Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (11 page)

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 con
trol 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 pinched 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?

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 meantime, 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.”

“Your mother?” Miranda was having difficulty imagining it.

“Well, no, but if her nerves were less constitutional, surely she would have done.”

Most of the time Miranda enjoyed her friend's meandering manner, but just now she wanted to
throttle
her.

“Anyway,” Olivia said, sighing as she settled into a reclining position, “he said he will not marry, but I am quite certain he will reconsider. He must simply get past the grief.” She paused, glancing over at Miranda with a wry expression. “Or the lack thereof.”

Miranda smiled tightly. So tightly, in fact, that she was fairly certain it ought to be termed something else altogether.

“But despite what he says,” Olivia continued, settling back down and closing her eyes, “he certainly will never find a bride whilst living here. Goodness, how could anyone court in the company of a mother, father, and two younger sisters?”

“Two?”

“Well, one, of course, but you might as well count as a second. He certainly cannot behave in any manner he might
like
to behave while you are in his presence.”

Miranda did not know if she ought to laugh or cry.

“And even if he does not choose a bride anytime soon,” Olivia added, “he ought to take a mistress. Surely that will help him forget Leticia.”

Miranda did not see how she could possibly comment.

“And certainly he cannot do that while he is living
here
.” Olivia opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. “So really, it is all for the best. Wouldn't you agree?”

Miranda nodded. Because she had to. Because she felt too stunned to cry.

“What do you plan to wear to the Worthington ball tonight?” Olivia asked, splashing three sugars into her tea.

“Is that tonight?” Miranda's fingers tightened around her teacup. Turner had promised her he'd attend the Worthington ball and dance with her. Surely he wouldn't renege on a promise.

He would be there. And if he wasn't…

She would simply have to make sure he was.

“I'm wearing my green silk,” Olivia said. “Unless you want to wear your green dress. You do look lovely in green.”

“Do you think so?” Miranda straightened. Suddenly it was imperative that she look her absolute best.

“Mmm-hmm. But it wouldn't do for both of us to wear the same color, so you'll have to decide soon.”

“What do you recommend?” Miranda wasn't hopeless when it came to fashion, but she would never have as good an eye as Olivia.

Olivia tilted her head to the side as she examined her friend. “With your coloring, I do wish you could wear something more vivid, but Mama says we are still too new. But maybe…” She jumped up, snatched a pale sage green pillow from a nearby chair, and held it up under Miranda's chin. “Hmmm.”

“Are you planning to redecorate me?”

“Hold this,” Olivia ordered, and she backed up several steps, letting out a ladylike “Euf!” when her foot caught on a table leg. “Yes, yes,” she murmured, catching her balance with the arm of the sofa. “It's perfect.”

Miranda looked down. And then up. “I'm to wear a pillow?”

“No, you will wear my green silk. It is precisely the same color. We shall have Annie take it in today.”

“But what will you wear?”

“Oh, anything,” Olivia said with a wave of her hand. “Something pink. The gentlemen always seem to go mad for pink. Makes me look like a confection, I'm told.”

“You don't mind being a confection?” Because Miranda would hate it.

“I don't mind them thinking it,” Olivia corrected. “It gives me the upper hand. There is often benefit in being underestimated. But you…” She shook her head. “You need something more subtle. Sophisticated.”

Miranda picked up her tea for one last sip, then stood, smoothing out the soft muslin of her day frock. “I should go try it on now,” she said. “To give Annie time to make the alterations.”

And besides that, she had some correspondence to attend to.

Turner was discovering, as he tied his cravat with nimble fingers, that his talent for the invective was broader and deeper than he'd realized. He'd found a hundred things to malign since he'd received that blasted note from Miranda earlier that afternoon. But most of all, he was cursing himself, and whatever sodding sense of honor he still possessed.

Attending the Worthington ball was the height of folly—quite the most asinine thing he could possibly do. But he
couldn't bloody well break a promise to the chit, even if it was for her own good.

Holy hell. This was not what he needed right now.

He looked back down at the note. He had promised to dance with her if she lacked partners, had he? Well, that shouldn't be a problem. He'd simply make sure she had more partners than she knew what to do with. She'd be the bloody belle of the ball.

He supposed that as long as he had to attend this deuced party, he ought to go ahead and examine the young widows. With any luck, Miranda would see exactly where he planned to devote his attentions, and she'd realize that she ought to look elsewhere.

He winced. He didn't like the thought of upsetting her. Hell, he liked the chit. He always had.

He gave his head a shake. He wasn't going to upset her. Not much, anyway. And besides, he would make it up to her.

Belle of the ball, he reminded himself as he stepped into his carriage and steeled himself for what was certain to be a most trying evening.

Belle. Of. The. Ball.

Olivia spotted Turner the moment he entered. “Oh, look,” she said, nudging Miranda with her elbow. “My brother is here.”

“He is?” Miranda replied breathlessly.

“Mmm-hmm.” Olivia straightened, her brows coming together. “I haven't seen him for ages, now that I think on it. Have you?”

Miranda shook her head absently as she craned her neck, trying to spot Turner.

“He's over there speaking with Duncan Abbott,” Olivia informed her. “I wonder what they're talking about. Mr. Abbott is quite political.”

“Is he?”

“Oh, yes. I should love to have a discussion with him, but he probably wouldn't care to discuss politics with a woman. Annoying, that.”

Miranda was about to nod her agreement when Olivia furrowed her brow again and said in an irritated voice, “Now he's talking to Lord Westholme.”

“Olivia, the man is allowed to speak with whomever he likes,” Miranda said, but inside, she, too, was growing irritated that Turner was not making his way over to them.

“I know, but he ought to come and greet us first. We're family.”

“Well, you are, at least.”

“Don't be silly. You're family, too, Miranda.” Olivia's mouth opened in an outraged little O. “Will you look at that? He's gone in quite the opposite direction.”

“Who is that man he's talking to? I don't recognize him.”

“The Duke of Ashbourne. Devilishly handsome fellow, don't you think? I think he's been abroad. Having a holiday with his wife. They're quite devoted to one another, I understand.”

Miranda thought it a positive sign to hear that at least one
ton
marriage was happy. Still, Turner certainly wasn't about to ask for
her
hand if he couldn't be bothered to
walk across a ballroom to say hello. She frowned.

“Excuse me, Lady Olivia. I believe this is my dance.”

Olivia and Miranda looked up. A handsome young man whose name neither could recall was standing before them.

“Of course,” Olivia said quickly. “How silly of me to have forgotten.”

“I believe I will get a glass of lemonade,” Miranda said with a smile. She knew that Olivia always felt awkward when she went off for a dance and left Miranda alone.

“Are you certain?”

“Go. Go.”

Olivia floated out onto the dance floor, and Miranda started to make her way to a footman who was pouring lemonade. As usual, she had been claimed for only about half of the dances. And where was Turner, she might ask, after he had promised to dance with her if she lacked partners?

Horrid, horrid man.

Somehow, it felt good to malign him in her mind, even if she didn't quite believe it.

Miranda had made it about halfway to the lemonade when she felt a firm masculine hand on her elbow. Turner? She whirled around, but was disappointed to find a gentleman she did not know but whose face looked vaguely familiar.

“Miss Cheever?”

Miranda nodded.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“Why yes, of course, but I do not believe we have been introduced.”

“Oh, forgive me, please. I am Westholme.”

Lord Westholme? Wasn't he the gentleman Turner had been talking to just a few moments earlier? Miranda smiled at him, but her mind was frowning. She had never been a great believer in coincidences.

Lord Westholme proved to be an excellent dancer, and the pair whirled effortlessly around the floor. When the music drew to a close, he bowed elegantly and escorted her to the perimeter of the room.