Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (18 page)

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.

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?”

“Haggis?” she asked breathlessly. She could feel her chest growing light, as if the air itself had become something intoxicating, as if she might grow drunk, just breathing in his presence.

“Mmm-hmm. Hideous food, I think.”

“It's—it's not bad.” What was he talking about? And why was he looking at her that way? His eyes looked like sapphires. No, like a moonlit sky. Oh, dear. Was that her resolve flying out the window?

Turner smiled indulgently. “Your memory is quite diminished, darling. I think you need some reminding.” His lips descended gently on hers, spreading fire quickly throughout her body. She sagged against him, sighing his name.

He pulled her more tightly against him, the force of his arousal pressing against her. “Can you feel what you do to me?” he whispered. “Can you?”

Miranda nodded shakily, barely aware that she was standing in the middle of her grandparents' salon.

“Only you can do that to me, Miranda,” he murmured huskily. “Only you.”

That remark struck a discordant chord within her, and she stiffened in his arms. Hadn't he just spent more than a month in Kent with his friend Lord Harry Whatever-his-name-was? And hadn't Olivia blithely informed her that the festivities would have included wine, whiskey, and women? Loose women. Lots of them.

“What's wrong, darling?”

His words were whispered against her skin, and a part of her wanted to melt right back against him. But she would not be seduced. Not this time. Before she could change her mind, she planted her palms against his chest and pushed. “Don't try to do this to me,” she warned.

“Do what?” His face was the picture of innocence.

If Miranda had had a vase in her hands, she would have thrown it at him. Or better yet, a half-eaten scone. “Seduce me into bending to your will.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” she repeated incredulously. “Why not? Because I…Because you…”

“Because why?” He was grinning now.

“Because—oh!” Her fists balled up at her sides, and she actually stamped her foot. Which made her even more furious. To be reduced to this—it was humiliating.

“Now, now, Miranda.”

“Don't ‘now, now' me, you overbearing, patronizing—”

“You're angry with me, I gather.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You always were clever, Turner.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Well, here you have it—I'm sorry. I never intended to remain so long in Kent. I don't know why I did it, but I did, and I'm sorry. It was meant to be a two-day trip.”

“A two-day trip that lasted nearly two months?” she scoffed. “Pardon me if I have difficulty believing you.”

“I wasn't in Kent the entire time. When I returned to London, my mother said you were tending to a sick relative. It wasn't until Olivia returned that I learned otherwise.”

“I don't care how long you were…wherever you were!” she yelled, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “You shouldn't have abandoned me like that. I can understand that you needed time to think, because I know you never wanted to marry me, but good heavens, Turner, did you need seven weeks? You cannot treat a woman like that! It's rude and unconscionable and…and downright ungentlemanly!”

Was that the worst thing she could think to call him? Turner resisted the urge to smile. This wasn't going to be nearly as bad as he thought. “You're right,” he said quietly.

“And furthermore—what?” She blinked.

“You're right.”

“I am?”

“Don't you want to be?”

She opened her mouth, shut it, and then said, “Stop trying to confuse me.”

“I'm not. I'm agreeing with you, in case you hadn't noticed.” He offered her his most engaging smile. “Is my apology accepted?”

Miranda sighed. It ought to be illegal for a man to have this much charm. “Yes, fine. It's accepted. But what,” she asked suspiciously, “were you doing in Kent?”

“Mostly getting drunk.”

“Is that all?”

“A bit of hunting.”

“And?”

“And I did my best to keep Winston out of trouble when he found his way down there from Oxford. That chore kept me an extra fortnight, I'll have you know.”

“And?”

“Are you trying to ask me if there were women there?”

Her eyes slid away from his face. “Perhaps.”

“There were.”

She tried to swallow the enormous lump that suddenly popped up in her throat as she stepped aside to clear his path to the door. “I think you should leave,” she said quietly.

He gripped her upper arms and forced her to look at him. “I never touched any of them, Miranda. Not one.”

The intensity of his voice was enough to make her want to cry. “Why not?” she whispered.

“I knew I was going to marry you. I know how it feels to be cuckolded.” He cleared his throat. “I would not do that to you.”

“Why not?” The words were barely a whisper.

“Because I have a care for your feelings. And I hold you in the highest regard.”

She pulled away from him and walked over to the window. It was early evening, but the days were long during the Scottish summertime. The sun was high in the sky, and people were still walking to and fro, completing their daily errands as if they didn't have a care in the world. Miranda wanted to be one of those people, wanted to walk down the street away from her problems and never return.

Turner wanted to marry her. He had remained faithful to her. She should be dancing with joy. But she could not shake the feeling that he was doing this out of duty, not out of any love or affection for her. Except for desire, of course. It was abundantly clear that he desired her.

A tear trickled down her face. It wasn't enough. It might be, if she didn't love him so well. But this…It was too uneven. It would sicken her slowly, until she was nothing but a sad, lonely shell.

“Turner, I…I appreciate your coming all the way up here to see me. I know it was a long trip. And it was truly…” She searched for the right word. “…honorable of you to stay away from all those women in Kent. I'm sure they were very pretty.”

“Not half as pretty as you,” he whispered.

She swallowed convulsively. This was getting harder by the second. She clutched at the windowsill. “I cannot marry you.”

Dead silence. Miranda didn't turn around. She could not see him, but she could feel the rage emanating from his body.
Please
,
please just leave the room
, she silently pleaded.
Don't come over here. And please—oh
,
please
,
don't touch me
.

Her prayers went unanswered, and his hands descended brutally on her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. “What did you say?”

“I said I cannot marry you,” she replied tremulously. She let her gaze fall to the floor. His blue eyes were burning holes into her.

“Look at me, damn it! What are you thinking? You have to marry me.”

She shook her head.

“You little fool.”

Miranda didn't know what to say to that so she said nothing.

“Have you forgotten this?” He yanked her hard against him and plundered her lips with his. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Then have you forgotten that you told me you loved me?” he demanded.

Miranda wanted to die on the spot. “No.”

“That should count for something,” he said, shaking her until some of her hair broke free of its pins. “Doesn't it?”

“And have you ever said you loved me?” she shot back.

He stared at her mutely.

“Do you love me?” Her cheeks were flaming with anger and embarrassment. “Do you?”

Turner swallowed, suddenly feeling as if he were choking. The walls seemed close, and he could not say anything, could not utter the words she wanted to hear.

“I see,” she said in a low voice.

A muscle worked spasmodically in his throat. Why couldn't he say it? He wasn't sure if he loved her, but he wasn't sure that he didn't. And he sure as hell didn't want to hurt her, so why didn't he just say those three words that would make her happy?

He had told Leticia he loved her.

“Miranda,” he said haltingly. “I—”

“Don't say it if you don't mean it!” she burst out, her voice catching on the words.

Turner spun on his heel and walked across the room to where he had noticed a decanter of brandy. There was a bottle of whiskey on the shelf beneath it, and without asking her permission, he poured himself a glass. It went
down in one fiery gulp, but it didn't make him feel any better. “Miranda,” he said, wishing his voice were just a little steadier. “I'm not perfect.”

“You were supposed to be!” she cried. “Do you know how wonderful you were to me when I was little? And you didn't even try. You were just…just
you
. And you made me feel like I wasn't such an awkward little thing. And then you changed, but I thought I could change you back. And I tried, oh, how I tried, but it wasn't enough.
I
wasn't enough.”

“Miranda, it isn't you…”

“Don't make excuses for me! I can't be what you need, and I hate you for that! Do you hear me? I hate you!” Overcome, she turned away and hugged her arms to herself, trying to control the tremors that shook her body.

“You don't hate me.” His voice was soft and oddly soothing.

“No,” she said, choking back a sob. “I don't. But I hate Leticia. If she weren't already dead, I'd kill her myself.”

One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a wry smile.

“I'd do it slowly and painfully.”

“You really do have a vicious streak, puss,” he said, offering her a cajoling smile.

She tried to smile, but her lips just wouldn't obey.

There was a long pause before Turner spoke again. “I will try to make you happy, but I can't be everything you want.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “I thought you could, but I was wrong.”

“But we could still have a good marriage, Miranda. Better than most.”

“Better than most” might mean only that they spoke to each other at least once a day. Yes, they might have a good marriage. Good, but empty. She didn't think she could bear living with him without his love. She shook her head.