Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (13 page)

“Ouch!”

“Don't be a baby.”

“Don't be a tyrant.”

“Stop goading me!”

“I wasn't goading you.”

“Oh,
please
, Turner.”

“Oh, all right,” he said petulantly, rubbing the side of his head. “I was goading you. But I wouldn't have done it if you weren't ignoring me.”

“Excuse me, but I rather thought you wanted me to ignore you.”

“Where the devil did you get that idea?”

Miranda's mouth fell open. “Are you mad? You have avoided me like the plague for at least the last fortnight. You've even avoided your mother just to avoid me.”

“Now that's not true.”

“Tell that to your mother.”

He winced. “Miranda, I would like for us to be friends.”

She shook her head. Were there any crueler words in the English language? “It's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“You can't have it both ways,” Miranda continued, using every ounce of her energy to keep her voice from shaking. “You can't kiss me and then say you wish to be friends. You can't humiliate me the way you did at the Worthingtons' and then claim that you like me.”

“We must forget what happened,” he said softly. “We must put it behind us, if not for the sake of our friendship, then for my family.”

“Can you do that?” Miranda demanded. “Can you truly forget? Because I cannot.”

“Of course you can,” he said, a little too easily.

“I lack your sophistication, Turner,” she said, and then added bitterly, “Or perhaps I lack your shallowness.”

“I'm not shallow, Miranda,” he shot back. “I'm sensible. Lord knows, one of us has to be.”

She wished she had something to say. She wished she had some scathing retort that would cut him off at the knees, render him speechless, leaving him quivering in a gelatinous, messy heap of pathetic rot.

But instead she just had herself, and the horrible, angry tears burning behind her eyes. And she wasn't even certain she could manage a proper glare, so she looked away, counting the buildings as they passed by her window and wishing that she were anywhere else.

Any
one
else.

And that was the worst, because in all her life, even with a best friend who was prettier, richer, and better-connected than she was, Miranda had never wished to be anyone other than who she was.

Turner had, in his life, done things of which he was not proud. He had drunk too much and vomited on a priceless rug. He had gambled with money he did not have. He had once even ridden his horse too hard and with too little care and left the horse lame for a week.

But never had he felt quite so low as he did when he looked at Miranda's profile, aimed so determinedly toward the window.

So determinedly
away
from him.

He did not speak for a long while. They passed out of London, through the outskirts where the buildings grew fewer and farther between, and then finally into open, rolling fields.

She didn't look at him once. He knew. He was watching.

And so finally, since he could not tolerate another hour of this silence, nor could he bring himself to ponder what, exactly, this silence meant, he spoke.

“I do not mean to insult, Miranda,” he said quietly, “but I know when something is a bad idea. And dallying with you is an
extremely
bad idea.”

She didn't turn, but he heard her say, “Why?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “What are you thinking, Miranda? Don't you give a damn for your reputation? If word gets out about us, you'll be ruined.”

“Or you'll have to marry me,” she said in a low, mocking voice.

“Which I have no intention of doing. You know that.” He swore under his breath. Dear God, that had come out wrong. “I don't want to marry anyone,” he explained. “You know
that
, as well.”

“What I
know
,” she shot back, her eyes flashing with un-concealed fury, “is that—” And then she stopped, clamping her mouth shut and crossing her arms.

“What?” he demanded.

She turned back to the window. “You wouldn't understand.” And then: “Nor would you listen.”

Her contemptuous tone was like nails under his skin. “Oh, please. Petulance does not suit you.”

She whirled around. “And how should I act? Tell me, what am I supposed to feel?”

His lip curled. “Grateful?”

“Grateful?
”

He sat back, his entire body a study of insolence. “I could have seduced you, you know. Easily. But I didn't.”

She gasped and drew back, and when she spoke, her voice was low and lethal. “You're hateful, Turner.”

“I'm just telling you the truth. And do you know why I didn't do more? Why I didn't peel your nightgown from your body and lay you down and take you right there on the sofa?”

Her eyes widened and her breath grew audible, and he knew he was being crude and crass and, yes, hateful, but he could not stop himself, could not stop the bluntness, because, damn it, she had to understand. She had to understand who he really was, and what he was capable of, and what he was not.

And this—
this
. Her. He had managed to do the honorable thing for her, and she wasn't even grateful?

“I'll tell you,” he practically hissed. “I stopped out of
respect
for you. And I'll tell you something—” He stopped, swore, and she looked at him in question, daringly, provokingly, as if to say—
You don't even know what you mean to say
.

But that was the problem. He did know, and he had been about to tell her how much he had wanted her. How if they had been anywhere but his parents' home, he was not certain he would have stopped.

He was not certain he could have stopped.

But she did not need to know that. She should not know it. That sort of power over him, he did not need.

“Can you believe it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “I did not want to ruin your future.”

“Leave my future to me,” she replied angrily. “I know what I'm doing.”

He snorted disdainfully. “You're twenty years old. You think you know everything.”

She glared at him.

“When I was twenty, I thought I knew everything.” he said with a shrug.

Her eyes turned sad. “So did I,” she said softly.

Turner tried to ignore the unpleasant knot of guilt twisting about in his belly. He wasn't even sure
why
he felt guilty, and in fact the whole thing was ridiculous. He shouldn't be made to feel guilty for
not
taking her innocence, and all he could think to say was, “You'll thank me for this someday.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You sound like your mother.”

“You're getting surly.”

“Can you blame me? You're treating me like a child, when you know very well I'm a woman.”

The knot of guilt grew tentacles.

“I can make my own decisions,” she said defiantly.

“Obviously not.” He leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Or you wouldn't have let me push down your dress last week and kiss your breasts.”

She blushed with the deep crimson of shame, and her voice shook with accusation as she said, “Don't try to say that this is my fault.”

He closed his eyes and raked both hands through his hair, aware that he had just said something very, very stupid. “Of course it's not your fault, Miranda. Please forget I said that.”

“Just like you want me to forget you kissed me.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.

“Yes.” He looked over at her and saw a kind of deadness in her eyes, something he had never before seen on her face. “Oh, God, Miranda, don't look like that.”

“Don't do this, do do that,” she burst out. “Forget this, don't forget that. Make up your mind, Turner. I don't know what you want. And I don't think you do, either.”

“I'm nine years older than you,” he said in an awful voice. “
Don't
talk down to me.”

“So sorry, Your Highness.”

“Don't do this, Miranda.”

And her face, which had been so closed and bitter, suddenly exploded with emotion. “Stop telling me what to do! Did it ever occur to you that I
wanted
you to kiss me? That I wanted you to want me? And you do, you know. I'm not so naive that you can convince me you don't.”

Turner could only stare at her, whispering, “You don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do!” Her eyes flashed, and her hands curled into shaking fists, and he had a terrible, awful premonition that this was it, this was the moment. Everything depended on this moment, and he knew, without even a thought to what she would say, and what he would say in return, that it would not end well.

“I know exactly what I'm saying,” she said. “I want you.”

His body tightened, and his heart thundered in his chest. But he could not allow this to continue. “Miranda, you only think you want me,” he said quickly. “You have never kissed anyone else, and—”

“Don't patronize me.” Her eyes locked with his, and they were hot with desire. “I know what I want, and I want you.”

He took a ragged breath. He deserved to be sainted for what he was about to say. “No, you don't. It's an infatuation.”

“Damn you!” she exploded. “Are you blind? Are you deaf, dumb, and blind? It's not an infatuation, you idiot! I love you!”

Oh
,
my God.

“I've always loved you! Since I first met you nine years ago. I've loved you all along, every minute.”

“Oh, my God.”

“And don't try to tell me that it's a childhood crush because it's not. It may have been at one point, but it's not any longer.”

He said nothing. He just sat there like an imbecile and stared at her.

“I just—I know my own heart, and I love you, Turner. And if you have even the tiniest shred of decency, you'll say something, because I've said
everything
I possibly can, and I can't bear the silence, and—oh, for heaven's sake! Will you at least blink?”

He couldn't even manage that.

Two days later, Turner still seemed to be in something of a daze.

Miranda hadn't tried to speak with him, hadn't even approached him, but every now and then, she would catch him looking at her with an unfathomable expression. She knew that she had unsettled him because he didn't even have the presence of mind to look away when their eyes met. He'd just stare at her for a few moments longer, then blink and turn away.

Miranda kept hoping that just one time he'd nod.

Still, for most of the weekend they managed to never be in the same place at the same time. If Turner went riding, Miranda explored the orangery. If Miranda took a walk in the gardens, Turner played cards.

Very civilized. Very adult.

And, Miranda thought more than once, very heartbreaking.

They did not see each other even at meals. Lady Chester
prided herself on her matchmaking abilities, and because it was unfathomable that Turner and Miranda might become romantically involved, she did not seat them near each other. Turner was always surrounded by a gaggle of pretty young things, and Miranda more often than not was relegated to keeping company with graying widowers. She supposed Lady Chester did not hold much stock in her ability to snare an eligible husband. Olivia, by contrast, was always seated with three extremely handsome and wealthy men, one to her left, one to her right, and one across the table.

Miranda learned quite a bit about home remedies for gout.

Lady Chester had, however, left the pairings for one of her planned events to chance, and that was her annual treasure hunt. The guests were to search in teams of two. And since the aim of all the guests was to get married or embark upon an affair (depending, of course, on one's current marital status), each team would be made up of one male and one female. Lady Chester had written out her guests' names on slips of paper and then put all the ladies in one bag and the gentlemen in the other.

She was presently dipping her hand into one of these bags. Miranda felt sick to her stomach.

“Sir Anthony Waldove and…” Lady Chester thrust her hand into the other bag. “Lady Rudland.”

Miranda exhaled, not realizing until then that she had been holding her breath. She would do anything to be paired up with Turner—and anything to avoid it.

“Poor Mama,” Olivia whispered in her ear. “Sir Anthony
Waldove is really quite dim. She will have to do all the work.”

Miranda put her finger to her lips. “I can't hear.”

“Mr. William Fitzhugh and…Miss Charlotte Glad-dish.”

“With whom do you wish to be paired?” Olivia asked.

Miranda shrugged. If she was not assigned to Turner, it didn't really matter.

“Lord Turner and…”

Miranda's heart stopped beating.

“…Lady Olivia Bevelstoke. Isn't that sweet? We have been doing this for five years, and this is our first brother-sister team.”

Miranda began to breathe again, not certain if she was disappointed or relieved.

Olivia, however, had no doubt of her own feelings. “
Quel
disaster,” she muttered, in her typically broken French. “All these gentlemen, and I'm stuck with my brother. When is the next time I will be allowed to wander off alone with a gentleman? It's a waste, I tell you, a waste.”

“It could be worse,” Miranda said pragmatically. “Not all the gentlemen here are, er, gentlemen. At least you know that Turner won't attempt to ravish you.”

“It's a small consolation, I assure you.”

“Livvy—”

“Shush, they just called out Lord Westholme.”

“And for the ladies…” Lady Chester trilled. “Miss Miranda Cheever!”

Olivia nudged her. “Lucky you.”

Miranda just shrugged.

“Oh, don't act like such a jade,” Olivia admonished her. “Don't you think he's divine? I'd give my left foot to switch places with you. Say, why
don't
we switch places? There aren't any rules against it. And you like Turner, after all.”

Only too much, Miranda thought gloomily.

“Well? Will you do it? Unless you have your eye on Lord Westholme as well?”

“No,” Miranda replied, trying not to sound dismayed. “No, of course not.”

“Then let's do it,” Olivia said excitedly.

Miranda didn't know if she ought to jump at the chance or run to her room and hide in the wardrobe. Either way, she didn't have much of an excuse to refuse Olivia's request. Livvy would certainly want to know why she didn't want to be alone with Turner. And then what would she say?
I just told your brother that I love him
,
and I'm afraid that he hates me? I can't be alone with Turner because I'm afraid he might ravish me? I can't be alone with him because I'm afraid I might ravish him?

Just thought of it made Miranda want to laugh.

Or cry.

But Olivia was staring at her expectantly, in that Oliviaish way she'd perfected at, oh, the age of three, and Miranda realized that it didn't really matter what she said or did, she was going to end up partnered with Turner.

It wasn't that Olivia was spoiled, although she was, perhaps, a little bit. It was just that any attempts on Miranda's part to dodge the issue would be met by an interrogation so precise and so persistent that she would surely end up revealing everything.

At which point she would have to flee the country. Or at least find a bed to crawl under. For a week.

So she sighed. And she nodded. And she thought about bright sides and silver linings and deduced that neither was in evidence.

Olivia grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Oh, Miranda, thank you!”

“I hope Turner doesn't mind,” Miranda said cautiously.

“Oh, he won't mind. He'll probably get down on his knees and thank his lucky stars he doesn't have to spend the entire afternoon with me. He thinks I'm a brat.”

“He does not.”

“He does. He often tells me I ought to be more like you.”

Miranda turned in surprise. “Does he really?”

“Mmm-hmm.” But Olivia's attention was back on Lady Chester, who was completing the task of matching off the ladies and gentlemen. When she was done, the men rose to seek out their partners.

“Miranda and I have exchanged places!” Olivia exclaimed when Turner reached her side. “You don't mind, do you?”

He said, “Of course not,” but Miranda wouldn't have bet even a farthing that he was telling the truth. After all, what else could he say?

Lord Westholme arrived soon after, and although he was polite enough to try to hide it, he appeared delighted by the switch.

Turner said nothing.

Olivia shot Miranda a perplexed frown, which Miranda ignored.

“Here is your first clue!” Lady Chester called out. “Would the gentlemen please come forward to collect their envelopes?”

Turner and Lord Westholme walked to the center of the room and returned a few seconds later with crisp white envelopes.

“Let's open ours outside,” Olivia said to Lord Westholme, flashing a mischievous smile at Turner and Miranda. “I wouldn't want anyone to overhear us while we discuss our strategy.”

The other competitors apparently had the same idea, because a moment later, Turner and Miranda found themselves very much alone.

He took a deep breath and planted his hands on his hips.

“I didn't ask to switch,” Miranda said quickly. “Olivia wanted me to.”

He raised a brow.

“I didn't!” she protested. “Livvy is interested in Lord Westholme, and she thinks you think she's a brat.”

“She
is
a brat.”

Miranda was not particularly inclined to disagree at that moment, but she nonetheless said, “She could hardly have known what she was doing when she paired us together.”

“You could have refused the switch,” he said pointedly.

“Oh? And on what grounds?” Miranda demanded testily. He didn't have to be
quite
so upset that they had ended up as partners. “How would you suggest I explain to her that we ought not spend the afternoon together?”

Turner didn't answer because, she presumed, he had no
answer. He merely turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Miranda watched him for a moment, and then, when it became apparent that he had no intention of waiting for her, she let out a little huff and scurried along after him. “Turner, will you slow down!”

He stopped short, the exaggerated motions of his body clearly displaying his impatience with her.

When she reached his side, his face held a bored, annoyed expression. “Yes?” he drawled.

She did her best to maintain her temper. “Could we at least try to be civil to one another?”

“I'm not angry with you, Miranda.”

“Well, you certainly do a good imitation of it.”

“I'm frustrated,” he said, in a way that she was fairly certain was meant to shock her. And then he grumbled, “In more ways than you could possibly imagine.”

Miranda could imagine and often did, and she blushed. “Open the envelope, will you?” she muttered.

He handed it to her, and she tore it open. “‘Find your next clue 'neath a miniature sun,'” she read.

She glanced over at him. He wasn't even looking at her. He wasn't particularly
not
looking at her, he was just staring off and up into nothingness, looking as if he'd rather be somewhere else.

“The orangery,” she declared, almost at the point at which she did not care if he was going to participate or not. “I've always thought that oranges were like tiny pieces of the sun.”

He nodded brusquely and gestured with his arm for
her to lead. But there was something rather impolite and condescending about his movements, and she felt an overwhelming urge to grind her teeth together and growl as she stalked forward.

Without a word, she marched out of the house toward the orangery. He really couldn't wait to get this deuced treasure hunt over with, could he? Well, she'd be only too happy to oblige him. She was rather clever; these clues shouldn't be too difficult to decipher. They could be back in their respective rooms in an hour.

Sure enough, they found a pile of envelopes underneath an orange tree. Wordlessly, Turner reached down for one and then handed it to her.

With equal silence, Miranda tore the envelope open. She read the clue and then handed it to Turner.

T
HE
R
OMANS COULD HELP YOU FIND THE NEXT BLUE.

If he was irritated by her silent treatment, he did not show it. He merely folded up the slip of paper and looked at her with an expression of bored expectation.

“It's underneath an arch,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Romans were the first to use them in architecture. There are several in the garden.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later they had retrieved another envelope.

“Do you know how many clues we must get through before we're done?” Turner asked.

It was his first sentence since they'd begun, and it con
cerned when he might be rid of her. Miranda gritted her teeth at the insult, shook her head, and opened the envelope. She had to remain poised. If she let him make even one chink in her facade, she'd fall completely to pieces. Schooling her features into impassivity, she unfolded the slip of paper and read, “‘You'll need to hunt for the next clue.'”

“Something to do with hunting, I imagine,” Turner said.

She lifted her brows. “You've decided to participate?”

“Don't be petty, Miranda.”

She let out an irritated exhale and decided to ignore him. “There is a small hunting lodge to the east. It will take us approximately fifteen minutes to walk there.”

“And how did you discover this lodge?”

“I've been walking quite a bit.”

“Whenever I'm in the house, I imagine.”

Miranda saw no reason to deny his statement.

Turner squinted toward the horizon. “Do you think Lady Chester would send us so far from the main house?”

“I've been right up to now,” Miranda retorted.

“So you have,” he said with a bored shrug. “Lead on.”

They had trudged through the woods for about ten minutes when Turner cast a dubious eye at the darkening sky. “Looks like rain,” he said laconically.

Miranda looked up. He was right. “What do you want to do?”

“Right this minute?”

“No, next week. Of course right this minute, you dolt.”

“A dolt?” He smiled, his white teeth nearly blinding her. “You wound me.”

Miranda's eyes narrowed. “Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?”

“Was I?” he murmured, and she was mortified.

“Oh, Miranda,” he continued with a patronizing sigh, “maybe I like to be nice to you.”

“Maybe you don't.”

“Maybe I do,” he said pointedly. “And maybe you sometimes just make it difficult.”

“Maybe
,” she said with equal arrogance, “it's going to rain, and we ought to get going.”

A clap of thunder drowned out her last word. “Maybe you're right,” Turner replied, grimacing at the sky. “Are we closer to the lodge or the house?”

“The lodge.”

“Then let's hurry. I have no wish to get caught in an electrical storm in the middle of the woods.”

Miranda could not disagree with him, despite her concerns for propriety, so she started walking faster toward the hunting lodge. But they had hardly gone ten yards when the first raindrops fell. Another ten yards and it was a torrential downpour.

Turner grabbed her hand and began to run, pulling her along the path. Miranda stumbled along behind him, wondering if it was any use to run, as they were already soaked to the skin.

A few minutes later they found themselves in front of the two-room hunting lodge. Turner took hold of the door-knob and turned it, but the door did not budge. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.