Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (3 page)

But Leticia's death, in addition to being tragic, had been particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just six weeks, however, as Leticia had not been a sister in blood.

They would be only a little bit late in their arrival for the season. It couldn't be helped.

Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball positively terrified her. It wasn't that she was shy, precisely, because she didn't think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.

Can't be helped
, she thought as she made her way down the stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company.

Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly night. On the other hand—

Hmmm…what was that?

She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had a fire burning in Lord Rudland's study. Miranda couldn't imagine that anyone was still up and about—the Bevelstokes always retired early.

She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached the open door.

“Oh!”

Turner looked up from his father's chair. “Miss Miranda,” he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy sprawl. “
Quelle
surprise.”

Turner wasn't certain why he
wasn't
surprised to see Miss Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father's study. When he'd heard footsteps in the hall, he'd somehow known it had to be she. True, his family tended to sleep like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search of a snack or something to read.

But it had been more than the process of elimination that had led him to Miranda as the obvious choice. She was a watcher, that one, always there, always observing the scene with those owlish eyes of hers. He couldn't remember when he'd first met her—probably before the chit had been out of leading strings. She was a fixture, really, somehow always
there
, even at times like these, when it ought to have been only family.

“I'll go,” she said.

“No, don't,” he replied, because…because
why
?

Because he felt like making mischief?

Because he'd had too much to drink?

Because he didn't want to be alone?

“Stay,” he said, waving his arm expansively. Surely there had to be somewhere else to sit in here. “Have a drink.”

Her eyes widened.

“Didn't think they could get any bigger,” he muttered.

“I can't drink,” she said.

“Can't you?”

“I
shouldn't
,” she corrected, and he thought he saw her brows draw together. Good, he'd irritated her. It was good to know he could still provoke a woman, even one as un-schooled as she.

“You're here,” he said with a shrug. “You might as well have a brandy.”

For a moment she held still, and he could swear he could hear her brain whirring. Finally, she set her little book on a table near the door and stepped forward. “Just one,” she said.

He smiled. “Because you know your limit?”

Her eyes met his. “Because I
don't
know my limit.”

“Such wisdom in one so young,” he murmured.

“I'm nineteen,” she said, not defiantly, just as statement of fact.

He lifted a brow. “As I said…”

“When you were nineteen…”

He smiled caustically, noticing that she did not finish the statement. “When I was nineteen,” he repeated for her, handing her a liberal portion of brandy, “I was a fool.” He looked at the glass he'd poured for himself, equal in volume to Miranda's. He downed it in one long, satisfying gulp.

The glass landed on the table with a clunk, and Turner leaned back, letting his head rest in his palms, his elbows bent out to the sides. “As are all nineteen-year-olds, I should add,” he finished.

He eyed her. She hadn't touched her drink. She hadn't
even yet sat down. “Present company quite possibly excluded,” he amended.

“I thought brandy was meant to go in a snifter,” she said.

He watched as she moved carefully to a seat. It wasn't next to him, but it wasn't quite across from him, either. Her eyes never left his, and he couldn't help but wonder what she thought he might do. Pounce?

“Brandy,” he announced, as if speaking to an audience that numbered more than one, “is best served in whatever one has handy. In this case—” He picked up his tumbler and regarded it, watching firelight dance along the facets. He didn't bother to finish his sentence. It didn't seem necessary, and besides, he was busy pouring himself another drink.

“Cheers.” And down it went.

He looked over at her. She was still just sitting there, watching him. He couldn't tell if she disapproved; her expression was far too inscrutable for that. But he wished that she would say something. Anything would do, really, even more nonsense about stemware would be enough to nudge his mind off the fact that it was still half eleven, and he had thirty more minutes to go before he could declare this wretched day over.

“So tell me, Miss Miranda, how did you enjoy the service?” he asked, daring her with his eyes to say something beyond the usual platitudes.

Surprise registered on her face—the first emotion of the night he was clearly able to discern. “You mean the funeral?”

“Only service of the day,” he said, with considerable jauntiness.

“It was, er, interesting.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Cheever, you can do better than that.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Leticia used to do that, he recalled. Back when she still pretended to be an innocent. It had stopped when his ring had been safely on her finger.

He poured another drink.

“Don't you think—”

“No
,” he said forcefully. There wasn't enough brandy in the world for a night like this.

And then she reached forward, picked up her glass, and took a sip. “I thought you were splendid.”

God
damn
it. He coughed and spluttered, as if he were the innocent, taking his first taste of brandy. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiled placidly. “It might help to take smaller sips.”

He glared at her.

“It's rare that someone speaks honestly of the dead,” she said. “I'm not certain that that was the most appropriate venue, but…well…she wasn't a terribly nice person, was she?”

She looked so serene, so innocent, but her eyes…they were sharp.

“Why, Miss Cheever,” he murmured, “I do believe you've a bit of a vindictive streak.”

She shrugged and took another sip of her drink—a small
one, he noted. “Not at all,” she said, although he was quite certain he did not believe her, “but I am a good observer.”

He chuckled. “Indeed.”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon.”

He'd ruffled her. He didn't know why he found this so satisfying, but he couldn't help but be pleased. And it had been so long since he'd been pleased about anything. He leaned forward, just to see if he could make her squirm. “I've been watching you.”

She paled. Even in the firelight he could see it.

“Do you know what I've seen?” he murmured.

Her lips parted, and she shook her head.

“You
have been watching me.”

She stood, the suddenness of the movement nearly knocking her chair over. “I should go,” she said. “This is highly irregular, and it's late, and—”

“Oh, come now, Miss Cheever,” he said, rising to his feet. “Don't fret. You watch everyone. Do you think I hadn't noticed?”

He reached out and took her arm. She froze. But she didn't turn around.

His fingers tightened. Just a touch. Just enough to keep her from leaving, because he didn't want her to leave. He didn't want to be alone. He had twenty more minutes, and he wanted her to be angry, just as he was angry, just as he'd been angry for years.

“Tell me, Miss Cheever,” he whispered, touching two fingers to the underside of her chin. “Have you ever been kissed?”

It would not have been an overstatement to say that Miranda had been dreaming of this moment for years. And in her dreams, she always seemed to know what to say. But reality, it seemed, was far less articulate, and she couldn't do anything but stare at him, breathless—
literally
, she thought, quite literally without breath.

Funny, she'd always thought it was a metaphor.
Breathless. Breathless
.

“I thought not,” he was saying, and she could barely hear him over the frantic racing of her thoughts. She should run, but she was frozen, and she shouldn't do this, but she wanted to, at least she
thought
she wanted to—she'd certainly thought about wanting to since she was ten and didn't particularly even know what it was she'd been wanting and—

And his lips touched hers. “Lovely,” he murmured, raining delicate, seductive kisses along her cheek until he reached the line of her jaw.

It felt like heaven. It felt like nothing she knew. There was a quickening within her, a strange tension, coiling and stretching, and she wasn't sure what she was meant to do, so she stood there, accepting his kisses as he moved across her face, along her cheekbone, back to her lips.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and she did, because this was Turner, and she wanted this. Hadn't she always wanted this?

His tongue dipped inside, and she felt herself being pulled more tightly against him. His fingers were demanding, and then his mouth was demanding, and then she realized that this was wrong. This wasn't the moment she'd been dreaming of for years. He didn't want her. She didn't know why he was kissing her, but he didn't want her. And he certainly did not love her. There was no kindness in this kiss.

“Kiss me back, damn it,” he growled, and he pressed his lips against hers with renewed insistence. It was hard, and it was angry, and for the first time that night, Miranda began to feel afraid.

“No,” she tried to say, but her voice was lost against his mouth. His hand had somehow found her bottom, and was squeezing, pressing her up against him in the most intimate of places. And she didn't understand how she could want this and not want this, how he could make her tingle and make her scared, how she could love him and hate him at the very same time, in equal measures.

“No,” she said again, wedging her hands between them, palms against his chest. “No!”

And then he stepped away, utterly abrupt, without even the slightest hint of a desire to linger.

“Miranda Cheever,” he murmured, except it was really more of a drawl, “who knew?”

She slapped him.

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded, her voice steady even as the rest of her shook.

“Kiss you?” He shrugged. “Why not?”

“No,” she shot back, horrified by the note of pain she heard in her voice. She wanted to be furious. She
was
furious, but she wanted to sound it. She wanted him to
know
. “You may not take the easy way out. You lost that privilege.”

He chuckled, damn him, and said, “You're quite entertaining as a dominatrix.”

“Stop it,” she cried. He kept talking about things she did not understand, and she hated him for it. “Why did you kiss me? You don't love me.”

Her fingernails bit into her palms.
Stupid
,
stupid girl
. Why did she say that?

But he only smiled. “I forget that you are only nineteen and thus do not realize that love is never a prerequisite for a kiss.”

“I don't think you even like me.”

“Nonsense. Of course I do.” He blinked, as if he were trying to remember how well, exactly, he knew her. “Well, I certainly don't dislike you.”

“I'm not Leticia,” she whispered.

In a split second, his hand had wrapped around her upper arm, squeezing nearly to the point of pain. “Don't you
ever
mention her name again. Do you hear me?”

Miranda stared in shock at the raw fury emanating from his eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said hastily. “Please let me go.”

But he didn't. He loosened his grip, but only slightly, and it was almost as if he were staring through her. At a ghost. At Leticia's ghost.

“Turner, please,” Miranda whispered. “You're hurting me.”

Something cleared in his expression, and he stepped back. “I'm sorry,” he said. He looked to the side—at the window? At the clock? “My apologies,” he said curtly. “For assaulting you. For everything.”

Miranda swallowed. She should leave. She should slap him again and
then
leave, but she was a wretch, and she couldn't help herself when she said, “I'm sorry she made you so unhappy.”

His eyes flew to hers. “Gossip travels all the way to the schoolroom, does it?”

“No!” she said quickly. “It's just that…I could tell.”

“Oh?”

She chewed on her lip, wondering what she should say. There
had
been gossip in the schoolroom. But more than that, she'd seen it for herself. He'd been so in love at his wedding. His eyes had shone with it, and when he looked at Leticia, Miranda could practically see the world falling away. It was as if they were in their own little world, just the two of them, and she was watching from the outside.

And the next time she saw him…it had been different.

“Miranda,” he prodded.

She looked up and gently said, “Anyone who knew you
before your marriage could tell that you were unhappy.”

“And how is that?” He stared down at her, and there was something so urgent in his eyes that Miranda could only tell him the truth.

“You used to laugh,” she said softly. “You used to laugh, and your eyes twinkled.”

“And now?”

“Now you're just cold and hard.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Miranda thought he was in pain. But in the end he gave her a piercing stare, and one corner of his mouth tilted up in a wry mockery of a smile. “So I am.” He crossed his arms and leaned insolently against a bookcase. “Pray tell me, Miss Cheever, when did you grow so perceptive?”

Miranda swallowed, fighting the disappointment that rose in her throat. His demons had won again. For a moment—when his eyes had been closed—it had almost seemed as if he heard her. Not her words, but the meaning behind them. “I've always been so,” she said. “You used to comment on it when I was little.”

“Those big brown eyes,” he said with a heartless chuckle. “Following me everywhere. Do you think I didn't know you fancied me?”

Tears pricked Miranda's eyes. How could he be so cruel to say it? “You were very kind to me as a child,” she said softly.

“I daresay I was. But that was a long time ago.”

“No one realizes that more than I.”

He said nothing, and she said nothing. And then finally—

“Go
.”

His voice was hoarse and pained and full of heartbreak.

She went.

And in her diary that night, she wrote nothing.

The following morning, Miranda woke with one clear objective. She wanted to go home. She didn't care if she missed breakfast, she didn't care if the heavens opened and she had to slog through the driving rain. She just didn't want to be
here
, with him, in the same building, on the same property.

It was all too sad. He was gone. The Turner she'd known, the Turner she'd adored—he was gone. She'd sensed it, of course. She'd sensed it on his visits home. The first time it had been his eyes. The next his mouth, and the white lines of anger etched at the corners.

She'd sensed it, but until now she had not truly allowed herself to
know
it.

“You're awake.”

It was Olivia, fully dressed and looking charming, even in her mourning black.

“Unfortunately,” Miranda muttered.

“What was that?”

Miranda opened her mouth, then remembered that Olivia wasn't going to wait for an answer, so why expend the energy?

“Well, hurry up,” Olivia said. “Get dressed, and I'll have my maid do the finishing touches. She's positively magical with hair.”

Miranda wondered when Olivia would notice that she had not moved a muscle.

“Get
up
, Miranda.”

Miranda nearly jumped a foot. “Good heavens, Olivia. Has no one told you it's rude to bellow in another human being's ear?”

Olivia's face loomed over hers, a little too close. “You don't look quite human this morning, to tell the truth.”

Miranda rolled over. “I don't feel human.”

“You'll feel better after breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“But you can't miss breakfast.”

Miranda clenched her teeth. Such chirpiness ought to be illegal before noon.

“Miranda
.”

Miranda shoved a pillow over her head. “If you say my name one more time, I will have to kill you.”

“But we have work to do.”

Miranda paused. What the devil was Livvy talking about? “Work?” she echoed.

“Yes, work.” Olivia wrenched the pillow away and tossed it on the floor. “I've had the most wonderful idea. It came to me in a dream.”

“You're joking.”

“Very well, I'm joking, but it did come to me this morning as I was lying in bed.” Olivia smiled—a rather feline sort of smile, actually, the sort that meant she'd either had a flash of brilliance or was going to destroy the world as they knew it. And then she waited—it was about the only
time she ever waited—and so Miranda rewarded her with “Very well, what is it?”

“You.”

“Me.”

“And Winston.”

For a moment, Miranda couldn't speak. Then—“You're mad.”

Olivia shrugged and sat back. “Or very, very clever. Think of it, Miranda. It's perfect.”

Miranda couldn't imagine thinking of anything involving gentlemen just at the moment, much less one with the Bevelstoke surname, even if it wasn't Turner.

“You know him well, and you're of an age,” Olivia said, ticking the items off on her fingers.

Miranda shook her head and escaped off the other side of the bed.

But Olivia was nimble, and she was by her side within seconds. “You don't really want a season,” she continued. “You've said so on numerous occasions. And you hate making conversation with people you don't know.”

Miranda attempted to dodge her by scooting to the wardrobe.

“Since you
know
Winston—as I have already pointed out—that eliminates the need to make conversation with strangers, and besides”—Olivia's smiling face came into view—“it means we shall be
sisters
.”

Miranda went still, her fingers clutching the day dress she'd taken from the wardrobe. “That would be lovely, Olivia,” she said, because really, what else could she say?

“Oh, I'm
thrilled
you agree!” Olivia exclaimed, and she threw her arms around her. “It shall be wonderful. Splendid. Beyond splendid. It shall be perfection.”

Miranda stood still, wondering how on earth she had just managed to get herself into such a tangle.

Olivia pulled back, still beaming. “Winston will have no idea what has hit him.”

“Is the purpose of this to make a match or simply to somehow best your brother?”

“Well, both, of course,” Olivia freely admitted. She released Miranda and plopped herself down in a nearby chair. “Does it matter?”

Miranda opened her mouth, but Olivia was quicker. “Of course not,” she said. “All that matters is the commonality of the goal, Miranda. Truly, I'm surprised we have not given this serious thought before.”

As her back was to Olivia, Miranda allowed herself a wince. Of course she had not given it serious thought. She had been too busy dreaming of Turner.

“And I saw Winston looking at you last night.”

“There were only five people in the room, Olivia. He couldn't very well
not
look at me.”

“It was all in the
how
,” Olivia persisted. “It was as if he'd never seen you before.”

Miranda started pulling on her clothes. “I'm quite certain you're mistaken.”

“I'm not. Here, turn around, I'll do your buttons. I'm never wrong about things like these.”

Miranda stood patiently as Olivia did up her frock. And then it occurred to her—

“When have you had the opportunity to be right? We're buried in the country. It's not as if we're witness to anyone falling in love.”

“Of course we are. There was Billy Evans and—”

“They
had
to get married, Olivia. You know that.”

Olivia finished the last button, moved her hands to Miranda's shoulders, and twisted her until they were facing. Her expression was arch, even for Olivia. “Yes, but
why
did they have to get married? Because they were in love.”

“I don't recall your predicting the match.”

“Nonsense. Of course I did. You were in Scotland. And I couldn't tell you in a letter—it makes it all seem so utterly sordid to put it into writing.”

Miranda wasn't sure why that should be the case—an unplanned pregnancy was an unplanned pregnancy was an unplanned pregnancy. Putting it down in writing wasn't going to change anything. But regardless, Olivia did have a point. Miranda went to Scotland for six weeks every year to visit her maternal grandparents, and Billy Evans did get married while she was gone. Trust Olivia to come up with the one argument she couldn't refute.

“Shall we go to breakfast?” Miranda asked wearily. There was no way she was going to get out of making an appearance, and besides, Turner had been somewhat disguised the night before. If there was any justice in the world, he'd be plastered to his bed with a throbbing head all morning.