Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

by Julia Quinn

  He was, to understate, particularly upset.

  So now I find myself with all three of them aligned against me. I fear I might be fighting a losing battle.

  Chapter 15

  Given the opposition against her, it was remarkable that Miranda held out as long as she did, which was three days.

  Her grandmother launched the attack, using the sweet and sensible approach. “Now, dear,” she had said, “I understand that Lord Turner was perhaps a bit tardy in his attentions, but he did come up to scratch, and well, you did…”

  “You don’t need to say it,” Miranda had replied, blushing furiously.

  “Well, you did.”

  “I know.” Heaven above, she knew. She could rarely think of anything else.

  “But really, sweetling, what is wrong with the viscount? He seems a rather nice fellow, and he has assured us that he will be able to provide for you and look after you properly.”

  Miranda gritted her teeth. Turner had stopped by the evening before to introduce himself to her grandparents. Trust him to make her grandmother fall in love with him in under an hour. That man ought to be kept away from women of all ages.

  “And he’s quite handsome, I think,” her grandmother continued. “Don’t you think so? Of course you think so. After all, his is not the kind of face that some think is handsome and some don’t. His is the kind that everyone finds handsome. Don’t you agree?”

  Miranda did agree, but she wasn’t about to say so.

  “Of course, handsome is as handsome does, and so many well-formed people have ill-formed minds.”

  Miranda wasn’t even going to touch that one.

  “But he appears to have all his wits about him, and he’s quite affable, too. All in all, Miranda, you could do much worse.” When her granddaughter did not reply, she said with uncharacteristic severity, “And I don’t think you’ll be able to do better.”

  It stung, but it was true. Still, Miranda said, “I could remain unmarried.”

  Since her grandmother did not view that as a viable option, she did not dignify it with a response. “I’m not talking about his title,” she said sharply. “Or his fortune. He would be a good catch if he hadn’t a farthing.”

  Miranda found a way to respond that involved a noncommittal throat sound, a bit of a head shake, a bit of a head twist, and a shrug. And that, she hoped, would be that.

  But it wasn’t. The end wasn’t nearly in sight. Turner took up the next round by trying to appeal to her romantic nature. Large bouquets of flowers arrived every two or so hours, every one with a note reading, “Marry me, Miranda.”

  Miranda did her best to ignore them, which wasn’t easy, because they soon filled every corner of the house. He made great inroads with her grandmother, however, who was redoubled in her resolve to see her Miranda married to the charming and generous viscount.

  Her grandfather tried next, his approach considerably more aggressive. “For the love of God, lassie,” he roared. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Since Miranda was no longer quite so certain she knew the answer to that question, she did not reply.

  Turner went next, this time making a tactical mistake. He sent a note reading, “I forgive you for hitting me.” Miranda was initially enraged. It was that condescending tone which had caused her to punch him in the first place. Then she recognized it for what it was—a gentle warning. He was not going to put up with her stubbornness for much longer.

  On the second day of the siege, she decided she needed some fresh air—really, the scent of all those flowers was positively cloying—so Miranda picked up her bonnet and headed out to the nearby Queen Street Garden.

  Turner began to follow her immediately. He had not been jesting when he had told her that he was keeping her house under surveillance. He had not bothered to mention, however, that he wasn’t hiring professionals to keep watch. His poor beleaguered valet had that honor, and after eight straight hours of staring out the window, he was much relieved when the lady in question finally departed, and he could abandon his post.

  Turner smiled as he watched Miranda make her way to the park with quick, efficient steps, then frowned when he realized that she had not taken a maid along with her. Edinburgh was not as dangerous as London, but surely a gentle lady did not venture out by herself. This sort of behavior would need to stop once they were married.

  And they would get married. End of discussion.

  He was, however, going to have to approach this matter with a certain measure of finesse. In retrospect, the note expressing his forgiveness was probably a mistake. Hell, he’d known it would irk her even as he wrote it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Not when, every time he looked in the mirror, he was greeted by his blackened eye.

  Miranda entered the park and strode along for several minutes until she found an unoccupied bench. She brushed away some dust, sat down, and pulled a book out of the bag she’d been carrying with her.

  Turner smiled from his vantage point fifty yards or so away. He liked watching her. It surprised him how content he felt just standing there under a tree, watching her read a book. Her fingers arched so delicately as she turned each page. He had a sudden vision of her sitting behind the desk in the sitting room attached to his bedroom at his home in Northumberland. She was writing a letter, probably to Olivia, and smiling as she recounted the day’s events.

  Turner suddenly realized that this marriage wasn’t just the right thing, it was also a good thing, and he was going to be quite happy with her.

  Whistling to himself, he ambled over to where she was sitting and plopped down next to her. “Hello, puss.”

  She looked up and sighed, rolling her eyes at the same time. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I certainly hope no one else uses endearments.”

  She grimaced as she caught sight of his face. “I’m sorry about your eye.”

  “Oh, I’ve already forgiven you for that, if you recall.”

  She stiffened. “I recall.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “I rather thought you would.”

  She waited for a moment, most probably for him to leave. Then she turned pointedly back to her book and announced, “I’m trying to read.”

  “I see that. Very good of you, you know. I like a female who broadens her mind.” He plucked the volume from her fingers and turned it over to read the title. “Pride and Prejudice. Are you enjoying it?”

  “I was.”

  He ignored her barb as he flipped to the first page, holding her place with his index finger. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’” he read aloud, “‘that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’”

  Miranda tried to grab her book back, but he moved it out of her reach.

  “Hmmm,” he mused. “An interesting thought. I certainly am in want of a wife.”

  “Go to London,” she retorted. “You’ll find lots of women there.”

  “And I am in possession of a good fortune.” He leaned forward and grinned at her. “Just in case you didn’t realize.”

  “I cannot tell you how relieved I am in the knowledge that you will never starve.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, Miranda, why don’t you just give up? You can’t win this one.”

  “I don’t imagine there are many priests who will marry a couple without the woman’s consent.”

  “You’ll consent,” he said in a pleasant tone.

  “Oh?”

  “You love me, remember?”

  Miranda’s mouth tightened. “That was a very long time ago.”

  “What, two, three months? Not so long. It’ll come back to you.”

  “Not the way you’re acting.”

  “Such a pointy tongue,” he said with a sly smile. And then he leaned in. “If you must know, it’s one of the things I like best about you.”

  She had to flex her fingers to keep herself from wrapping them around his neck. “I believe I’ve had my fill of fresh air,” she announced, holding her b
ook tightly to her chest as she stood. “I’m going home.”

  He stood immediately. “Then I shall accompany you, Lady Turner.”

  She whirled around. “What did you just call me?”

  “Just testing the name,” he murmured. “It fits quite well, I think. You might as well accustom yourself to it as soon as possible.”

  Miranda shook her head and resumed her walk home. She tried to keep a few steps ahead of him, but his legs were far longer, and he had no trouble remaining even with her. “You know, Miranda,” he said affably, “if you could give me one good reason why we should not be married, I would leave you alone.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “That’s a lie, so it doesn’t count.”

  She thought for a few more moments, still walking as quickly as she could. “I don’t need your money.”

  “Of course you don’t. Olivia told me last year that your mother left you a small bequest. Enough to live on. But it’s a bit shortsighted to refuse to marry someone because you don’t wish to have more money, wouldn’t you think?”

  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 reason to 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. I shall marry you.”

  “Why do you even want 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 AUGUST 1819

  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 it could be like this.”

  “I always knew. I always knew.” The words slipped out before 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…”