Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (5 page)

And yet here she was. Her back straight. Her chin high. And she didn't hate him. She should, but she didn't.

“No,” he said, actually taking her hand in his. “You must listen to me. You
are
attractive. Quite.” He let his eyes settle on her face and took his first really good look at her in years. She wasn't classically pretty, but there was something about those big brown eyes that was rather engaging. Her skin was flawless and quite elegantly pale, providing a luminescent contrast to her dark hair, which was, Turner suddenly noticed, rather thick, with just the slightest tendency to curl. It looked soft, too. He had touched it the night before. Why didn't he remember what it felt like? Surely he would have noticed its texture.

“Turner,” Miranda said.

He was staring at her. Why was he staring at her?

His gaze moved down to her lips as she said his name. A sensual little mouth, she had. Full lips, very kissable.

“Turner?”

“Quite,” he said softly, as if just coming to an unbelievable realization.

“Quite what?”

“Quite attractive.” He shook his head slightly, pulling himself out of the spell she had somehow cast over him. “You're quite attractive.”

She let out a sigh. “Turner, please don't lie to spare my feelings. It shows a lack of respect for my intellect, and that is more insulting than anything you can say about my appearance.”

He drew back and quirked a smile. “I'm not lying.” He sounded surprised.

Miranda caught her lower lip nervously between her teeth. “Oh.” She sounded just as surprised as he had. “Well, thank you, then. I think.”

“I'm not usually so clumsy with compliments that they cannot be identified.”

“I am sure you are not,” she said tartly.

“Now why do I suddenly feel like you're accusing me of something?”

Her eyes widened. Had her tone been that cold? “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said quickly.

For a moment it looked as if he might question her further, but then he must have decided against it, because he picked up the reins and offered her a bland smile as he said, “Shall we?”

They rode on for several minutes, Miranda stealing glances at Turner when she could. His expression was un-readable, placid even, and it was more than a bit irritating, when her own thoughts were in such a turmoil. He'd said he hadn't desired her, but then why had he kissed her? What had been the point? And then it just slipped out—“Why
did
you kiss me?”

For a moment it looked as if Turner were choking, although on what, Miranda could not imagine. The horses slowed a bit, sensing a lack of attention from their driver, and Turner looked at her with obvious shock.

Miranda saw his distress and decided that he couldn't find any kind way to answer her question. “Forget that I asked,” she said quickly. “It doesn't matter.”

But she didn't regret having asked. What had she to lose? He wasn't going to mock her and he wasn't going to spread tales. She had only the embarrassment of this one moment, and that could never compare with the embarrassment of the night before, so—

“It was me,” he said quite suddenly. “Just me. And you were unfortunate enough to be standing next to me.”

Miranda saw the bleakness in his blue eyes and placed her hand on his sleeve. “It's all right to be angry with her.”

He did not pretend not to know what she was talking about. “She's dead, Miranda.”

“That doesn't mean she wasn't an exceptionally awful person when she was alive.”

He looked at her strangely and then burst out laughing. “Oh, Miranda, sometimes you say the damnedest things.”

She smiled. “Now
that
I will definitely take as a compliment.”

“Remind me never to put you up for the position of Sunday school teacher.”

“I have never quite mastered Christian virtue, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, really?” He looked amused.

“I still hold a grudge against poor little Fiona Bennet.”

“And she is…?”

“That dreadful girl who called me ugly at Olivia and Winston's eleventh birthday party.”

“Dear God, how many years ago was that? Remind me not to cross you.”

She quirked a brow. “See that you don't.”

“You, my dear girl, are decidedly lacking as pertains to charitable nature.”

She shrugged, marveling at how he'd managed to make her feel so carefree and happy in such a short time. “Don't tell your mother. She thinks me a saint.”

“Compared to Olivia, I'm sure you are.”

Miranda wagged her finger at him. “Nothing bad about Olivia, if you please. I'm quite devoted to her.”

“Faithful as a hound you are, if you'll excuse my less than attractive simile.”

“I adore hounds.”

And it was then that they arrived at Miranda's home.

I adore hounds
. That would be her final comment. Wonderful. For the rest of his life, he would associate her with dogs.

Turner helped her down and then glanced up at the sky, which had begun to darken. “I hope you don't mind if I do not walk you in,” he murmured.

“Of course not,” Miranda said. She was a practical girl. It was silly for him to get wet when she was perfectly able to let herself into her own home.

“Good luck,” he said, hopping back up into his curricle.

“With what?”

“London, life.” He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”

She smiled ruefully. If he only knew.

Turner had planned to spend the spring and summer in Northumberland, where he could decline to mourn his wife with some degree of privacy, but his mother had employed an astonishing number of tactics—the most lethal being guilt, of course—to force his hand and compel him to come down to London in support of Olivia.

He had not given in when she had pointed out that he was a leader in society and thus his presence at Olivia's ball would ensure attendance by all the best young gentlemen.

He had not given in when she had said that he shouldn't molder away in the country, and it would do him good to be out and about among friends.

He had, however, given in when she had appeared on his doorstep and said, without even the benefit of a salutation, “She's your
sister
.”

And so here he was, at Rudland House in London, surrounded by five hundred of, if not the country's finest, at least its most pompous.

Still, Olivia was going to have to find a husband from among this lot, Miranda, too, and Turner was bloody well not going to allow either one of them to make a match as disastrous as his own had been. London was teeming with male equivalents to Leticia, most of whom began their names with Lord This or Sir That. And Turner quite doubted that his mother would be privy to the more salacious of the gossip that ran through their circles.

Still, it didn't mean that he would be required to make too many appearances. He was here, at their debut ball, and he'd squire them about now and then, perhaps if there was something at the theater he actually cared to see, and beyond that, he'd monitor their progress from behind the scenes. By the end of summer, he'd be done with all this nonsense, and he could go back to—

Well, he could go back to whatever it was he'd been thinking about planning to do. Study crop rotation, perhaps. Take up archery. Visit the local public house. He rather liked their ale. And no one ever asked questions about the recently departed Lady Turner.

“Darling, you're here!” His mother suddenly filled his vision, lovely in her purple gown.

“I told you I would make it in time,” he replied, finishing off the glass of champagne he'd been holding in his hand. “Weren't you alerted to my arrival?”

“No,” she replied, somewhat distractedly. “I have been running about like a madwoman with all the last-moment details. I'm sure the servants did not wish to bother me.”

“Or they could not find you,” Turner remarked, idly scanning the crowd. It was a mad crush—a success by any
measure. He did not see either of the guests of honor, but then again, he'd been quite content to remain in the shadows for the twenty minutes or so he'd been present.

“I have secured permission for both girls to waltz,” Lady Rudland said, “so please do your duty by both of them.”

“A direct order,” he murmured.

“Especially Miranda,” she added, apparently not having heard his comment.

“What do you mean, especially Miranda?”

His mother turned to him with no-nonsense eyes. “Miranda is a remarkable girl, and I love her dearly, but we both know that she is not the sort that society normally favors.”

Turner gave her a sharp look. “We both also know that society is rarely an excellent judge of character. Leticia, if you recall, was a grand success.”

“And so is Olivia, if this evening is any indication,” his mother shot back tartly. “Society is capricious and rewards the bad as often as the good. But it never rewards the quiet.”

It was at that moment that Turner caught sight of Miranda, standing near Olivia by the door to the hall.

Near Olivia, but worlds apart.

It wasn't that Miranda was being ignored, because she surely was not. She was smiling at a young gentleman who appeared to be asking her to dance. But she had nothing like the crowd surrounding Olivia, who, Turner had to admit, shone like a radiant jewel placed in its proper setting. Olivia's eyes sparkled, and when she laughed, music seemed to fill the air.

There was something captivating about his sister. Even Turner had to admit it.

But Miranda was different. She watched. She smiled, but it was almost as if she had a secret, as if she were jotting notes in her mind about the people she met.

“Go dance with her,” his mother urged.

“Miranda?” he asked, surprised. He would have thought she'd wish him to bestow his first dance with Olivia.

Lady Rudland nodded. “It will be a huge coup for her. You have not danced since…since I cannot even recall. Long before Leticia died.”

Turner felt his jaw tighten, and he would have said something, except his mother suddenly gasped, which was not half as surprising as what followed, which, he was quite certain, was the first incidence of blasphemy ever to cross her lips.

“Mother?” he queried.

“Where is your armband?” she whispered urgently.

“My armband,” he said, with some irony.

“For Leticia,” she added, as if he did not know that.

“I believe I told you that I have chosen not to mourn her.”

“But this is London,” she hissed. “And your sister's debut.”

He shrugged. “My coat is black.”

“Your coats are always black.”

“Perhaps I am in perpetual mourning then,” he said mildly, “for innocence lost.”

“You will create a scandal,” she fairly hissed.

“No,” he said pointedly, “Leticia created scandals. I am simply refusing to mourn my scandalous wife.”

“Do you wish to ruin your sister?”

“My actions will not reflect half so badly upon her as my dear departed's would have done.”

“That is neither here nor there, Turner. The fact of the matter is your wife
died
, and—”

“I
saw
the body,” he retorted, effectively halting her arguments.

Lady Rudland drew back. “There is no need to be vulgar about it.”

Turner's head began to pound. “I apologize for that, then.”

“I wish you would reconsider.”

“I would prefer that I did not cause you distress,” he said with a bit of a sigh, “but I will not change my mind. You may have me here in London without an armband, or you may have me in Northumberland…also without an armband,” he finished after a pause. “It is your decision.”

His mother's jaw clenched, and she did not say anything, so he simply shrugged and said, “I shall find Miranda, then.”

And he did.

Miranda had been in town for two weeks, and while she was not sure she could term herself a success, she did not think she qualified as a failure, either. She was right where she'd expected herself to be—somewhere in the middle, with a dance card that was always half full and a journal that was overflowing with observations of the inane, insane, and occasionally in pain. (That would be Lord Chis
selworth, who tripped on a step at the Mottram ball and sprained his ankle. Of the inane and insane, there were too many to count.)

All in all, she thought herself rather accomplished for one with her particular set of God-given talents and attributes. In her diary, she wrote—

It helped, of course, that her position as Olivia's closest friend was well known. Olivia had taken the
ton
by storm—as they all had known she would—and Miranda benefited by association. There were the gentlemen who reached Olivia's side too late to secure a dance, and there were those who were simply too terrified to speak with her. (At such times, Miranda always seemed like a more comfortable choice.)

But even with all the overflow attention, Miranda was still standing alone when she heard an achingly familiar voice—

“Never say I have caught you without company, Miss Cheever.”

Turner
.

She could not help but smile. He was devastatingly handsome in his dark evening clothes, and the candlelight flickered gold against his hair. “You came,” she said simply.

“Didn't you think I would?”

Lady Rudland had said he was planning on it, but Miranda hadn't been so sure. He had made it abundantly clear that he wanted no part of society that year. Or possibly any year. It was hard to say just yet.

“I understand she had to blackmail you into attendance,” she said, as they assumed side-by-side positions, both gazing idly out at the crowd.

He feigned affront. “Blackmail? What an ugly word. And incorrect in this instance.”

“Oh?”

He leaned toward her ever so slightly. “It was guilt.”

“Guilt?” Her lips twitched, and she turned to him with mischievous eyes. “What did you do?”

“It's what I didn't do. Or rather, what I wasn't doing.” He gave a careless shrug. “I'm told that you and Olivia will be successes if I offer my support.”

“I expect Olivia would be a success if she were penniless
and
born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“I have no worries for you, either,” Turner said, smiling down at her in a somewhat annoyingly benevolent manner. Then he scowled. “And what would my mother blackmail me with, pray tell?”

Miranda smiled to herself. She liked it when he was disconcerted. He always seemed so in control of himself to her, whereas her heart always managed to thump in triplicate whenever she saw him. Luckily the years had made her comfortable with him. If she hadn't known him for so long, she doubted she would be able to manage a conversation in his presence. Besides, he would surely suspect
something if she were tongue-tied each time they met.

“Oh, I don't know,” she pretended to ponder. “Stories of when you were small and such.”

“Hush your mouth. I was a perfect angel.”

She raised her brows dubiously. “You must think I'm very gullible.”

“No, just too polite to contradict me.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and turned back to the crowd. Olivia was holding court across the room, surrounded by her usual bevy of gentlemen.

“Livvy's a natural at this, isn't she?” she said.

Turner nodded his assent. “Where are all of
your
admirers, Miss Cheever? I find it difficult to believe you haven't any.”

She blushed at his compliment. “One or two, I suppose. I tend to blend into the woodwork when Olivia is near.”

He shot her a disbelieving look. “Let me see your dance card.”

Reluctantly, she handed it over to him. He gave it a quick examination, then returned it. “I was right,” he said. “It is very nearly filled.”

“Most of them found their way to me only because I was standing next to Olivia.”

“Don't be silly. And it's nothing to get upset about.”

“Oh, but I'm not,” she replied, surprised that he should think so. “Why? Do I look upset?”

He drew back and surveyed her. “No. No, you don't. How odd.”

“Odd?”

“I have never known a lady who did not wish for a gag
gle of eligible young men surrounding her at a ball.”

Miranda bristled at the condescension in his voice and was not quite able to keep the insolence out of
hers
, as she said, “Well, now you do.”

But he just chuckled. “And how, dear girl, are you going to find a husband with that attitude? Oh, don't look at me as if I am being patronizing—”

Which only made her teeth grind harder.

“—you yourself told me that you wish to find a husband this season.”

He was right, drat the man. Which left her with no option other than to say, “Don't call me ‘dear girl,' if you please.”

He grinned. “Why, Miss Cheever, do I detect a bit of temper in you?”

“I've always had a temper,” she bit off.

“Apparently so.” He was still smiling as he said it, which was all the more irritating.

“I thought you were meant to be moody and brooding,” she grumbled.

He gave her a lopsided shrug. “You seem to bring out the best in me.”

Miranda gave him a pointed look. Had he forgotten the night of Leticia's funeral? “The best?” she nearly drawled. “Really?”

He had the grace to look sheepish, at least. “Or occasionally the worst. But tonight, only the best.” At her lifted brows, he added, “I am here to do my duty by you.”

Duty
. Such a solid, boring word.

“Hand me back your dance card, if you will.”

She held it out. It was a festive little thing, with curlicues and a small pencil ribbon-tied to the corner. Turner's eyes grazed over it, and then narrowed. “Why have you left all of your waltzes free, Miranda? My mother told me quite specifically that she had secured permission for both you and Olivia to waltz.”

“Oh, it's not that.” She clenched her teeth for a split second, trying to control the flush that she knew was going to start creeping up her neck any second now. “It's just that, well, if you must know—”

“Out with it, Miss Cheever.”

“Why do you always call me Miss Cheever when you're mocking me?”

“Nonsense. I also call you Miss Cheever when I'm scolding you.”

Oh, well,
that
was an improvement.

“Miranda?”

“It is nothing,” she muttered.

But he would not let it go. “It is quite obviously
some-
thing, Miranda. You—”

“Oh, very well, if you must know, I was hoping
you
would waltz with me.”

He drew back, his eyes betraying his surprise.

“Or Winston,” she said quickly, because there was safety—or at least fewer chances of embarrassment—in numbers.

“We are interchangeable, then?” Turner murmured.

“No, of course not. But I am not skilled at the waltz, and I would feel more comfortable if my first time in public is with someone I know,” she hastily improvised.