Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (17 page)

Turner wasn't exactly certain why he had remained so long in Kent. The two-day jaunt quickly extended itself when Lord Harry decided that he did indeed wish to purchase the property, and furthermore, he wanted to have some friends over for a raucous house party immediately. There wasn't any way for Turner to extricate himself politely, and to be honest, he didn't really want to leave, not when that meant returning to London and facing up to his responsibilities.

Not that he was plotting a way to weasel out of marrying Miranda. Quite the opposite, in fact. Once he had resigned himself to the idea of remarrying, it no longer seemed like such a dreadful fate.

But still, he was hesitant to return. If he hadn't rushed out of town on the flimsiest of excuses, he could have cleared up the matter right away. But the longer he waited,
the more he wanted to keep on waiting. How on earth would he explain his absence?

So the two-day trip slipped into a week-long house party that in turn slid into a three-week-long free-for-all with hunting, races, and plenty of loose women who'd been given free rein of the house. Turner was careful not to partake of the last. He might be shirking his responsibility to Miranda, but the least he could do was remain faithful.

Then Winston found his way down to Kent and proceeded to join the party with abandon so reckless that Turner felt compelled to stay and offer some fraternal guidance. This required another two weeks of his time, which he gave gladly, for it assuaged some of the guilt he'd been feeling. He couldn't abandon his brother, could he? If he didn't watch out for Winston, the poor boy would probably end up with a raging case of the French pox.

But finally he realized that he could not put off the inevitable any longer, and he returned to London, feeling rather like an ass. Miranda was probably fuming. He'd be lucky if she'd have him. And so, with not a little trepidation, he marched up the steps to his parents' home and let himself into the front hall.

The butler materialized immediately. “Huntley,” Turner said in greeting. “Is Miss Cheever in? Or my sister?”

“No, my lord.”

“Hmmm. When are they expected back?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

“This afternoon? Suppertime?”

“Not for several weeks, I imagine.”

“Several weeks!” Turner had not anticipated this. “Where the devil are they?”

Huntley stiffened at Turner's use of the invective. “Scotland, my lord.”

“Scotland?” Bloody hell. What the devil were they doing up there? Miranda had relations in Edinburgh, but if there had been plans to visit them, he had not been made aware.

Wait a moment, Miranda wasn't promised to some Scottish gentleman who was connected to her grandparents, was she?
Someone
would surely have told him if that were the case. Miranda, for one. And the Lord knew Olivia couldn't keep a secret.

Turner strode to the bottom of the stairs and began to yell. “Mother! Mother!” He turned back to Huntley. “I assume my mother has not also hightailed it off to Scotland?”

“No, she is in residence here, my lord.”

“Mother!”

Lady Rudland came hurrying down. “Turner, what on earth is the matter? And where have you been? Taking yourself off to Kent without even telling us.”

“Why are Olivia and Miranda in Scotland?”

Lady Rudland raised her eyebrows at his interest. “Illness in the family. Miranda's family, that is.”

Turner declined to point out that that much was obvious, as the Bevelstokes didn't have any family in Scotland. “And Olivia went with her?”

“Well, they are very close, you know.”

“When are they expected back?”

“I can't say about Miranda, but I have already written to Olivia, insisting that she return. She is expected in just a few days.”

“Good,” Turner muttered.

“I'm sure she'll be pleased by your brotherly devotion.”

Turner's eyes narrowed. Was that a note of sarcasm in his mother's voice? He couldn't be certain. “I'll see you soon, Mother.”

“I'm sure you will. Oh, and Turner?”

“Yes?”

“Why don't you see about spending a bit more time with your valet? You're looking quite ragged.”

Turner was growling when he let himself out.

Two days later, Turner was informed that his sister had returned to London. Turner rushed out to find her immediately. If there was one thing he hated, it was waiting. And if there was one thing he hated even more, it was feeling guilty.

And he felt bloody guilty for having made Miranda wait for what was now more than six weeks.

Olivia was in her bedroom when he arrived. Rather than wait for her in the sitting room, Turner headed up the stairs and knocked on her door.

“Turner!” Olivia exclaimed. “My goodness! What are you doing up here?”

“Really, Olivia, I used to live here. Remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She smiled and sat back down. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Turner opened his mouth and then shut it, not at all certain what he wanted to ask her. He couldn't very well just come out and say, “I seduced your best friend and now I need to make things right, so would it be appropriate for me to seek her out at her grandparents' home while one of them is ill?”

He opened his mouth again.

“Yes, Turner?”

He shut it, feeling the fool.

“Did you want to ask me something?”

“How was Scotland?” he blurted out.

“Lovely. Have you ever been?”

“No. And Miranda?”

Olivia hesitated before replying, “She is well. She sends her regards.”

Somehow, Turner doubted that. He took a breath. He had to proceed cautiously. “She is in good spirits?”

“Ehrm, yes. Yes, she is.”

“She wasn't upset about missing out on the rest of the season?”

“No, of course not. She never enjoyed it very much to begin with. You know that.”

“Right.” He turned around and faced the window, his hand beating an impatient tattoo against one of his legs. “Is she coming back soon?”

“Not for several months, I imagine.”

“Then her grandmother is quite ill?”

“Quite.”

“I shall have to send my condolences.”

“It hasn't come to that yet.” Olivia said quickly. “The
doctor says it will take some time, ehrm, at least half a year, maybe a little more, but he thinks she will recover.”

“I see. And just what is this malady?”

“A female complaint,” Olivia said, her voice perhaps a little too pert.

Turner raised a brow. A female complaint in a grandmother. How very intriguing. And suspicious. He turned back around. “I hope this isn't catching. I shouldn't like to see Miranda fall ill.”

“Oh, no. The, er, malady present in that household is definitely not communicable.” When Turner did not remove his heavy stare from her face, she added, “Just look at me. I was there for over a fortnight, and I am healthy as a horse.”

“So you are. But I must say, I'm worried about Miranda.”

“Oh, but you shouldn't be,” Olivia insisted. “She's just fine, really she is.”

Turner narrowed his eyes. His sister's cheeks had gone a little pink. “You're not telling me something.”

“I…I don't know what you're talking about,” she stammered. “And why are you asking me so many questions about Miranda?”

“She's a good friend of mine as well,” he replied silkily. “And I suggest you try telling me the truth.”

Olivia scooted across the bed as he strode toward her. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Is she involved with a man?” he demanded. “Is she? Is that why you've concocted this over-obvious story about some sick relative?”

“It's not a story,” she protested.

“Tell me the truth!”

Her mouth clamped shut.

“Olivia,” he said dangerously.

“Turner!” Her voice grew shrill. “I don't like that look in your eye. I'm going to call for Mother.”

“Mother's half my size. She won't be able to stop me from strangling you, brat.”

Her eyes bugged out. “Turner, you've gone mad.”

“Who is he?”

“I don't know!” she burst out. “I don't know.”

“So there
is
someone.”

“Yes! No! Not anymore!”

“What the devil is going on?” Jealousy, pure and raging hot, raced through him.

“Nothing!”

“Tell me what has happened to Miranda.” He circled around the bed until he had Olivia cornered. A very primitive sense of fear coursed through him. Fear that he might lose Miranda and fear she was in some way hurt. What if something had happened to her? He had never dreamed that Miranda's welfare could cause this throat-choking worry within him, but there you had it, and Christ, this was awful. He had never wanted to care about her this much.

Olivia's head darted back and forth as she looked for a means to escape. “She's fine, Turner. I swear it.”

His large hands descended on her shoulders. “Olivia,” he said in a very low voice, his blue eyes gleaming with fury and fear. “I'm going to say this but once. When we were children, I never once struck you, despite, I might
add, ample reason.” He paused, leaning in menacingly. “But I am not averse to starting right now.”

Her lower lip began to quiver.

“If you do not tell me right this instant what kind of trouble Miranda has gotten herself into, you will be very sorry indeed.”

A hundred different emotions crossed Olivia's face, most of them somehow related to panic or fear. “Turner,” she beseeched him, “she is my dearest friend. I cannot betray her trust.”

“What is wrong with her?” he ground out.

“Turner…”

“Tell me!”

“No, I can't, I…” Olivia went white. “
Oh, my God.
”

“What?”

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It's you.”

A look Turner had never seen before, on his sister, or indeed anyone, came over her face, and then—

“How could you!” she screamed, pummeling his upper body with her meager fists. “How could you? You're a beast! Do you hear me? A beast! And it was positively wretched of you to leave her like that.”

Turner stood stock-still throughout her tirade, trying to make sense of her words and her rage. “Olivia,” he said slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“Miranda is pregnant,” she hissed. “Pregnant.”

“Oh, my God.” Turner's hands fell away from her arms and he sank down onto the bed in shock.

“I assume you're the father,” she said coldly. “That is
disgusting. For God's sake, Turner. You're practically her brother.”

His nostrils flared. “Hardly.”

“You're older than she is, and more experienced. You shouldn't have taken advantage of her.”

“I am not going to explain my actions to you,” he bit out coldly.

Olivia snorted.

“Why didn't she tell me?”

“You were off in Kent, if you recall. Drinking and whoring and—”

“I wasn't whoring,” he snapped. “I haven't been with another woman since Miranda.”

“Pardon me if I find that hard to believe, big brother. You are despicable. Get out of my room.”

“Pregnant.” He repeated the word as if saying it again would make it easier to believe. “Miranda. A baby. My God.”

“It's a little late for prayer,” Olivia said icily. “Your behavior has been worse than reprehensible.”

“I didn't know she was pregnant.”

“Does it matter?”

Turner didn't answer. He couldn't answer, not when he knew that he was so obviously in the wrong. He let his head fall into his hands, his mind still reeling in shock. Dear God, when he thought about how selfish he had been…He had put off confronting Miranda simply because he was too lazy. He had figured she'd be here waiting for him when he returned. Because…because…

Because that's what she did. Hadn't she been waiting for him for years? Hadn't she said…

He was an ass. There could be no other explanation or excuse. He'd just assumed…and then he'd taken advantage…and…

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that she was off some three hundred miles to the north, coping with an unexpected pregnancy that would soon become an illegitimate child.

He'd told her to notify him if this happened. Why hadn't she written? Why hadn't she said something?

He looked down at his hands. They looked strange, and foreign, and when he flexed his fingers, his muscles were tight and awkward.

“Turner?”

He could hear his sister whispering his name, but somehow he couldn't respond. He could feel his throat moving, but he couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe. All he could manage was to sit there like a fool, thinking of Miranda.

Alone.

She was alone, and probably terrified. She was alone, when she should have been married and comfortably ensconced in his Northumberland home with fresh air and wholesome food and where he could keep an eye out on her.

A baby.

Funny how he had always assumed he'd let Winston carry on the family name, because now he wanted more than anything to touch Miranda's swollen belly, to hold this child in his arms. He hoped it would be a girl. He
hoped she would have brown eyes. He could get his heir later on. With Miranda in his bed, he wasn't worried about conceiving again.

“What are you going to do about it?” Olivia demanded.

Turner slowly lifted his head. His sister was standing militantly before him, hands on hips. “What do you think I'm going to do about it?” he countered.

“I don't know, Turner,” and for once Olivia's voice lacked an edge. Turner realized that this wasn't a retort. It wasn't a dare. Olivia honestly was not convinced that he intended to do the right thing and marry Miranda.