll catch the death of a cold wandering around like that.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her away from the broken glass.
It crossed Miranda’s mind just then that she was as close to heaven as she had ever been in her short life. His body was warm, and she could feel the heat of him pouring through her nightgown. Her skin tingled from his nearness, and her breath started coming in strange little pants.
It was the scent of him. That must be it. She had never been this near to him before, never been close enough to smell his uniquely male essence. He smelled like warm wood and brandy, and a little of something else, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something that was simply Turner. Clutching his neck, she allowed her head to drop closer to his chest just so she could take another deep breath of him.
And then, just when she was convinced that life was as perfect as it could possibly be, he dumped her unceremoniously on the sofa.
“What was that for?” she asked, scrambling to sit up straight.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
He sat down across from her on a low table. “I asked you first.”
“We sound like a pair of children, she said, tucking her legs beneath her. But she answered him, nonetheless. It seemed silly to argue over such a thing. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a glass of sherry might do the trick.”
“Because you’ve reached the ripe old age of twenty,” he said mockingly.
But she would not take his bait. She just tilted her head in gracious acknowledgment that said—Exactly.
He chuckled at that. “Then, by all means, allow me to assist in your downfall.” He stood and walked to a nearby cabinet. “But if you are going to drink, then by God, do it properly. Brandy is what you need, preferably the sort smuggled from France.”
Miranda watched as he plucked two snifters from a shelf and set them down on the table. His hands were steady and—could hands be beautiful?—as he poured two liberal doses. “My mother occasionally gave me brandy when I was small. When I got caught in the rain,” she explained. “Just a sip to warm me up.”
He turned and looked at her, his eyes piercing even in the dark. “Are you cold now?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re shivering.”
Miranda looked down at her traitorous arms. She was shivering, but it wasn’t the cold that had caused it. She hugged her arms to her body, hoping he would not pursue the subject further.
He walked back across the room and handed her the brandy, his body infused with lean, masculine grace. “Don’t drink it all at once.”
She shot him an extremely irritated expression at his condescending tone before taking a sip. “Why are you here?” she asked.
He sat down across from her and lazily propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “I had to discuss some estate matters with my father, so he invited me to share a drink with him after our meal. I never left.”
“And you’ve been sitting here in the dark all by yourself?”
“I like the dark.”
“No one likes the dark.”
He laughed aloud, and she felt terribly green and young.
“Ah, Miranda,” he said, still chuckling. “Thank you for that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How much have you had to drink?”
“An impertinent question.”
“Aha, so you have had too much.”
He leaned forward. “Do I look drunk to you?”
She drew back involuntarily, unprepared for the unwavering intensity of his gaze. “No,” she said slowly. “But you’re far more experienced than I am, and I would imagine that
you know how to handle your liquor. You probably could drink eight times as much as I do and not show it at all.”
Turner laughed harshly. “All true, every bit of it. And you, dear girl, should learn to stay away from men who are ‘far more experienced’ than you.”
Miranda took another sip of her drink, just barely resisting the urge to toss it back in one gulp. But it would burn, and she would choke, and then he would laugh.
And she would want to die of the embarrassment.
He’d been in a foul mood all evening. Cutting and mocking when they were alone, and silent and surly when they were not. She cursed her traitorous heart for loving him so; it would have been far easier to adore Winston, whose smile was sunny and open, who had doted upon her the entire evening.
But no, she wanted him. Turner, whose quicksilver moods meant that he was laughing and joking with her one moment, and treating her like an antidote the next.
Love was for idiots. Fools. And she was the biggest fool of them all.
“What are you thinking about?” he demanded.
She said, “Your brother.” Just to be perverse. It was a little bit true, anyway.
“Ah,” he said, adding more brandy to his glass. “Winston. Nice fellow.”
“Yes,” she said. Almost defiantly.
“Jolly.”
“Lovely.”
“Young.”
She shrugged. “So am I. Perhaps we are well matched.”
He said nothing. She finished her drink.
“Don’t you agree?” she asked.
Still, he did not speak.
“About Winston,” she pushed. “He’s your brother. You want him to be happy, don’t you? Do you think I’d be good for him? Do you think I’d make him happy?”
“Why are you asking me this?” he asked, his voice low and almost disembodied in the night.
She shrugged, then slipped her finger into her glass to dab up the last drops. After licking her skin, she looked up.
“At your service,” he murmured, and splashed two more fingers of brandy into the snifter.
Miranda nodded her thanks and then answered his question. “I want to know,” she said simply, “and I don’t know who else to ask. Olivia is so eager to see me married off to Winston, she’d say whatever she thought would bring me to the altar quickest.”