Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

by Julia Quinn

  “Is she involved with a man?” he demanded. “Is she? Is that why you’ve concocted this over-obvious story about some sick relative?”

  “It’s not a story,” she protested.

  “Tell me the truth!”

  Her mouth clamped shut.

  “Olivia,” he said dangerously.

  “Turner!” Her voice grew shrill. “I don’t like that look in your eye. I’m going to call for Mother.”

  “Mother’s half my size. She won’t be able to stop me from strangling you, brat.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “Turner, you’ve gone mad.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know!” she burst out. “I don’t know.”

  “So there is someone.”

  “Yes! No! Not anymore!”

  “What the devil is going on?” Jealousy, pure and raging hot, raced through him.

  “Nothing!”

  “Tell me what has happened to Miranda.” He circled around the bed until he had Olivia cornered. A very primitive sense of fear coursed through him. Fear that he might lose Miranda and fear she was in some way hurt. What if something had happened to her? He had never dreamed that Miranda’s welfare could cause this throat-choking worry within him, but there you had it, and Christ, this was awful. He had never wanted to care about her this much.

  Olivia’s head darted back and forth as she looked for a means to escape. “She’s fine, Turner. I swear it.”

  His large hands descended on her shoulders. “Olivia,” he said in a very low voice, his blue eyes gleaming with fury and fear. “I’m going to say this but once. When we were children, I never once struck you, despite, I might add, ample reason.” He paused, leaning in menacingly. “But I am not averse to starting right now.”

  Her lower lip began to quiver.

  “If you do not tell me right this instant what kind of trouble Miranda has gotten herself into, you will be very sorry indeed.”

  A hundred different emotions crossed Olivia’s face, most of them somehow related to panic or fear. “Turner,” she beseeched him, “she is my dearest friend. I cannot betray her trust.”

  “What is wrong with her?” he ground out.

  “Turner…”

  “Tell me!”

  “No, I can’t, I…” Olivia went white. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It’s you.”

  A look Turner had never seen before, on his sister, or indeed anyone, came over her face, and then—

  “How could you!” she screamed, pummeling his upper body with her meager fists. “How could you? You’re a beast! Do you hear me? A beast! And it was positively wretched of you to leave her like that.”

  Turner stood stock-still throughout her tirade, trying to make sense of her words and her rage. “Olivia,” he said slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Miranda is pregnant,” she hissed. “Pregnant.”

  “Oh, my God.” Turner’s hands fell away from her arms and he sank down onto the bed in shock.

  “I assume you’re the father,” she said coldly. “That is disgusting. For God’s sake, Turner. You’re practically her brother.”

  His nostrils flared. “Hardly.”

  “You’re older than she is, and more experienced. You shouldn’t have taken advantage of her.”

  “I am not going to explain my actions to you,” he bit out coldly.

  Olivia snorted.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “You were off in Kent, if you recall. Drinking and whoring and—”

  “I wasn’t whoring,” he snapped. “I haven’t been with another woman since Miranda.”

  “Pardon me if I find that hard to believe, big brother. You are despicable. Get out of my room.”

  “Pregnant.” He repeated the word as if saying it again would make it easier to believe. “Miranda. A baby. My God.”

  “It’s a little late for prayer,” Olivia said icily. “Your behavior has been worse than reprehensible.”

  “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Turner didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer, not when he knew that he was so obviously in the wrong. He let his head fall into his hands, his mind still reeling in shock. Dear God, when he thought about how selfish he had been…He had put off confronting Miranda simply because he was too lazy. He had figured she’d be here waiting for him when he returned. Because…because…

  Because that’s what she did. Hadn’t she been waiting for him for years? Hadn’t she said…

  He was an ass. There could be no other explanation or excuse. He’d just assumed…and then he’d taken advantage…and…

  Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that she was off some three hundred miles to the north, coping with an unexpected pregnancy that would soon become an illegitimate child.

  He’d told her to notify him if this happened. Why hadn’t she written? Why hadn’t she said something?

  He looked down at his hands. They looked strange, and foreign, and when he flexed his fingers, his muscles were tight and awkward.

  “Turner?”

  He could hear his sister whispering his name, but somehow he couldn’t respond. He could feel his throat moving, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe. All he could manage was to sit there like a fool, thinking of Miranda.

  Alone.

  She was alone, and probably terrified. She was alone, when she should have been married and comfortably ensconced in his Northumberland home with fresh air and wholesome food and where he could keep an eye out on her.

  A baby.

  Funny how he had always assumed he’d let Winston carry on the family name, because now he wanted more than anything to touch Miranda’s swollen belly, to hold this child in his arms. He hoped it would be a girl. He hoped she would have brown eyes. He could get his heir later on. With Miranda in his bed, he wasn’t worried about conceiving again.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Olivia demanded.

  Turner slowly lifted his head. His sister was standing militantly before him, hands on hips. “What do you think I’m going to do about it?” he countered.

  “I don’t know, Turner,” and for once Olivia’s voice lacked an edge. Turner realized that this wasn’t a retort. It wasn’t a dare. Olivia honestly was not convinced that he intended to do the right thing and marry Miranda.

  Turner had never felt like less of a man.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, he stood and cleared his throat. “Olivia, would you be so kind as to provide me with Miranda’s address in Scotland?”

  “Gladly.” She marched over to her desk and whipped out a piece of paper onto which she hastily scrawled a few lines. “Here you are.”

  Turner took the scrap of paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

  Olivia very pointedly did not reply.

  “I shan’t be seeing you for some time, I think.”

  “At least seven months, I should hope,” she retorted.

  Turner raced across England up to Edinburgh, completing the journey in an amazing four and a half days. He was tired and dusty when he reached the Scottish capital, but that didn’t seem to matter. Every day that Miranda was left alone was another day that she could—hell, he didn’t know what she could do, but he didn’t want to find out.

  He checked the address one last time before heading up the steps. Miranda’s grandparents lived in a fairly new home in a fashionable section of Edinburgh. They were gentry, he’d once heard, and had some property farther north. He sighed in relief that they were spending the summer down near the border. He wouldn’t have relished having to continue his trip up into the Highlands. He was exhausted as it was.

  He gave the door a firm knock. A butler answered it and greeted him with as snooty an English accent as one could find in the residence of a duke.

  “I am here to see Miss Cheever,” Turner said in clipped tones.


  The butler looked disdainfully at Turner’s rumpled clothing. “She is not in.”

  “Is that so?” Turner’s tone implied that he did not believe him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had given his description to the entire household and instructed them to bar his entrance.

  “You will have to return at a later time. I should be happy, however, to convey a message if—”

  “I’ll wait.” Turner pushed right past him into a small salon off the main hall.

  “Now see here, sir!” the butler protested.

  Turner whipped out one of his cards and handed it to him. The butler looked at his name, looked at him, and then looked at his name again. He obviously didn’t expect a viscount to look so disheveled. Turner smiled wryly. There were times a title could be damned convenient.

  “If you would like to wait, my lord,” the butler said in a more subdued tone, “I shall have a maid bring in some tea.”

  “Please do.”

  As the butler slipped out the door, Turner began to wander through the room, slowly examining his surroundings. Miranda’s grandparents had obvious good taste. The furnishings were understated and of a classic style, one that would never seem gauche or hopelessly out of date. As he idly examined a landscape painting, he pondered, as he had done a thousand times since leaving London, what he was going to say to Miranda. The butler hadn’t called the guard as soon as he knew his name. That was a good sign, he supposed.

  Tea arrived a few minutes later, and when Miranda didn’t show up soon thereafter, Turner decided that the butler had not been lying about her whereabouts. No matter. He would wait as long as it took. He’d get his way in the end—of that he had no doubt.

  Miranda was a sensible girl. She knew that the world was a cold and unfriendly place to illegitimate children. And their mothers. No matter how angry she was with him—and she would be, of that he had no doubt—she would not wish to consign her child to such a difficult life.

  It was his child, too. It deserved the protection of his name. As did Miranda. He really didn’t like the thought of her remaining much longer on her own, even if her grandparents had agreed to take her in during this awkward time.

  Turner sat with his tea for half an hour, plowing through at least six of the scones that had been brought with them. It had been a long trip from London, and he had not stopped often for food. He was marveling at how much better these tasted than anything he’d ever had in England when he heard the front door open.

  “MacDownes!”

  Miranda’s voice. Turner stood up, a half-eaten scone still dangling from his fingers. Footsteps sounded in the hall, presumably belonging to the butler.

  “Could you relieve me of some of these bundles? I know I should have just had them sent home, but I was too impatient.”

  Turner heard the sound of packages changing hands, followed by the butler’s voice. “Miss Cheever, I must inform you that you have a visitor waiting for you in the salon.”

  “A visitor? Me? How odd. It must be one of the Macleans. I have always been friendly with them while in Scotland, and they must have heard I was in town.”

  “I do not believe he is of Scottish origin, miss.”

  “Really, then who…”

  Turner almost smiled as her voice trailed off in shock. He could just see her mouth dropping open.

  “He was most insistent, miss,” MacDownes continued. “I have his card right here.”

  There was a long silence until Miranda finally said, “Please tell him that I am not available.” Her voice quavered on the last word, and then she dashed up the stairs.

  Turner strode out into the hall just in time to crash into MacDownes, who was probably relishing the idea of tossing him out.

  “She doesn’t want to see you, my lord,” the butler intoned, not without the barest hint of a smile.

  Turner pushed past him. “She damned well will.”

  “I don’t think so, my lord.” MacDownes caught hold of his coat.

  “Look, my man,” Turner said, trying to sound icily congenial, if such a thing was possible. “I am not averse to hitting you.”

  “And I am not averse to hitting you.”

  Turner surveyed the older man with disdain. “Get out of my way.”

  The butler crossed his arms and stood his ground.

  Turner scowled at him and yanked his coat free, striding to the bottom of the stairs. “Miranda!” he yelled out. “Get down here right now! Right now! We have things to dis—”

  Thwack!

  Good God, the butler had punched him in the jaw. Stunned, Turner stroked his tender flesh. “Are you mad?”

  “Not at all, my lord. I take great pride in my work.”

  The butler had assumed a fighting position with the ease and grace of a professional. Leave it to Miranda to hire a pugilist as a butler.

  “Look,” Turner said in a conciliatory tone. “I need to speak with her immediately. It’s of the utmost importance. The lady’s honor is at stake.”

  Thwack! Turner reeled from a second blow.

  “That, my lord, is for implying that Miss Cheever is anything less than honorable.”

  Turner narrowed his eyes menacingly but decided that he wouldn’t have a chance against Miranda’s mad butler, not when he’d already been on the receiving end of two disorienting blows. “Tell Miss Cheever,” he said scathingly, “that I will be back, and she bloody well had better receive me.” He strode furiously out of the house and down the front steps.

  Utterly enraged that the chit would completely refuse to see him, he turned back to look at the house. She was standing at an open upstairs window, her fingers nervously covering her mouth. Turner scowled at her and then realized that he was still holding his half-eaten scone.

  He lobbed it hard through the window, where it caught her square on the chest.

  There was some satisfaction in that.

  24 AUGUST 1819

  Oh, dear.

  I never sent the letter, of course. I spent an entire day composing it, and then just when I had it ready to post, it became unnecessary.

  I did not know whether to weep or rejoice.

  And now Turner is here. He must have beat the truth—or rather, what used to be the truth—out of Olivia. She would never have betrayed me otherwise. Poor Livvy. He can be terrifying when he is furious.

  Which, apparently, he still is. He threw a scone at me. A scone! It is difficult to fathom.

  Chapter 14

  Two hours later, Turner made another appearance. This time, Miranda was waiting for him.

  She wrenched the front door open before he could even knock. He didn’t so much as stumble, however, just stood there with his perfect posture, his arm halfway up, his hand fisted and ready to connect with the door.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said in an irritated tone. “Come in.”

  Turner raised his brows. “Were you watching for me?”

  “Of course.”

  And because she knew she could not put this off any longer, she marched to the sitting room without a backward glance.

  He’d follow.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “A most pleasant greeting, Miranda,” he said smoothly, looking clean and crisp and handsome and utterly at ease and—oh! she wanted to kill him. “Who has been teaching you manners?” he continued. “Attila the Hun?”

  She gritted her teeth and repeated the question. “What do you want?”

  “Why, to marry you, of course.”

  It was, of course, the one thing she’d been waiting for since the first moment she’d laid eyes upon him. And never in her life had she been so proud of herself as when she said, “No, thank you.”

  “No…thank you?”

  “No, thank you,” she repeated pertly. “If that is all, I will show you out.”

  But he caught her wrist as she made as if to leave the room. “Not so fast.”

  She could do this. She knew she could. She had her pride, and she no
longer had any compelling reason to marry him. And she shouldn’t. No matter how much her heart ached, she could not give in. He did not love her. He did not even hold her in high enough regard to contact her even once in the month and a half since they had come together at the hunter’s lodge.

  He might have been a gentleman, but he was not much of one.

  “Miranda,” he said silkily, and she knew he was trying to seduce her, if not into his bed, then into acquiescence.

  She took a deep breath. “You came here, you did the right thing, and I refused. You have nothing more to feel guilty about, so you can return to England with a clear conscience. Good-bye, Turner.”

  “I don’t think so, Miranda,” he said, tightening his grip on her. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Ehrm, not much, really. Thank you for your concern, though.” Her arm tingled where he held her, and she knew that if she was to hold on to her resolve, she had to be rid of him as soon as possible.

  Turner kicked the door shut. “I disagree.”

  “Turner, don’t!” Miranda tugged her arm and tried to get back to the door to reopen it, but he blocked her way. “This is my grandparents’ house. I’ll not have them shamed by any improper behavior.”

  “I should think you’d be more concerned by their possibly hearing what I have to say to you.”

  She took one look at his implacable expression and shut her mouth. “Very well. Say whatever it is you came here to say.”

  His finger began to draw lazy circles in her palm. “I’ve been thinking about you, Miranda.”

  “Have you? That’s very flattering.”

  He ignored her snide tone and moved closer. “Have you been thinking about me?”

  Oh, dear Lord. If he only knew. “On occasion.”

  “Only on occasion?”

  “Quite rarely.”

  He pulled her toward him, his hand sliding sinuously along her arm. “How rarely?” he murmured.

  “Almost never.” But her voice was growing softer, and far less sure.

  “Really?” He raised one of his brows in an incredulous expression. “I think all this Scottish food has been addling your brain. Have you been eating haggis?”