by Julia Quinn
She waited, counting the seconds until he spoke. One, two, three…and then he took a ragged breath.
It was almost like a surrender.
“I don’t know, Miranda.” He sounded tired, weary. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t make him happy. You’d make anyone happy.”
Even you? Miranda ached to say the words, but instead she asked, “Do you think he’d make me happy?”
It took him longer to answer this question. And then finally, in slow, measured tones: “I’m not sure.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing is wrong with him. I’m just not certain he’d make you happy.”
“But why?” She was being impertinent, she knew, but if she could just get Turner to tell her why Winston wouldn’t make her happy, maybe he’d realize why he would.
“I don’t know, Miranda.” He raked his hand through his hair until the gold strands stood at an awkward angle. “Must we have this conversation?”
“Yes,” she said intently. “Yes.”
“Very well.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as if to prepare her for unpleasant news. “You lack the current societal standards of beauty, you’re too sarcastic by half, and you don’t particularly like to make polite conversation. Frankly, Miranda, I really cannot see you wanting a typical society marriage.”
She swallowed. “And?”
He looked away from her for a long minute before finally turning back. “And most men will not appreciate you. If your husband tries to mold you into something you’re not, you will be spectacularly unhappy.”
There was something electric in the air, and Miranda was quite unable to take her eyes off him. “And do you think there is anyone out there who will appreciate me?” she whispered.
The question hung heavily in the air, mesmerizing them both until Turner finally answered, “Yes.”
But his eyes fell to his glass, and then he drained the last of the brandy, and his sigh was that of a man satisfied by drink, not one pondering love and romance.
She looked away. The moment—if there had been one, if it hadn’t been just a figment of her imagination—was gone, and the silence that remained was not one of comfort. It was awkward and ungainly, and she felt awkward and ungainly, and so, eager to fill the space between them, she blurted the first completely unimportant thing she could think of.
“Do you plan to attend the Worthington ball next week?”
He turned, one of his brows lifting in query over her unexpected question. “I might.”
“I wish you would. You’re always so kind to dance with me twice. Otherwise I should be sadly lacking in partners.” She was babbling, but she wasn’t sure she cared. In any case, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “If Winston could attend, I wouldn’t need you, but I understand he has to return to Oxford in the morning.”
Turner flashed her a strange look. It wasn’t quite a smile, and it wasn’t quite mocking, and it wasn’t even quite ironic. Miranda hated that he was so inscrutable; it gave her absolutely no indication how to proceed. But she plowed on, anyway. At this point, what had she to lose?
“Will you go?” she asked. “I would so appreciate it.”
He regarded her for a moment, then said, “I will be there.”
“Thank you. I’m quite grateful.”
“I’m delighted to be of use,” he said dryly.
She nodded, her movements spurred more by nervous energy than anything else. “You need only dance with me once, if that is all you can manage. But if you might do it at the outset, I would appreciate it. Other men do seem to follow your lead.”
“Strange as it may seem,” he murmured.
“It’s not so strange,” she said, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. She was beginning to feel the effects of the liquor. She was not yet impaired, but she felt rather warm, perhaps a little daring. “You’re quite handsome.”
He seemed not to know how to reply. Miranda congratulated herself. It was so rarely that she managed to disconcert him.
The feeling was heady, and so she took another gulp of her brandy, careful this time to let it slide down her throat more smoothly, and said, “You’re rather like Winston.”
“I beg your pardon.”
His voice was sharp, and she probably should have taken it as a warning, but she could not seem to step out of the ditch she was rapidly digging ’round herself. “Well, you both have blue eyes and blond hair, although I suppose his is a bit lighter. And you stand in a similar manner, although—”
“That’s enough, Miranda.”
“Oh, but—”
“I said, that’s enough.”
She silenced at his caustic tone, then muttered, “There is no need to take offense.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not the least bit drunk. I’m sure you’ve drunk ten times as much as I have.”
He regarded her with a deceptively lazy stare. “That’s not quite true, but as you said earlier, I have a great deal more experience than you do.”
“I did say that, didn’t I? I think I was right. I don’t think you’re the least bit drunk.”
He inclined his head and said softly, “Not drunk. Just a trifle reckless.”
“Reckless, are you?” she murmured, testing the word on her tongue. “What an interesting description. I think I am reckless, too.”
“You certainly must be, or you would have gone right back upstairs when you saw me.”
“And I wouldn’t have compared you to Winston.”
His eyes glinted steely blue. “You certainly would not have done that.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
There was a long, dead silence, and for a moment Miranda thought she’d gone too far. How could she have been so foolish, so conceited to think that he might want her? Why on earth would he care if she compared him to his younger brother? She was nothing more than a child to him, the homely little girl he’d befriended because he’d felt sorry for her. She should never have dreamed that he might one day come to care for her.
“Forgive me,” she muttered, jerking to her feet. “I over-step.” And then, because it was still there, she drained the rest of her brandy and rushed toward the door.
“Aaaah!”
“What the devil?” Turner shot to his feet.
“I forgot about the glass,” she whimpered. “The broken glass.”
“Oh, Christ, Miranda, don’t cry.” He walked swiftly across the room and for the second time that evening scooped her into his arms.
“I’m so stupid. So bloody stupid,” she said with a sniffle. The tears were more for her lost dignity than for pain, and for that reason they were harder to stop.
“Don’t curse. I’ve never heard you curse before. I’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap,” he teased, carrying her back to the sofa.
His gentle tone affected her more than stern words ever could, and she took a few great gulps of air, trying to control the sobs that were hovering somewhere at the back of her throat.
He set her gently back down on the sofa. “Let me see that foot now, all right?”
She shook her head. “I can take care of it.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re shaking like a leaf.” He walked over to the liquor cabinet and picked up the candle she’d left there earlier.
She watched him as he crossed back to her and set the candle down on an end table. “Here now, we’ve got a bit of light. Let me see your foot.”
Reluctantly, she let him pick up her foot and place it in his lap. “I’m so stupid.”
“Will you stop saying that? You’re the least stupid female I know.”
“Thank you. I—Ouch!”
“Sit still and stop twisting around.”
“I want to see what you’re doing.”
“Well, unless you’re a contortionist, you can’t, so you’ll have to trust me.”
“Are you almost done?”
“Almost.” He p
inched his finger around another shard of glass and pulled.
She stiffened in pain.
“I’ve only one or two left.”
“What if you don’t get them all out?”
“I will.”
“What if you don’t?”
“Good God, woman, have I ever told you that you’re persistent?”
She almost smiled. “Yes.”
And he almost smiled back. “If I miss one, it’ll probably just work its way out in a few days. Splinters usually do.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if life were as simple as a splinter?” she said sadly.
He looked up. “Working its way out in a few days?”
She nodded.
He held her gaze for another moment, and then turned back to his work, plucking one last shard of glass from her skin. “There you are. You’ll be as good as new in no time.”
But he made no move to take her foot off his lap.
“I’m sorry I was so clumsy.”
“Don’t be. It was an accident.”
Was it her imagination or was he whispering? And his eyes looked so tender. Miranda twisted herself around so that she was sitting up next to him. “Turner?”
“Don’t say anything,” he said hoarsely.
“But I—”
“Please!”
Miranda didn’t understand the urgency in his voice, didn’t recognize the desire lacing his words. She only knew that he was close, and she could feel him, and she could smell him…and she wanted to taste him. “Turner, I—”
“No more,” he said raggedly, and he pulled her up next to him, her breasts flattening against his firmly muscled chest. His eyes were gleaming fiercely, and she suddenly realized—suddenly knew—that nothing was going to stop the slow descent of his lips onto hers.
And then he was kissing her, his lips hot and hungry against her mouth. His desire was fierce, raw, and consuming. He wanted her. She could not believe it, could barely even summon the presence of mind to think it, but she knew it.
He wanted her.
It made her bold. It made her womanly. It brought forth some kind of secret knowledge that had been buried within her, since before she was born perhaps, and she kissed him back, her lips moving with artless wonder, her tongue darting out to taste the hot salt of his skin.
Turner’s hands pressed into her back, imprisoning her against him, and then they could no longer remain upright, and they sank into the cushions, Turner covering Miranda’s body with his own.
He was wild. He was mad. That could be the only explanation, but he could not seem to get enough of her. His hands roamed everywhere, testing, touching, squeezing, and all he could think—when he could think at all—was that he wanted her. He wanted her in every possible way. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to worship her.
He wanted to lose himself within her.
He whispered her name, moaned it against her skin. And when she whispered his in return, he felt his hands move to the tiny buttons at the neck of her nightgown. Each fastening seemed to melt away beneath his fingertips until she was undone, and all that was left was for him to slide the fabric along her skin. He could feel the swell of her breasts beneath the gown, but he wanted more. He wanted the heat of her, the smell, the taste.
His lips moved down her throat, following the elegant curve to her collarbone, right where the edge of her nightgown met her skin. He nudged it down, tasting one new inch of her, exploring the soft, salty sweetness, and shuddering with pleasure when the flat planes of her chest gave way to the gentle swell of her breast.
Dear God, he wanted her.
He cupped her through her clothing, pressing her up, raising her closer to his mouth. She groaned, and it was all he could do to hold himself back, to force his desire to move slowly. His mouth moved closer, edging toward the ultimate prize, even as his hand slipped under the hemline of her nightgown, sliding up the silky skin of her calf.
Then his hand reached her thigh, and she very nearly screamed.
“Shhh,” he crooned, silencing her with a kiss. “You’ll wake up the neighbors. You’ll wake up my…”
Parents.
It was like a bucket of cold water being dumped over him.
“Oh, my God.”
“What, Turner?” Her breath was coming in ragged gasps.
“Oh, my God. Miranda.” He said her name with all the shock that was flooding his mind. It was as if he’d been asleep, in a dream, and he’d been woken and—
“Turner, I—”
“Quiet,” he whispered harshly, and he rolled himself off her with such force that he landed on the carpet beside her. “Oh, dear God,” he said. And then again, because it bore repeating.
“Oh. Dear. God.”
“Turner?”
“Get up. You have to get up.”
“But—”
He looked down at her, which was a big mistake. Her nightgown was still gathered near her hips, and her legs—good God, who would have thought they’d be quite so lovely and long—and he just wanted to—
No.
He shuddered with the force of his own refusal.
“Now, Miranda,” he ground out.
“But I don—”
He yanked her to her feet. He didn’t particularly wish to take her hand; frankly, he did not trust himself to touch her, however unromantic the grasp. But he had to get her moving. He had to get her out of there.
“Go,” he ordered. “For love of God, if you have any sense, go.”
But she was just standing there, staring at him in shock, and her hair was mussed, and her lips were swollen, and he wanted her.
Dear Lord, he still wanted her.
“This will not happen again,” he said, his voice tight.
She said nothing. He watched her face warily. Please, please don’t let her cry.
He held himself ferociously still. If he moved, he might touch her. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. “You’d better go upstairs,” he said in a low voice.
She nodded jerkily and fled the room.
Turner stared at the doorway. Holy bloody hell. What was he going to do?
12 JUNE 1819
I am without words. Utterly.
Chapter 8
Turner woke up the next morning with a blistering headache that had nothing to do with alcohol.
He wished it had been the brandy. Brandy would have been a hell of a lot simpler than this.
Miranda.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Nothing. He obviously hadn’t been thinking at all. At least not with his head.
He had kissed Miranda. Hell, he had practically mauled her. And it was difficult to imagine that there might exist anywhere in Britain a young woman less suitable for his attentions than Miss Miranda Cheever.
He was going to roast somewhere for this.
If he were a better man, he supposed, he would marry her. A young woman could lose her reputation for far less than this. But no one had seen, a little voice inside him insisted. No one knew but the two of them. And Miranda wouldn’t say anything. She wasn’t the sort.
And he wasn’t a better man. Leticia had seen to that. She had killed whatever was good and kind inside him. But he still had his sense. And there was no way he was going to let himself anywhere near Miranda again. One mistake might be understandable.
Two would be his undoing.
And three…
Good God, he shouldn’t even be thinking about three.
He needed distance, that was it. Distance. If he stayed away from Miranda, he couldn’t be tempted, and she’d eventually forget about their illicit encounter and find herself some nice jolly fellow to wed. The image of her in another man’s arms was unexpectedly distasteful, but Turner decided that was because it was early in the morning, and he was tired, and he’d kissed her only six or so hours earlier, and—
And there could be a hundred different reasons, none of them important enough to examine further.
In the mea
ntime, he’d have to avoid her. Maybe he should leave town. Get away. He could go to the country. He hadn’t really meant to remain in London very long, anyway.
He opened his eyes and groaned. Had he no self-control? Miranda was an inexperienced chit of twenty. She wasn’t like Leticia, wise to all of her womanly skills, and willing to use them to her advantage.
Miranda would be tempting, but resistible. Turner was man enough to keep his head around her. All the same, he probably ought not to be living in the same house. And while he was making changes, perhaps it was time to inspect the women of the ton this year. There were many discreet young widows. He’d been far too long without female company.
If anything could help him forget one woman, it was another.
“Turner is moving out.”
“What?” Miranda had been arranging flowers in a porcelain vase. It was only through agile hands and tremendous good luck that the precious antique did not go crashing to the ground.
“He’s already gone,” Olivia said with a shrug. “His valet is packing his things right now.”
Miranda set the vase back on the table with achingly careful fingers. Slow, steady, breathe in, breathe out. And then finally, when she was certain she could speak without shaking, she asked, “Is he leaving town?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Olivia said, settling down on the chaise with a yawn. “He’d not meant to remain in town this long, so he is taking an apartment.”
He was taking an apartment? Miranda fought against the horrible, hollow feeling that was sinking in her chest. He was taking an apartment. Just to get away from her.
It would have been humiliating if it weren’t so sad. Or maybe it was both.
“It’s probably for the best,” Olivia continued, oblivious to her friend’s distress. “I know he says he will never marry again—”
“He said that?” Miranda froze. How was it possible she did not know this? She knew he’d said he wasn’t looking for a wife, but surely he had not meant forever.
“Oh, yes,” Olivia replied. “He said so the other day. He was quite adamant. I thought Mother would have a fit over it. As it was, she very nearly swooned.”