The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

by Julia Quinn

  He felt guilty that he had made her so miserable. He was confused as to how to treat her and terrified that he would never win her back.

  He was angry with himself for being unable to just tell her that he loved her and felt somehow inadequate that he didn't even know how to determine if he was in love.

  But most of all, he felt lonely. He was lonely for his wife. He missed her and all her funny little comments and quirky expressions. Every now and then he'd pass her in the hall, and he'd force himself to look into her face, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he'd married. But she was gone. Miranda had become a different woman. She didn't seem to care anymore. About anything.

  His mother, who had come to stay until the child was born, had sought him out to tell him that Miranda was barely picking at her food. He had sworn under his breath. She ought to realize that that was unhealthy. But he couldn't bring himself to seek her out and shake some sense into her. He merely instructed a few of the servants to keep a watchful eye on her.

  They brought him daily reports, usually in the early evening, when he was sitting in his study, pondering alcohol and the obliterating effects thereof. This night was no different; he was on his third brandy when he heard a sharp rap at the door.

  "Enter."

  To his great surprise, his mother walked in.

  He nodded politely. "You've come to chastise me, I imagine."

  Lady Rudland crossed her arms. "And just what do you think you need chastising for?"

  His smile lacked all humor. "Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you have an extensive list."

  "Have you seen your wife in the past week?" she demanded.

  "No, I don't believe I ha— Oh, wait a minute." He took a sip of brandy. "I passed her in the hall a few days ago. Tuesday, I think it was."

  "She is over eight months' pregnant, Nigel."

  "I assure you, I am aware."

  "You are a cur to leave her alone in her time of need."

  He took another swig. "Just to make things clear, she left me alone, not the other way around. And don't call me Nigel."

  "I'll call you whatever I damned well please."

  Turner raised his brows at the first use of profanity he'd ever heard escape his mother's lips. "Congratulations, you've sunk to my level."

  "Give me that!" She lunged forward and grabbed the glass out of his hand. Amber liquid splashed out onto the desk. "I am appalled at you, Nigel. You're just as bad as when you were with Leticia. You're hateful, rude— " She broke off when his hand wrapped around her wrist.

  "Don't ever make the mistake of comparing Miranda to Leticia," he said in a menacing voice.

  "I didn't!" Her eyes widened in surprise. "I would never dream of it."

  "Good." He let go of her suddenly and walked over to the window. The landscape was as bleak as his mood.

  His mother remained silent for quite some time, but then she asked, "How do you intend to salvage your marriage, Turner?"

  He let out a weary breath. "Why are you so certain that it is I who need to do the salvaging?"

  "For the love of God, just look at the girl. She is obviously in love with you."

  His fingers gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. "I've seen no indication of that lately."

  "How could you? You haven't seen her in weeks. For your sake, I hope you haven't killed whatever it was she felt for you."

  Turner said nothing. He just wanted the conversation to end.

  "She is not the same woman she was a few months ago," his mother continued. "She was so happy. She'd have done anything for you."

  "Things change, Mother," he said tersely.

  "And they can change back," Lady Rudland said, her voice soft yet insistent. "Come dine with us this evening. It's terribly awkward without you."

  "It will be far more awkward with me, I assure you."

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  Turner stood straight, taking a long, shaky breath. Was his mother right? Could he and Miranda resolve their differences?

  "Leticia is still in this house," his mother said softly. "Let her go. Let Miranda heal you. She will, you know, if you'd only give her the chance."

  He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder but he did not turn around, too proud to let her see the face of his pain.

  * * *

  The first pain squeezed her belly about an hour before she was due to go down for dinner. Startled, Miranda put her hand on her stomach. The doctor had told her that she'd most likely deliver in two weeks. "Well, it looks like you're going to be early," she said softly. "Just stay in through supper, would you? I'm actually hungry. I haven't been for weeks, you know, and I need some food." The baby kicked in response.

  "So that's the way it's going to be, is it?" Miranda whispered, a smile touching her features for the first time in weeks. "I shall strike a bargain with you. You let me get through dinner in peace, and I promise not to give you a name like Iphigenia."

  She felt another kick.

  "If you're a girl, of course. If you're a boy, then I promise not to name you…Nigel!" She laughed, the sound unfamiliar and…nice. "I promise not to name you Nigel."

  The baby was still.

  "Good. Now, let's get ourselves dressed, shall we?"

  Miranda rang for her maid, and an hour later, she descended the stairs to the dining room, holding the railing tightly all the way down. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to tell anyone that the baby was on its way— perhaps it was just her natural aversion to making a fuss. Besides, except for a pain every ten minutes or so, she was feeling fine. She certainly had no wish to be confined to her bed just yet. She just hoped the baby could manage to restrain itself through dinner. There was something vaguely embarrassing about childbirth, and she had no wish to learn why firsthand at the dining room table.

  "Oh, there you are, Miranda," Olivia called out. "We were just having a drink in the rose salon. Join us?"

  Miranda nodded and followed her friend.

  "You look a little odd, Miranda," Olivia continued. "Are you feeling well?"

  "Just large, thank you."

  "Well, you'll be shrinking soon."

  Sooner than anyone else realized, Miranda thought wryly.

  Lady Rudland handed her a glass of lemonade.

  "Thank you," Miranda said. "I'm suddenly very thirsty." Heedless of proper etiquette, Miranda downed it in one gulp. Lady Rudland didn't say a word as she refilled the glass. Miranda drank that one almost as quickly. "Do you think supper is ready?" she asked. "I'm dreadfully hungry." That was really only half of the story. She was going to deliver the baby at the dining room table if they tarried much longer.

  "Certainly," Lady Rudland replied, slightly taken aback by Miranda's eagerness. "Lead on. It's your house after all, Miranda."

  "So it is." She quirked her head, took hold of her stomach as if that might hold everything in, and stepped out into the hall.

  She walked right into Turner.

  "Good evening, Miranda."

  His voice was rich and husky, and she felt something flutter deep in her heart.

  "I trust you are well," he said.

  She nodded, trying not to look at him. She'd spent the last month training herself not to melt into a pool of desire and longing every time she saw him. She'd learned to school her features into an impassive mask. They all knew he had devastated her; she did not need everyone to see it every time she walked into a room.

  "Excuse me," she murmured, stepping past him toward the dining room.

  Turner caught her arm. "Allow me to escort you, puss."

  Miranda's lower lip began to quiver. What was he trying to do? Had she been feeling less confused— or less pregnant— she probably would have made an attempt to wrench herself from his grasp, but as it was, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the table.

  Turner said nothing during the first few courses, which was just as well for Miranda, who was happy to avoid all conversation in favor of her food. Lady Rudland and Oliv
ia tried to engage her in conversation, but Miranda always managed to have her mouth full. She was saved from responding by chewing, swallowing, and then murmuring, "I'm really quite hungry."

  This worked for the first three courses, until the baby stopped cooperating. She'd thought she was getting quite good at not reacting to the pains, but she must have winced, because Turner looked sharply in her direction and asked, "Is something wrong?"

  She smiled wanly, chewed, swallowed, and murmured, "Not at all. But I really am quite hungry."

  "So we see," Olivia said dryly, earning herself a reproving stare from her mother.

  Miranda took another bite of her chicken almondine and then winced again. This time Turner was certain he'd seen it. "You made a noise," he said firmly. "I heard you. What is wrong?"

  She chewed and swallowed. "Nothing. Although I am quite hungry."

  "Perhaps you are eating too quickly," Olivia suggested.

  Miranda jumped on the excuse. "Yes, yes, that must be it. I shall slow down." Thankfully, the conversation changed directions when Lady Rudland drew Turner into a discussion of the bill he'd recently supported in Parliament. Miranda was grateful that his attention had been engaged elsewhere; he'd been watching her too closely, and it was getting difficult to keep her face serene when she felt a contraction.

  Her belly clenched again, and this time she lost her patience. "Stop that," she whispered, looking down at her middle. "Or you will certainly be Iphigenia."

  "Did you say something, Miranda?" Olivia asked.

  "Oh, no, I don't think so."

  Another few minutes went by, and she felt another squeeze. "Stop that, Nigel," she whispered. "We had a bargain."

  "I'm certain you said something," Olivia said sharply.

  "Did you just call me Nigel?" Turner asked.

  Funny, Miranda thought, how calling him Nigel seemed to upset him more than her leaving the marriage bed. "Of course not. You're just imagining things. But I vow I am tired. I believe I shall retire, if none of you minds." She started to stand up, then felt a rush of liquid between her legs. She sat back down. "Perhaps I'll wait for dessert."

  Lady Rudland excused herself, claiming that she was on a slimming regime and could not bear to watch the rest of them eat their pudding. Her departure made it more difficult for Miranda to avoid the conversation, but she did her best, pretending to be engrossed in her food and hoping no one would ask her a question. Finally, the meal was over. Turner stood and walked over to her side, offering his arm to her.

  "No, I believe I'll sit here for a moment. A bit tired, you know." She could feel a flush creeping up along her neck. Good heavens, no one had ever written an etiquette book concerning what to do when one's baby wanted to be born in a formal dining room. Miranda was utterly mortified and so scared that she could not seem to pick herself up off the chair.

  "Would you like another serving?" Turner's tone was dry.

  "Yes, please," she replied, her voice cracking.

  "Miranda, are you certain you're feeling well?" Olivia asked as Turner summoned a footman. "You look quite odd."

  "Get your mother," Miranda croaked. "Now."

  "Is it…?"

  Miranda nodded.

  "Oh my," Olivia said with a gulp. "It's time."

  "What time?" Turner asked irritably. Then he glimpsed Miranda's terrified expression. "Holy bloody hell. That time." He strode across the room and scooped his wife into his arms, oblivious to the way her sodden skirts were staining the fine fabric of his jacket.

  Miranda clung to his powerful frame, forgetting all her vows to remain indifferent to him. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, letting his strength seep into her. She was going to need it in the hours ahead.

  "You little fool," he murmured. "How long have you been sitting there in pain?"

  She chose not to answer, knowing that the truth would only earn her a scolding.

  Turner carried her up the stairs to a guest bedroom that had been prepared for the delivery. By the time he had laid her down on the bed, Lady Rudland had come rushing in. "Thank you so much, Turner," she said quickly. "Go summon the physician."

  "Brearley has already taken care of it," he replied, looking down at Miranda with an anxious expression.

  "Well, then, go keep yourself occupied. Have a drink."

  "I'm not thirsty."

  Lady Rudland sighed. "Do I need to spell it out for you, son? Go away."

  "Why?" Turner looked incredulous.

  "There is no place for men in childbirth."

  "There was certainly place enough for me beforehand," he muttered.

  Miranda blushed deep crimson. "Turner, please," she begged.

  He looked down at her. "Do you want me to go?"

  "Yes. No. I don't know."

  He put his hands on his hips and faced his mother. "I think I should stay. It's my child, too."

  "Oh, very well. Just go over to that corner and stay out of the way." Lady Rudland waved her arms, shooing him away.

  Another contraction gripped Miranda. "Eeeengh," she moaned.

  "What was that?" Turner shot over to her side in a flash. "Is this normal? Should she be— "

  "Turner, hush!" Lady Rudland said. "You're going to worry her." She turned down to Miranda and pressed a damp cloth to her brow. "Pay him no mind, dear. It's perfectly normal."

  "I know. I…" She paused to catch her breath. "Could I get out of this dress?"

  "Oh, goodness, of course. I'm so sorry. I forgot all about it. You must be so uncomfortable. Turner, come here and give me a hand."

  "No!" Miranda exclaimed sharply.

  He stopped short, and his face went cold.

  "I mean, either you do it or have him do it," Miranda told her mother-in-law. "But not both."

  "That's the childbirth talking," Lady Rudland said soothingly. "You're not thinking clearly."

  "No! He can do it if you want because he's…seen me before. Or you can do it because you're a woman. But I don't want you seeing me while he sees me. Don't you understand?" Miranda gripped the older woman's arm with uncharacteristic force.

  Back in the corner, Turner suppressed a smile. "I'll let you do the honors, Mother," he said, keeping his voice flat so that he didn't burst out laughing. With a sharp nod, he left the room. He forced himself to walk halfway down the hall before letting laughter take over. What a funny little set of scruples his wife had.

  Back in the bedroom, Miranda was gritting her teeth against another contraction as Lady Rudland peeled off her ruined dress.

  "Is he gone?" she asked. She did not trust him not to peek in.

  Her mother-in-law nodded. "He won't bother us."

  "It's not a bother," Miranda said, before she could think the better of it.

  "Of course it is. Men have no place during childbirth. It's messy, and it's painful, and not a one of them knows how to be useful. Better to let them sit outside and ponder all the ways they should reward you for your hard work."

  "He bought me a book," Miranda whispered.

  "Did he? I was thinking of diamonds, myself."

  "That would be nice, too," Miranda said weakly.

  "I shall drop a hint in his ear." Lady Rudland finished getting Miranda into her nightgown and fluffed the pillows behind her. "There you are. Are you comfortable?"

  Another pain gripped her belly. "Not. Really," she squeezed between her teeth.

  "Was that another one?" Lady Rudland asked. "Goodness. They are coming very close together. This may be an uncommonly fast birth. I do hope Dr. Winters arrives soon."

  Miranda held her breath as she rode through the wave of pain, nodding her agreement.

  Lady Rudland took her hand and squeezed, her face scrunching in empathy. "If it makes you feel any better," she said, "it's much worse with twins."

  "It doesn't," Miranda gasped.

  "Make you feel any better?"

  "No."

  Lady Rudland sighed. "I didn't think it would, actually. But don't worry," she added, br
ightening a bit. "This will all be over soon."

  * * *

  Twenty-two hours later, Miranda wanted a new definition of the word soon. Her entire body was wracked with pain, her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and she felt as if she just couldn't get enough air into her body. And the contractions kept on coming, each one worse than the last. "I feel one coming," she whimpered. Lady Rudland immediately mopped her brow with a cool cloth. "Just bear down, sweetheart."

  "I can't…I'm too…Bloody hell!" she yelled, using her husband's favorite epithet.

  Out in the hall, Turner stiffened as he heard her cry out. After getting Miranda changed out of her soiled dress, his mother had taken him out of earshot and convinced him that everyone would be better off if he stayed out in the hall. Olivia had brought two chairs out from a nearby sitting room and was diligently keeping him company, trying not to wince when Miranda yelled out in pain. "That sounded like a bad one," she said nervously, trying to make conversation.

  He glared at her. Wrong thing to say.

  "I'm sure it will all be over soon," Olivia said with more hope than certainty. "I don't think it could get much worse."

  Miranda yelled out again, clearly in agony.

  "At least I don't think so," Olivia added weakly.

  Turner let his face fall into his hands. "I'm never going to touch her again," he moaned.

  "He's never going to touch me again!" they heard Miranda roar.

  "Well, it doesn't look like you'll have much argument from your wife on that point," Olivia chirped. She nudged his chin with her knuckles. "Buck up, big brother. You're about to become a father."

  "Soon, I hope," he muttered. "I don't think I can take much more of this."

  "If you think it's bad, just think how Miranda must feel."

  He leveled a deadly stare at her. Wrong thing to say again. Olivia shut her mouth.

  Back in the birthing room, Miranda was holding her mother-in-law's hand in a death grip. "Make it stop," she moaned. "Please make it stop."

  "It will be over soon, I assure you."

  Miranda yanked her down until they were nearly face to face. "You said that yesterday!"

  "Excuse me, Lady Rudland?"