Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (21 page)

She felt utterly bereft without him inside her and almost cried out. “I promise,” she gasped. “Please…just come back to me.”

He slid back in, causing her to both sigh with relief and pant with desire. “There will be no other men. Do you hear me?”

Miranda knew that his urgent words stemmed from Leticia's betrayal, but she was too caught up in the passion of the moment to even think of scolding him for comparing her to his late wife. “None, I swear! I've never wanted anyone else.”

“And you never will,” he said firmly, as if he could make it true simply by saying it.

“Never! Please, Turner, please…I need you. I need…”

“I know what you need.” His lips closed around one of her nipples as he sped up his movements inside her. She felt pressure building in her body. Spasms of pleasure were shooting through her belly, down her arms, and up her legs. And then suddenly she knew she could not possibly bear another moment without expiring on the spot, and her entire body convulsed, clenching around his manhood like a silken glove. She screamed his name, grasping at his arms as her shoulders came off the bed in the force of her climax.

The sheer sensuality of her release pushed Turner over the edge, and he cried out hoarsely as he plunged forward one last time, driving himself in to the hilt. His pleasure was intense, and he could not believe the speed with which
he poured himself into her. He collapsed on top of her, utterly spent. Never had it been this good, never. Not even the last time with Miranda. It was as if every movement, every touch was intensified now that he knew she was his and his alone. He was startled by his possessiveness, stunned by the way he had made her swear her fidelity to him, and disgusted by the fact that he had manipulated her passion to suit his childish needs.

Was she angry? Did she hate him for it? He lifted his head up and looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were curved into a half smile. She looked every inch the satisfied woman, and he quickly decided that if she wasn't offended by his actions or questions, he wasn't going to argue with her.

“You look pink, puss,” he murmured, stroking her cheek.

“Still?” she asked lazily, not even opening her eyes.

“Even more so.”

Turner smiled, propping himself up on his elbows to take some of his weight off her. He ran his finger along the curve of her cheek, starting at the corner of her mouth and then winding up at the tender skin near her eye. He nudged her lashes. “Open up.”

She lifted her lids. “Good morning.”

“Indeed.” He grinned boyishly.

She squirmed beneath his intense stare. “Aren't you growing uncomfortable?”

“I like it up here.”

“But your arms—”

“Are strong enough to hold me up for quite a while longer. Besides, I enjoy looking at you.”

Shyly, she averted her gaze.

“No, no, no. No escape. Look back here.” He touched her chin and nudged it until she was facing him again. “You're very beautiful, you know.”

“I am not,” she said in a voice that said she
knew
he was lying.

“Will you stop quibbling with me over this point? I'm older than you and have seen a lot of women.”

“Seen?” she asked dubiously.

“That, my dear wife, is another topic altogether, and one that does not require discussion. I merely wanted to point out that I am probably a bit more of a connoisseur than you are, and you should take my word on the matter. If I say you're beautiful, then you're beautiful.”

“Really, Turner, you're very sweet—”

He leaned down until his nose rested on hers. “You're starting to irritate me, wife.”

“Good heavens, I wouldn't want to do that.”

“I should think not.”

Her lips curved into a mischief-tinged smile. “You're very handsome.”

“Thank you,” he said magnanimously. “Now, did you see how nicely I accepted your compliment?”

“You rather ruined the effect by pointing out your good manners.”

He shook his head. “Such a mouth on you. I'm going to have to do something about that.”

“Kiss it?” she said hopefully.

“Mmm, not a problem.” His tongue darted out and traced the outline of her lips. “Very nice. Very tasty.”

“I'm not a fruit tart, you know,” she retorted.

“There's that mouth again,” he said, sighing.

“I imagine you'll have to keep kissing me.”

He sighed as if that were a great chore. “Oh, all right.” This time, he poked into her mouth and ran his tongue along the smooth surface of her teeth. When he lifted his head again and looked back down at her face, she was glowing. It seemed the only word to describe the radiance that emanated from her skin. “My Lord, Miranda,” he said hoarsely. “You really are beautiful.”

He lowered himself down, rolled onto his side, and gathered her into his arms. “I've never seen anyone look quite as you do right this minute,” he murmured, pulling her more tightly against him. “Let's just lie here like this for a spell.”

He drifted off to sleep, thinking that this was an excellent way to start off a marriage.

The months passed, and the newlyweds settled into a comfortable and affectionate routine. Turner, who had lived through a hellish existence with Leticia, was constantly surprised at how pleasant marriage could be when one undertook it with the right person. Miranda was a complete delight to him. He loved to watch her read a book, brush her hair, give instructions to the housekeeper—he loved to watch her do anything. And he found himself constantly looking for excuses to touch her. He would point out an invisible speck of dust on her dress and then brush it aside. A lock of her hair had fallen astray, he would murmur as he pushed it back into place.

And she never seemed to mind. Sometimes, if she was busy with something, she would swat his hand away, but more often she merely smiled, and sometimes she'd move her head—just a touch, just enough to rest her cheek in his hand.

But sometimes, when she did not realize he was watching her, he caught her looking at him with such longing. She always looked away, so quickly that he often could not even be sure that the moment had occurred. But he knew that it had, because when he closed his own eyes at night, he saw hers, with that flash of sadness that clawed at his gut.

He knew what she wanted. It should have been easy. Three simple words. And really, shouldn't he just say them? Even if he didn't mean them, wouldn't it be worth it just to see her happy?

Sometimes he tried to say it, tried to make his mouth form the words, but he always seemed to get this choking feeling, as if his very breath were being squeezed from his throat.

And the irony was—he thought he might love her. He knew that he would be utterly bereft if something were to happen to her. But then again, he'd thought he loved Leticia, and look where that had got him. He loved everything
about
Miranda, from the way her nose turned up slightly at the end to her dry wit which she never spared on him. But was that the same as loving the person?

And if he did, how would he know? This time, he wanted to be sure. He wanted some sort of scientific proof. He had loved on faith once before, believing that his giddy mix of desire and obsession had to be love. Because what else could it have been?

But now he was older. Wiser, too, which was a good thing, and far more cynical, which was not.

Most of the time he was able to push these worries from
his head. He was a man, and frankly, that's what men did. Women could discuss and ruminate (and most likely discuss again, following) all they wanted. He preferred to ponder a matter once, maybe twice, and be done with it.

Which was why it was particularly galling that he seemed unable to let this particular problem go. His life was lovely. Happy. Delightful. He shouldn't be wasting valuable thought and energy pondering the state of his own heart. He ought to be able to enjoy his many blessings and not have to
think
about it.

He was doing precisely this—concentrating on why he did not wish to be thinking about all this—when he heard a knock on his study door.

“Come in!”

Miranda's head peeked into the doorway. “Am I bothering you?”

“No, of course not. Come in.”

She pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered the room. Turner had to stifle a smile at the sight of her. Lately her belly seemed to precede the rest of her into a room by a good five seconds. She saw his grin and looked down at herself ruefully. “I'm enormous, aren't I?”

“That you are.”

She sighed. “You might have lied to spare my feelings and told me that I'm not so very big. Women in my condition are very emotional, you know.” She walked over to a chair near his desk and put her arms on the armrests to ease herself down into it.

Turner jumped to his feet immediately to help her into the chair. “I believe I like you big.”

She snorted. “You just like seeing tangible proof of your own virility.”

He smiled at that. “Has she kicked today?”

“No, and I'm not so sure he's a she.”

“Of course he's a she. It's perfectly obvious.”

“I suppose you're planning to open a practice in psychic midwifery?”

His brows rose. “Watch your mouth, wife.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and held out a piece of paper. “I received a letter from your mother today. I thought you might like to read it.”

He took the letter from her hands, idly pacing the room as he read the missive. He had put off telling his family about his marriage for as long as possible, but after two months, Miranda had convinced him that he couldn't possibly avoid it any longer. As expected, they were shocked (with the exception of Olivia, who'd had some inkling as to what was going on), and had rushed immediately to Rosedale to inspect the situation. His mother had been heard to murmur, “I never dreamed…” a few hundred times, and Winston's nose had been put a little out of joint, but all in all, Miranda made a smooth transition from Cheever to Bevelstoke. After all, she had practically been a part of the family before.

“Winston has got into a bit of trouble at Oxford,” Turner murmured, his eyes quickly moving across his mother's words.

“Yes, well, that is to be expected, I imagine.”

He looked up at her with an amused expression. “What does that mean?”

“Don't think I never heard about
your
exploits at university.”

He grinned. “I'm much more mature now.”

“I should hope so.”

He walked over to her and dropped a kiss first on her nose and then on her belly.

“I wish I could have gone to Oxford,” she said longingly. “I should have loved to listen to all of those lectures.”

“Not all of them. Trust me, some were dismal.”

“I still think I would have liked it.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. You're certainly a deuced sight more intelligent than most of the men I knew there.”

“After having spent nearly a season in London, I have to say that it is not terribly difficult to be more intelligent than most of the men of the
ton
.”

“Present company excluded, I hope.”

She nodded graciously. “Of course.”

He shook his head as he moved back to his desk. This was what he loved most about being married to her—these quirky little conversations that filled their days. He sat back down and picked up a document he'd been perusing before she came in. “It looks as if I will need to go to London.”

“Now? Is anyone even there?”

“Very few,” he admitted. Parliament was not in session, and most of the
ton
had vacated town for their country homes. “But a good friend of mine is there, and he needs my support for a business venture.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

“There is nothing I would like better, but I will not have you traveling at such a time.”

“I feel perfectly healthy.”

“And I believe you, but it seems ill-advised to take unnecessary chances. And it must be said—you've become rather…” He cleared his throat. “Unwieldy.”

Miranda grimaced. “I wonder what you could possibly have said that might have made me feel less attractive.”

His lips twitched, and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I won't be gone long. No more than a fortnight, I should think.”

“A fortnight?” she said forlornly.

“I'll have at least four days' travel each way. With all the rain recently, the roads will certainly be dreadful.”

“I shall miss you.”

He paused for a moment before answering, “I shall miss you, too.”

At first she did not speak. And then she sighed, a tiny, wistful sound that squeezed around his heart. But then her demeanor changed and she looked a bit more brisk. “I suppose there is plenty to keep me busy,” she said with a sigh. “I should like to redecorate the west parlor. The upholstery is dreadfully faded. Perhaps I will invite Olivia for a visit. She is so good at these things.”

Turner smiled warmly at her. It gave him great joy that she was coming to love his home as much as he did. “I trust your judgment. You don't need Olivia.”

“I should enjoy her company while you're gone, though.”

“Then by all means, invite her.” He glanced at the clock. “I say, are you hungry? It's well past noon.”

She rubbed her stomach absently. “Not too hungry, I think. But I could have a bite or two.”

“More than two,” he said firmly. “More than three. You're not just eating for yourself now, you know.”

Miranda looked ruefully down at her swollen belly. “Believe me, I know.”

He stood up and strode over to the door. “I'll run down to the kitchen and get something.”

“You could just ring for it.”

“No, no, it will be much faster this way.”

“But I'm not—” It was too late. He'd already run out the door and couldn't hear her. She smiled to herself as she sat and curved her legs underneath her. No one could doubt Turner's concern for her and the baby's welfare. It was there in the way he fluffed the pillows for her before she crawled into bed, the way he made sure that she ate good, wholesome food, and especially in the way he insisted on putting his ear to her stomach every night to hear the baby moving about.

“I think she kicked!” he would exclaim excitedly.

“It was probably a burp,” Miranda had teased him once.

Turner completely missed her humor and raised his head, concern clouding his eyes. “Can they burp in there? Is it normal?”

She let out a soft, indulgent laugh. “I don't know.”

“Perhaps I ought to ask the physician.”

She took his hand and pulled him up until he was lying by her side. “I'm sure everything is just fine.”

“But—”

“If you send for the physician, he is going to think you're insane.”

“But—”

“Let's just go to sleep. That's it, hold me. Tighter.” She sighed and snuggled up next to him. “There. I can sleep now.”

Back in the study, Miranda smiled as she remembered the interchange. A hundred times a day he did similar things, showing her how much he loved her. Didn't he? How could he look at her so tenderly and not love her? Why was she so unsure of his feelings?

Because he never voiced them aloud, she retorted silently. Oh, he complimented her and frequently made comments about how
glad
he was that he had married her.

It was the most pinpointedly cruel sort of torture, and he had no idea he was committing it. He thought he was being kind and attentive, and he
was
.

But every time he looked at her, and he smiled in that warm and secret way of his, and she thought—for one breathless second she thought he would lean forward and whisper—

I love you
.

—and then every time, when it didn't happen, and he just brushed his lips by her cheek, or tousled her hair, or asked her if she'd enjoyed her bloody pudding, for heaven's sake—

She felt something inside crumpling. A little squeeze, making just a little crease, but all those folds on her heart were adding up, and every day, it seemed a little harder to
pretend that her life was precisely how she wished it.

She tried to be patient. The last thing she wanted from him was falsehood.
I love you
was devastating when there wasn't any feeling behind it.

But she didn't want to think about this. Not right now, not when he was being so sweet and attentive, and she should have been utterly and completely happy.

And she was. Truly. Almost. It was only one tiny little piece of her that kept pushing it way to the fore, and it was getting annoying, really, because she didn't want to waste all her thought and energy thinking about something over which she had no control.

She just wanted to live in the moment, to enjoy her many blessings without having to
think
about it.

Turner made a timely entrance, striding back into the room and dropping a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Mrs. Hingham says she'll send up a plate of food in a few minutes.”

“I told you you shouldn't have bothered to go down,” Miranda scolded. “I knew that nothing would be ready.”

“If I hadn't gone down myself,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I would have had to wait for a maid to come and see what I wanted, then I would have had to wait for her to go down to the kitchens, then I would have had to wait while Mrs. Hingham prepared our food, then—”

Miranda held her hand up. “Enough! I see your point.”

“It will arrive more quickly this way.” He leaned forward with a devilish grin. “I'm not a patient person.”

Neither was she, Miranda thought ruefully.

But her husband, oblivious to her stormy thoughts,
merely smiled as he gazed out the window. A light dusting of snow covered the trees.

A footman and a maid slipped into the room, bringing food and setting it up on Turner's desk.

“Aren't you worried about your papers?” Miranda asked.

“They'll be fine.” He shoved them all into a pile.

“But won't they get mixed up?”

He shrugged. “I'm hungry. That's more important.
You're
more important.”

The maid let out a little sigh at his romantic words. Miranda smiled tightly. The household staff probably thought he professed his love to her whenever they were out of earshot.

“Now then,” Turner said briskly. “Here is some beef and vegetable stew, puss. I want you to eat every bite.”

Miranda looked dubiously at the tureen he'd set in front of her. It would take a small army of pregnant women to finish it all. “You're joking,” she said.

“Not at all.” He dipped the spoon into the stew and held it up in front of her mouth.

“Really, Turner, I can't—”

He darted the spoon into her mouth.

She choked in surprise for a second, then chewed and swallowed. “I can feed myself.”