Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (20 page)

“I like it here…wait…Oh!” She was firmly pressed against his side, his arm an iron band around her.

“This is much better, don't you think?”

“I can't see out the window now,” she said sourly.

“Nothing there you haven't seen before.” He pushed aside the curtain and peeked outside. “Let's see, trees, grass, a cottage or two. All fairly ordinary stuff.” He took her hand in his and idly stroked her fingers. “Do you like the ring?” he asked. “It's rather plain, I know, but simple gold bands are a custom in my family.”

Miranda's breathing grew quicker as her hands were warmed by his caress. “It's lovely. I—I shouldn't like anything ostentatious.”

“I didn't think you would. You're a rather elegant little creature.”

She blushed, nervously twisting her ring 'round and 'round on her finger. “Oh, but it's Olivia who picks out all my fashions.”

“Nonetheless, I'm sure you wouldn't let her choose anything loud or garish.”

Miranda stole a glance at him. He was smiling at her rather gently, almost benignly, but his fingers were doing wicked things to her wrist, sending flutters and sparks to her very core. And then he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a devastatingly soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “I've something else for you,” he murmured.

She didn't dare look at him again. Not if she wanted to maintain even a shred of her composure.

“Turn around,” he ordered gently. He placed two fingers below her chin and tilted her face toward his. Fishing into his pocket, he pulled out a velvet-covered jeweler's box. “In all the rush this week, I forgot to give you a proper engagement ring.”

“Oh, but that's not necessary,” she said quickly, not really meaning it.

“Shut up, puss,” he said with a grin. “And accept your gift gracefully.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, easing the lid off the box. Inside sparkled a brilliant diamond, oval-cut and framed by two small sapphires. “It's lovely, Turner,” she whispered. “It matches your eyes.”

“That wasn't my intention, I assure you,” he said in a husky voice. He took the ring out of the box and slid it on her slender finger. “Does it fit?”

“Perfectly.”

“Are you certain?”

“I'm positive, Turner. I…thank you. It was very thoughtful.” Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

He captured her face in his hands. “I'm not going to be such a terrible husband, you'll see.” His face drew closer until his lips brushed hers in a gentle kiss. She leaned in toward him, seduced by his warmth and the soft murmurings of his mouth. “So soft,” he whispered, pulling the pins from her hair so that he could run his hands through it. “So soft, and so sweet. I never dreamed…”

Miranda arched her neck to allow his lips greater access. “Never dreamed what?”

His lips moved lightly across her skin. “That you'd be like this. That I'd want you like this. That it
could
be like this.”

“I always knew. I always knew.” The words slipped out before she could judge the wisdom of speaking them, and then she decided she didn't care. Not when he was kissing
her like this, not when his breath was coming in ragged gasps to match her own.

“Such a clever one, you are,” he murmured. “I should have listened to you long ago.” He began to ease her dress from her shoulders, then pressed his lips against the top of her breast, and the fire of it proved to be too much for Miranda. She arched her back against him, and when his fingers went to the buttons of her dress, she offered no resistance. In seconds, her gown slid down, and his mouth found the tip of her breast.

Miranda moaned at the shock and the pleasure. “Oh, Turner, I…” She sighed. “More…”

“A command I am only too happy to obey.” His lips moved to her other breast, where they repeated the same torture.

He kissed and he suckled, and all the while, his hands wandered. Up her leg, around her waist—it was as if he was trying to mark her, to brand her forever as his own.

She felt wanton. She felt womanly. And she felt a need that burned from some strange, fiery place, deep within her. “I want you,” she breathed, her fingers sinking into his hair. “I want…”

His fingers wandered higher, to her most tender flesh.

“I want
that
.”

He chuckled against her neck. “At your service, Lady Turner.”

She didn't even have time to be surprised by her new name. He was doing something—dear God, she didn't even know
what
—and it was all she could do not to scream.

And then he pulled away—not his fingers; she would
have killed him if he'd tried—but his head, just far enough to gaze down on her with a delicious smile. “I know something else you'll like,” he taunted.

Miranda's lips parted with breathless surprise as he sank to his knees on the floor of the carriage. “Turner?” she whispered, because surely he could do nothing from down there. Surely he wouldn't…

She gasped as his head disappeared under her skirts.

Then she gasped again when she felt him, hot and demanding, kissing a trail along her thigh.

And then there could be no more doubt as to his intention. His fingers, which had been doing such a fine job arousing her, shifted position. He was spreading her open, she realized wildly, separating her, preparing her for…

His lips.

After that there was very little rational thought. Whatever she'd thought she'd felt the first time—and the first time had been very good, indeed—it was nothing compared to this. His mouth was wicked, and she was bewitched. And when she shattered, it was with every ounce of her body, every last drop of her soul.

Dear heavens
, she thought, trying desperately to find her breath.
How could anyone survive such a thing
?

Turner's smiling face suddenly appeared before hers. “Your first wedding gift,” he said.

“I…I…”

“‘Thank you' will suffice,” he said, cheeky as ever.

“Thank you,” she sighed.

He kissed her gently on the mouth. “You are very, very welcome.”

Miranda watched him as he adjusted her dress, covering her carefully and finishing with a platonic pat on the arm. His passion seemed to have completely cooled, whereas she still felt as if a flame were licking at her from the inside out. “Don't you…er, you didn't…”

A wry smile touched his features. “There isn't much I want more, but unless you want your wedding night in a moving carriage, I'll find a way to abstain.”

“That wasn't a wedding night?” she asked doubtfully.

He shook his head. “Just a little treat for you.”

“Oh.” Miranda was trying to remember why she had protested the marriage so fiercely. A lifetime of little treats sounded rather lovely.

Her body spent, she felt a languor descending over her, and she settled sleepily into his side. “We'll do this again?” she mumbled, burrowing into his warmth.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, smiling to himself as he watched her drift off. “I promise.”

Rosedale was, by aristocratic standards, of modest proportions. The warm and elegant home had been in the Bevelstoke family for several generations, and it was customary for the eldest son to use it as his country home before he ascended to the earldom and the much grander Haverbreaks. Turner loved Rosedale, loved its plain stone walls and crenellated roofs. And most of all, he loved the wild landscape, domesticated only by the hundreds of roses that had been planted with wild abandon around the house.

They arrived fairly late at night, having stopped for a leisurely lunch near the border. Miranda had long since fallen asleep—she'd warned him that the motion of a carriage always made her drowsy—but Turner did not mind. He liked the quiet of the night, with only the sounds of the horses and the carriage and the wind in the air. He liked the moonlight, drifting in through the windows. And he liked glancing down at his new wife, who was not at all elegant in her sleep—her mouth was open, and truth be told, she
snored just a bit. But he liked that. He didn't know why he liked it, but he did.

And he liked knowing it.

He hopped down from the carriage, placed one finger on his lips when one of the outriders approached to help, then reached back in and scooped Miranda into his arms. She had never been to Rosedale, even though it was not so far from the Lakes. He hoped she would grow to love it as he did. He thought she would. He knew her well, he was beginning to realize. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he could look at something and think,
Miranda would like that
.

Turner had stopped here on his way up to Scotland, and the servants had been instructed to have the house ready. It was, although he had not sent word of their exact arrival, and so the staff had not been assembled for an introduction to the new viscountess. Turner was glad for that; he wouldn't have wanted to wake Miranda up.

When he made his way inside his bedchamber, he noticed thankfully that a fire was burning in the hearth. It might have been August, but the Northumberland nights held a distinctive chill. As he set Miranda softly down on the bed, a pair of footmen brought in their meager luggage. Turner whispered to the butler that his new wife could meet the staff in the morning, or perhaps later in the day, and then shut the door.

Miranda, who had gone from snoring to restless mumbling, shifted position and hugged a pillow to her chest. Turner returned to her side and shushed softly in her ear. She seemed to recognize his voice in her sleep; she let
out a contented sigh and immediately rolled over.

“No sleep just yet,” he murmured. “Let's get you out of these clothes.” She was lying on her side, so he went to work on the buttons marching down her back. “Can you sit up for just a moment? So I can remove your dress?”

Like a sleepy child, she allowed herself to be pulled into a sitting position. “Where are we?” she yawned, not quite awake.

“Rosedale. Your new home.” He wiggled her skirts up past her hips so that he could pull them over her head.

“Oh. It's nice.” She flopped back down on the bed.

He smiled indulgently and nudged her back up. “Just another few seconds.” With one deft motion, he pulled her dress over her head, leaving her clad in her chemise.

“Good,” Miranda murmured, trying to crawl under the covers.

“Not so fast.” He caught hold of her ankle. “We don't sleep with clothing here.” The chemise joined her gown on the floor. Miranda, barely realizing that she was nude, finally made it under the bedclothes, sighed in utter contentment, and promptly fell asleep.

Turner chuckled and shook his head as he watched his wife. Had he noticed before that her eyelashes were so long? Perhaps it was just the candlelight. He, too, was tired, so he stripped off his clothing in quick, efficient movements and crawled into bed. She was lying on her side, curled up like a child, so he snaked an arm around her and pulled her to the center of the bed, where he could cuddle up against her warmth. Her skin was unbearably soft, and he idly stroked his hand against her midriff. Something he
touched must have tickled her, for she let out a soft squeal and rolled over.

“Everything is going to be just fine,” he whispered. They had affection and they had attraction, and that was more than most couples. He leaned forward to kiss her sleepy mouth, tracing its outline lightly with his tongue.

Her eyelids fluttered open.

“You must be Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured. “Awakened by a kiss.”

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice groggy.

“At Rosedale. You asked me that already.”

“Did I? I don't remember.”

Quite unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her again. “Ah, Miranda, you're very sweet.”

She let out a small sigh of contentment at his kiss, but it was obvious that she was having trouble keeping her eyelids open. “Turner?”

“Yes, puss?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“I'm sorry. I just can't…that is, I'm so tired.” She yawned. “Can't do my duty.”

He smiled wryly as he pulled her into his arms. “Shhh,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Don't think of it as a duty. It's far too splendid for that. And I'm not such a cad as to force myself on a woman who is exhausted. We have plenty of time. Don't worry.”

But she was already asleep.

He brushed his lips against her hair. “We have an entire lifetime.”

Miranda woke first the next morning, letting out a great big yawn as she opened her eyes. Daylight was peeking in around the curtains, but it definitely wasn't the sun that was causing her bed to be so cozy and warm. Turner's arm had been thrown over her waist at some point during the night, and she was curled up against him. Lord, but the man radiated heat.

She scooted around to allow herself a better view of him while he slept. His face always held a boyish appeal, but in slumber the effect was exaggerated. He looked a perfect angel, without a trace of the cynicism that sometimes clouded his eyes.

“We have Leticia to thank for that,” Miranda murmured softly, touching his cheek.

He stirred, mumbling something in his sleep.

“Not yet, my love,” she whispered, feeling brave enough to use endearments when she knew he could not hear her. “I like to watch you sleep.”

Turner slept, and she listened to him breathe.

It was heaven.

Eventually he stirred, his body stretching its way awake before his eyelids lifted. And then there he was, watching her with sleepy eyes, smiling.

“Morning,” he said groggily.

“Good morning.”

He yawned. “Have you been awake long?”

“Just a little while.”

“Are you hungry? I could have some breakfast sent up.”

She shook her head.

He yawned again and then smiled at her. “You're very pink in the morning.”

“Pink?” She couldn't help but be intrigued.

“Mmm-hmm. Your skin…it glows.”

“It does not.”

“It does. Trust me.”

“My mother always told me to be suspicious of men who said, ‘Trust me.'”

“Yes, well, your mother never knew me very well,” he said offhandedly. He touched her lips with his index finger. “These are pink, too.”

“Are they?” she asked in a breathy voice.

“Mmm-hmm. Very pink. But not, I think, as pink as some other parts of you.”

Miranda turned positively scarlet.

“These, for example,” he murmured, grazing his palms over her nipples. His hand stole back up and tenderly cupped her cheek. “You were very tired last night.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Much too tired to attend to some important business.”

She swallowed nervously, trying not to let out a little moan as his hand trailed softly up her back.

“I think it's time we consummated this marriage,” he murmured, his lips warm and wicked at her ear. And then he pulled her against him, and she realized just how soon he wanted to take care of the matter.

Miranda gave him a smile full of humor-tinged reproof. “We took care of that quite some time ago. A trifle prematurely, if you recall.”

“Doesn't count,” he said blithely, waving off her comment. “We weren't married.”

“If it didn't
count
, we wouldn't
be
married.”

Turner acknowledged her point with a rakish smile. “Ah, well, I suppose you're right. But everything worked out in the end. You can hardly be upset with me for being so tremendously virile.”

Miranda might have been fairly innocent, but she knew enough to roll her eyes at that. She could not remark, however, as his hand had moved to her breast, and he was doing something to the tip that she could swear she felt between her legs.

She felt herself sliding, slipping off the pillow and onto her back, and she felt herself sliding on the inside, too, as his every touch seemed to melt another inch of her body. He kissed her breasts, her stomach, her legs. There seemed to be no part of her that did not interest him. Miranda didn't know what to do. She lay on her back beneath his exploring hands and mouth, squirming and moaning whenever the sensations began to overwhelm her.

“Do you like that?” Turner murmured as he inspected the back of her knee with his lips.

“I like everything,” she gasped.

He moved back up to her mouth and dropped a quick kiss onto it. “I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to hear you say that.”

“This can't be proper.”

He grinned. “No less so than what I did to you in the carriage.”

She flushed at the memory, then bit her lip to keep from asking him to do it again.

But he read her mind, or at least her face, and he let out a purr of pleasure as he kissed his way down the length of her body to her womanhood. His lips touched first the inside of one thigh, then the other.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, beyond embarrassment now. She didn't care if it made her a brazen hussy. She just wanted the pleasure.

“So sweet,” he murmured, and he placed one of his hands on her soft tuft of hair and opened her even more. His hot breath touched her skin, and her legs tensed, even though she knew she wanted this. “No, no, no,” he said, amusement in his voice as he gently pried her apart. And then he leaned down and kissed that most sensitive nub of flesh.

Miranda, quite unable to say anything coherent, squealed from the sheer sensation of his kisses. Was it pleasure or pain? She wasn't certain. Her hands, which had been balled into fists at her sides, flew down to Turner's head and planted themselves in his hair. When her hips began to writhe beneath him, he made a move as if to get up, but her hands held his head firmly in place. He finally eased his way from her grasp and moved back up her body until his lips were on level with hers. “I thought you weren't going to let me up for air,” he murmured.

Miranda didn't think it possible in her position, but she blushed.

He nibbled on her ear. “Did you like that?”

She nodded, unable to voice the words.

“There are many, many things for you to learn.”

“Could I…?” Oh, how to ask it?

He smiled indulgently at her. “Could you what?”

She swallowed down her embarrassment. “Could I touch
you
?”

In response, he took her hand and guided it down his body. When they reached his manhood, her hand jerked back reflexively. It was much hotter than she'd expected, and much, much harder. Turner patiently moved her hand back to him, and this time she made a few tentative strokes, marveling at how soft the skin was. “It's so different,” she marveled. “So very odd.”

He chuckled, partly because that was the only way he could contain the desire that was racing through him. “It's never seemed odd to me.”

“I want to see it.”

“Oh, God, Miranda.” This, between clenched teeth.

“No, I do.” She pushed down the covers until he was bared to her eyes. “Oh, my goodness,” she breathed. That had fit into her? She could barely believe it. Still immensely curious, she wrapped her hand around him and gently squeezed.

Turner nearly came off the bed.

She let go of him immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he rasped. “Do it again.”

Miranda's lips curved into a feminine smile of satisfaction as she repeated her caresses. “Can I kiss you?”

“You'd better not,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh. I thought maybe since you had kissed me…”

Turner let out a primitive growl and flipped her over
onto her back and settled himself between her thighs. “Later. You can do it later.” Unable to control his passion any longer, his mouth descended onto hers with stunning force, claiming her as his own. He nudged her thigh with his knee, forcing her to open wider.

Miranda instinctively tilted her hips to allow him easier entry. He slid into her effortlessly, and she marveled that her body could stretch to fit him. He began stroking slowly back and forth, back and forth, moving inside her with a slow but steady rhythm. “Oh, Miranda,” he moaned. “Oh, my God.”

“I know. I know.” Her head lolled from side to side. The weight of him was pinning her down, and yet she could not keep still.

“You're mine,” he growled, stepping up the pace. “Mine.”

She moaned in response.

He held still, his eyes strange and penetrating as he said, “Say it.”

“I'm yours,” she whispered.

“Every inch of you. Every luscious inch of you. From here”—he cupped her breast—“to here”—he slid his finger along the curve of her cheek—“to here.” He pulled out until only the very tip of him remained within her and then pumped back in to the hilt.

“Oh, God yes, Turner. Anything you want.”

“I want
you
.”

“I'm yours. I swear it.”

“No one else, Miranda. Promise me.” He again pulled himself almost out.