Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (23 page)

He had won her once before. He could do it again.

Two weeks later, Miranda was sitting in her new rose salon, trying to read a book but spending far more time staring out the window. Turner had sent word that he would be arriving within the next few days, and she couldn't stop her heart from racing every time she heard a noise that sounded like a carriage coming up the drive.

The sun had slipped down below the horizon before she realized that she hadn't yet turned a single page in her book. A concerned servant brought in the supper she had forgotten to request, and Miranda had barely finished her bowl of soup before she fell asleep on the sofa.

A few hours later, the carriage for which she'd been watching so diligently came to a halt in front of the house, and Turner, weary from travel yet still eager to see his wife, hopped down. He reached into one of his bags and withdrew a neatly wrapped package, leaving the rest of his luggage with the vehicle for the footmen to bring in. He looked up at the house and noted that no light was burning in their bedroom. He hoped that Miranda wasn't already asleep; he hadn't the heart to wake her, but he really wanted to speak with her that evening and try to make amends.

He stomped up the front steps, trying to dislodge some of the mud from his boots as he did so. The butler, who had been watching for him almost as long as Miranda, opened the door before Turner could knock.

“Good evening, Brearley,” Turner said affably.

“May I be the first to welcome you home, my lord.”

“Thank you. Is my wife still awake?”

“I believe she is in the rose salon, my lord. Reading, I think.”

Turner shrugged off his coat. “She certainly likes to do that.”

“We are fortunate to have such a well-read lady,” Brearley added.

Turner blinked. “We don't have a rose salon, Brearley.”

“We do now, my lord. In the former west salon.”

“Oh? So she decorated. Well, good for her. I want her to think of this place as home.”

“As do we all, my lord.”

Turner smiled. Miranda had aroused a fierce loyalty among the household staff. The maids positively worshipped her. “I'll go surprise her now.” He strode across the front hall, veering right until he reached what used to be the west salon. The door was slightly ajar, and Turner could see the flicker of a candle. Silly woman. She ought to know that she needed more than one candle to read.

He pushed the door open a few more inches and poked his head in. Miranda was lying back on the sofa, her mouth soft and slightly open as she slept. A book was lying across her belly, and a half-eaten meal sat on the table next to her. She looked so lovely and innocent, his heart ached. He had missed her on his journey—he had thought of her, and their inauspicious parting, nearly every minute of every day. But he did not think he'd realized just how deep and elemental his longing had been until this very moment, when he saw her again, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling gently in slumber.

He'd told himself he would not wake her, but that, he reasoned, was when he'd thought she would be in their bedchamber. She was going to have to be awakened in order to go upstairs to bed, so he might as well be the one to do it.

He walked over to the sofa, pushed her dinner to the side, and perched on the table, letting his package rest on his lap. “Wake up, dar—” He broke off, belatedly remembering how she had ordered him not to use endearments
any longer. He touched her shoulder. “Wake up, Miranda.”

She blinked. “Turner?” Her voice was groggy.

“Hello, puss.” Hang her if she didn't want him to call her that. If he wanted to use an endearment, he damned well would.

“I'd almost—” She yawned. “I'd almost given up on you.”

“I told you I'd arrive today.”

“But the roads…”

“They weren't so bad.” He smiled down at her. Her sleepy mind hadn't yet remembered that it was mad at him, and he saw no reason to issue a reminder. He touched her cheek. “I missed you.”

Miranda yawned again. “Did you?”

“Very much.” He paused. “Did you miss me?”

“I…yes.” Lying served no purpose, she realized. He already knew that she loved him. “Did you have a good time in London?” she asked politely.

“I'd rather you had been with me,” he replied, and he sounded too measured, as if his sentences had been carefully balanced so as not to offend.

And then, in the same polite voice: “Did you have a good time while I was gone?”

“Olivia came for a few days.”

“Did she?”

Miranda nodded. And then she said, “Other than that, however, I had a great deal of time to think.”

There was a long silence, and then: “I see.”

She watched as he set his package down, stood, and walked over to where the solitary candle was burning. “It's
quite dark in here,” he said, but there was something stilted about it, and she wished she could see his face as he picked up the candle and used it to light several more.

“I fell asleep while it was still twilight,” she told him, because…well, because there seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement between them to keep this all cordial and careful and civil and everything else that meant they avoided anything real.

“Really?” he replied. “It gets dark quite early now. You must have been very tired.”

“It's wearying to carry an extra person around one's middle.”

He smiled. Finally. “It won't be much longer.”

“No, but I want this last month to be as pleasant as possible.”

The words hung in the air. She had not meant them innocently, and he did not misinterpret. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, each word so soft and so precise that she could not miss his serious intent.

“I mean…” She swallowed nervously, wishing that she was standing up with her hands on her hips, or with her arms crossed, or anything but this utterly vulnerable position lying back on the sofa. “It means that I cannot go on as we were before.”

“I thought we were happy,” he said cautiously.

“We were. I was. I mean…but I wasn't.”

“Either you were or you weren't, puss. One or the other.”

“Both,” she said, hating the low tone of finality in his voice. “Don't you understand?” And then she looked at him. “No, I can see you do not.”

“I don't know what you want me to do,” he said flatly. But they both knew he was lying.

“I need to know where I stand with you, Turner.”

“Where you stand with me?” he asked in a disbelieving voice. “Where you stand with me? Bloody hell, woman. You're my wife. What else do you need to know?”

“I need to know that you love me!” she burst out, clumsily getting to her feet. He made no reply, just stood there with a muscle twitching in his cheek, so she added, “Or I need to know that you don't.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I want to know what you feel, Turner. I need to know how you feel about me. If you don't—if you don't—” She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands, trying to figure out just what it was she wanted to say. “It doesn't matter if you don't care,” she finally said. “But I have to know.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” He raked his fingers angrily through his hair. “Every minute of the day I tell you I adore you.”

“You don't tell me you adore me. You tell me you adore being married to me.”

“What is the difference?” he fairly yelled.

“Maybe you just adore being married.”

“After Leticia?” he spat.

“I'm sorry,” she said, because she was. For that. But not for the rest. “There is a difference,” she said in a low voice. “A large one. I want to know if you care for
me
, not just for the way I make you feel.”

He rested his hands on the windowsill, leaning heavily
on it as he stared out the window. She could see only his back, but she heard him clearly as he said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You don't want to know,” she burst out. “You're
afraid
to think about it. You—”

Turner whirled around and silenced her with a look that was as hard as any she had ever seen. Even that night when he'd first kissed her, when he was sitting alone, getting drunk after burying Leticia—he had not looked like this.

He stepped toward her, his movements slow and seething with anger. “I am not a domineering husband, but my leniency does not extend to being called a coward. Choose your words with greater care,
wife
.”

“And you may choose your attitudes with greater care,” she countered, his snide tone raking along her spine. “I am not a silly little”—her entire body shook as she fought for words—“
confection
you can treat as if I lacked a brain.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Miranda. When have I ever treated you like that? When? You tell me, because I am damned curious.”

Miranda stammered, unable to meet his challenge. Finally she said, “I don't like being spoken to in supercilious tones, Turner.”

“Then don't provoke me.” His expression came dangerously close to a sneer.

“Don't provoke
you
?” she burst out incredulously, advancing toward him. “You don't provoke
me
!”

“I haven't done a damned thing, Miranda. One minute I thought we were blissfully happy and the next you've
come at me like a fury, accusing me of God knows what awful crime, and—”

He stopped when he felt her frantic fingers biting into his upper arms. “You thought we were blissfully happy?” she whispered.

For a moment, when he looked at her, it was almost as if he were merely surprised. “Of course I did,” he said. “I told you all the time.” But then he gave himself a shake, and he rolled his eyes and pushed her away. “Oh, but I forgot. Everything I've done, everything I've said—none of it mattered. You don't
want
to know that I am happy with you. You don't care if I like to be with you. You just want to know how I feel.”

And then, because she couldn't not say it, she whispered, “How
do
you feel about me?”

It was as if she'd popped him with a pin. He had been all movement and energy, the words spilling mockingly from his mouth, and now…Now he just stood there, not making a noise, just staring at her as if she had released Medusa into their sitting room.

“Miranda, I—I—”

“You what, Turner? You what?”

“I…Oh, Christ, Miranda, this isn't fair.”

“You can't say it.” Her eyes filled with horror. Until that moment she had held out hope that he would simply blurt it out, that maybe he was just thinking too hard about everything, and when the moment was right, and their passions were high, the words would spill from his lips, and he would realize that he loved her.

“My God,” Miranda breathed. The little piece of her heart that had always believed that he would come to love her shriveled and died in the space of a second, tearing out most of her soul along with it. “My God,” she said again. “You can't say it.”

Turner saw the emptiness in her eyes and knew that he had lost her. “I don't want to hurt you,” he said lamely.

“It's too late.” Her words caught in her throat, and she walked slowly to the door.

“Wait!”

She stopped, turned.

He reached down and picked up the package he'd brought in with him. “Here,” he said, his tone dull and flat. “I brought you this.”

Miranda took the package from his hand, staring at his back as he strode from the room. With shaking hands, she unwrapped it.
Le Morte d'Arthur.
The very copy she had so coveted from the gentlemen's bookshop. “Oh, Turner,” she whispered. “Why did you have to go and do something so sweet? Why can't you just let me hate you?”

Many hours later, as she wiped the book with a handkerchief, she found herself hoping that her salty tears had not permanently ruined the leather cover.

The next few weeks were hideous. Turner took to having his food sent up to his study; sitting across from Miranda for an hour each evening was more than he could bear. He had lost her this time, and it was agony to look into her eyes and see them so empty and devoid of emotion.

If Miranda was unable to feel anything any longer, then Turner felt too much.

He was furious with her for putting him on the spot and trying to force him to admit to emotions that he wasn't sure he felt.

He was enraged that she had decided to forsake their marriage after deciding that he had not passed some sort of test she'd set out for him.

He felt guilty that he had made her so miserable. He was confused as to how to treat her and terrified that he would never win her back.

He was angry with himself for being unable to just tell her that he loved her and felt somehow inadequate that he
didn't even know how to determine if he was in love.

But most of all, he felt lonely. He was lonely for his wife. He missed her and all her funny little comments and quirky expressions. Every now and then he'd pass her in the hall, and he'd force himself to look into her face, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he'd married. But she was gone. Miranda had become a different woman. She didn't seem to care anymore. About anything.

His mother, who had come to stay until the child was born, had sought him out to tell him that Miranda was barely picking at her food. He had sworn under his breath. She ought to realize that that was unhealthy. But he couldn't bring himself to seek her out and shake some sense into her. He merely instructed a few of the servants to keep a watchful eye on her.

They brought him daily reports, usually in the early evening, when he was sitting in his study, pondering alcohol and the obliterating effects thereof. This night was no different; he was on his third brandy when he heard a sharp rap at the door.

“Enter.”

To his great surprise, his mother walked in.

He nodded politely. “You've come to chastise me, I imagine.”

Lady Rudland crossed her arms. “And just what do you think you need chastising for?”

His smile lacked all humor. “Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you have an extensive list.”

“Have you seen your wife in the past week?” she demanded.

“No, I don't believe I ha—Oh, wait a minute.” He took a sip of brandy. “I passed her in the hall a few days ago. Tuesday, I think it was.”

“She is over eight months' pregnant, Nigel.”

“I assure you, I am aware.”

“You are a cur to leave her alone in her time of need.”

He took another swig. “Just to make things clear, she left me alone, not the other way around. And don't call me Nigel.”

“I'll call you whatever I damned well please.”

Turner raised his brows at the first use of profanity he'd ever heard escape his mother's lips. “Congratulations, you've sunk to my level.”

“Give me that!” She lunged forward and grabbed the glass out of his hand. Amber liquid splashed out onto the desk. “I am appalled at you, Nigel. You're just as bad as when you were with Leticia. You're hateful, rude—” She broke off when his hand wrapped around her wrist.

“Don't ever make the mistake of comparing Miranda to Leticia,” he said in a menacing voice.

“I didn't!” Her eyes widened in surprise. “I would never dream of it.”

“Good.” He let go of her suddenly and walked over to the window. The landscape was as bleak as his mood.

His mother remained silent for quite some time, but then she asked, “How do you intend to salvage your marriage, Turner?”

He let out a weary breath. “Why are you so certain that it is I who need to do the salvaging?”

“For the love of God, just look at the girl. She is obviously in love with you.”

His fingers gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. “I've seen no indication of that lately.”

“How could you? You haven't seen her in weeks. For your sake, I hope you haven't killed whatever it was she felt for you.”

Turner said nothing. He just wanted the conversation to end.

“She is not the same woman she was a few months ago,” his mother continued. “She was so happy. She'd have done anything for you.”

“Things change, Mother,” he said tersely.

“And they can change back,” Lady Rudland said, her voice soft yet insistent. “Come dine with us this evening. It's terribly awkward without you.”

“It will be far more awkward with me, I assure you.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Turner stood straight, taking a long, shaky breath. Was his mother right? Could he and Miranda resolve their differences?

“Leticia is still in this house,” his mother said softly. “Let her go. Let Miranda heal you. She will, you know, if you'd only give her the chance.”

He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder but he did not turn around, too proud to let her see the face of his pain.

The first pain squeezed her belly about an hour before she was due to go down for dinner. Startled, Miranda put her
hand on her stomach. The doctor had told her that she'd most likely deliver in two weeks. “Well, it looks like you're going to be early,” she said softly. “Just stay in through supper, would you? I'm actually hungry. I haven't been for weeks, you know, and I need some food.”

The baby kicked in response.

“So that's the way it's going to be, is it?” Miranda whispered, a smile touching her features for the first time in weeks. “I shall strike a bargain with you. You let me get through dinner in peace, and I promise not to give you a name like Iphigenia.”

She felt another kick.

“If you're a girl, of course. If you're a boy, then I promise not to name you…Nigel!” She laughed, the sound unfamiliar and…nice. “I promise not to name you Nigel.”

The baby was still.

“Good. Now, let's get ourselves dressed, shall we?”

Miranda rang for her maid, and an hour later, she descended the stairs to the dining room, holding the railing tightly all the way down. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to tell anyone that the baby was on its way—perhaps it was just her natural aversion to making a fuss. Besides, except for a pain every ten minutes or so, she was feeling fine. She certainly had no wish to be confined to her bed just yet. She just hoped the baby could manage to restrain itself through dinner. There was something vaguely embarrassing about childbirth, and she had no wish to learn why firsthand at the dining room table.

“Oh, there you are, Miranda,” Olivia called out. “We were just having a drink in the rose salon. Join us?”

Miranda nodded and followed her friend.

“You look a little odd, Miranda,” Olivia continued. “Are you feeling well?”

“Just large, thank you.”

“Well, you'll be shrinking soon.”

Sooner than anyone else realized, Miranda thought wryly.

Lady Rudland handed her a glass of lemonade.

“Thank you,” Miranda said. “I'm suddenly very thirsty.” Heedless of proper etiquette, Miranda downed it in one gulp. Lady Rudland didn't say a word as she refilled the glass. Miranda drank that one almost as quickly. “Do you think supper is ready?” she asked. “I'm dreadfully hungry.” That was really only half of the story. She was going to deliver the baby at the dining room table if they tarried much longer.

“Certainly,” Lady Rudland replied, slightly taken aback by Miranda's eagerness. “Lead on. It's your house after all, Miranda.”

“So it is.” She quirked her head, took hold of her stomach as if that might hold everything in, and stepped out into the hall.

She walked right into Turner.

“Good evening, Miranda.”

His voice was rich and husky, and she felt something flutter deep in her heart.

“I trust you are well,” he said.

She nodded, trying not to look at him. She'd spent the last month training herself not to melt into a pool of desire and longing every time she saw him. She'd learned to school her features into an impassive mask. They all knew
he had devastated her; she did not need everyone to see it every time she walked into a room.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, stepping past him toward the dining room.

Turner caught her arm. “Allow me to escort you, puss.”

Miranda's lower lip began to quiver. What was he trying to do? Had she been feeling less confused—or less pregnant—she probably would have made an attempt to wrench herself from his grasp, but as it was, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the table.

Turner said nothing during the first few courses, which was just as well for Miranda, who was happy to avoid all conversation in favor of her food. Lady Rudland and Olivia tried to engage her in conversation, but Miranda always managed to have her mouth full. She was saved from responding by chewing, swallowing, and then murmuring, “I'm really quite hungry.”

This worked for the first three courses, until the baby stopped cooperating. She'd thought she was getting quite good at not reacting to the pains, but she must have winced, because Turner looked sharply in her direction and asked, “Is something wrong?”

She smiled wanly, chewed, swallowed, and murmured, “Not at all. But I really am quite hungry.”

“So we see,” Olivia said dryly, earning herself a reproving stare from her mother.

Miranda took another bite of her chicken almondine and then winced again. This time Turner was certain he'd seen it. “You made a noise,” he said firmly. “I heard you. What is wrong?”

She chewed and swallowed. “Nothing. Although I am quite hungry.”

“Perhaps you are eating too quickly,” Olivia suggested.

Miranda jumped on the excuse. “Yes, yes, that must be it. I shall slow down.” Thankfully, the conversation changed directions when Lady Rudland drew Turner into a discussion of the bill he'd recently supported in Parliament. Miranda was grateful that his attention had been engaged elsewhere; he'd been watching her too closely, and it was getting difficult to keep her face serene when she felt a contraction.

Her belly clenched again, and this time she lost her patience. “Stop that,” she whispered, looking down at her middle. “Or you will certainly be Iphigenia.”

“Did you say something, Miranda?” Olivia asked.

“Oh, no, I don't think so.”

Another few minutes went by, and she felt another squeeze. “Stop that, Nigel,” she whispered. “We had a bargain.”

“I'm certain you said something,” Olivia said sharply.

“Did you just call me Nigel?” Turner asked.

Funny, Miranda thought, how calling him Nigel seemed to upset him more than her leaving the marriage bed. “Of course not. You're just imagining things. But I vow I am tired. I believe I shall retire, if none of you minds.” She started to stand up, then felt a rush of liquid between her legs. She sat back down. “Perhaps I'll wait for dessert.”

Lady Rudland excused herself, claiming that she was on a slimming regime and could not bear to watch the rest of them eat their pudding. Her departure made it more difficult
for Miranda to avoid the conversation, but she did her best, pretending to be engrossed in her food and hoping no one would ask her a question. Finally, the meal was over. Turner stood and walked over to her side, offering his arm to her.

“No, I believe I'll sit here for a moment. A bit tired, you know.” She could feel a flush creeping up along her neck. Good heavens, no one had ever written an etiquette book concerning what to do when one's baby wanted to be born in a formal dining room. Miranda was utterly mortified and so scared that she could not seem to pick herself up off the chair.

“Would you like another serving?” Turner's tone was dry.

“Yes, please,” she replied, her voice cracking.

“Miranda, are you certain you're feeling well?” Olivia asked as Turner summoned a footman. “You look quite odd.”

“Get your mother,” Miranda croaked. “Now.”

“Is it…?”

Miranda nodded.

“Oh my,” Olivia said with a gulp. “It's time.”

“What time?” Turner asked irritably. Then he glimpsed Miranda's terrified expression. “Holy bloody hell. That time.” He strode across the room and scooped his wife into his arms, oblivious to the way her sodden skirts were staining the fine fabric of his jacket.

Miranda clung to his powerful frame, forgetting all her vows to remain indifferent to him. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, letting his strength seep into her. She was going to need it in the hours ahead.

“You little fool,” he murmured. “How long have you been sitting there in pain?”

She chose not to answer, knowing that the truth would only earn her a scolding.

Turner carried her up the stairs to a guest bedroom that had been prepared for the delivery. By the time he had laid her down on the bed, Lady Rudland had come rushing in. “Thank you so much, Turner,” she said quickly. “Go summon the physician.”

“Brearley has already taken care of it,” he replied, looking down at Miranda with an anxious expression.

“Well, then, go keep yourself occupied. Have a drink.”

“I'm not thirsty.”

Lady Rudland sighed. “Do I need to spell it out for you, son? Go away.”

“Why?” Turner looked incredulous.

“There is no place for men in childbirth.”

“There was certainly place enough for me beforehand,” he muttered.

Miranda blushed deep crimson. “Turner, please,” she begged.

He looked down at her. “Do you want me to go?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

He put his hands on his hips and faced his mother. “I think I should stay. It's my child, too.”

“Oh, very well. Just go over to that corner and stay out of the way.” Lady Rudland waved her arms, shooing him away.