by Julia Quinn
Laughter.
He looked up. Winston and Miranda had just entered, rosy-cheeked and practically blooming with fresh air and sunshine.
Turner quirked a brow and stopped, waiting to see how long it took them to notice his presence.
“And that,” Miranda was saying, clearly coming to the close of a story, “was when I knew Olivia could not be trusted with the chocolate.”
Winston laughed, his eyes surveying her warmly. “You’ve changed, Miranda.”
She blushed prettily. “Not so very much. Mostly I have just grown up.”
“That you have.”
Turner thought he might gag.
“Did you think you could go away to school and find me just the way you left me?”
Winston grinned. “Something like that. But I must say I’m pleased with the way you’ve turned out.” He touched her hair, which had been coiled into a neat chignon. “I daresay I won’t be yanking on this anymore.”
She blushed again, and, really, this simply could not be tolerated.
“Good morning,” Turner said loudly, not bothering to move from his spot across the hall.
“I believe it is now afternoon,” Winston replied.
“For the uninitiated, perhaps,” Turner said with a mocking half smile.
“In London morning lasts until two?” Miranda asked coolly.
“Only if the evening prior was disappointing in its results.”
“Turner,” Winston said reproachfully.
Turner shrugged. “I need to speak with Miss Cheever,” he said, not bothering to look at his brother. Miranda’s lips parted—with surprise, he supposed, and perhaps a bit of anger as well.
“I should think that is up to Miranda,” Winston said.
Turner kept his eyes on Miranda. “Inform me when you are ready to return home. I will escort you.”
Winston’s mouth opened in dismay. “See here,” he said stiffly. “She is a lady, and you would do well to offer her the courtesy of asking permission.”
Turner turned to his brother and paused, staring until the younger man squirmed. He looked back to Miranda and said it again. “I will escort you home.”
“I’ve—”
He cut her off with a pointed look, and she acquiesced with a nod. “Of course, my lord,” she said, the corners of her mouth uncharacteristically tight. She turned to Winston. “He wanted to discuss an illuminated manuscript with my father. I’d quite forgotten.”
Clever Miranda. Turner almost smiled.
“Turner?” Winston said doubtfully. “An illuminated manuscript?”
“It’s a new passion of mine,” Turner said blandly.
Winston looked from him to Miranda and back, then finally gave in with a stiff nod. “Very well,” he said. “It has been a pleasure, Miranda.”
“Indeed,” she said, and from her tone, Turner knew that she did not lie.
Turner did not relinquish his position between the two young lovers, and Winston shot him an irritated glance before facing Miranda and saying, “Will I see you again before I return to Oxford?”
“I hope so. I have no firm plans for the next few days, and—”
Turner yawned.
Miranda cleared her throat. “I am sure we can make arrangements. Perhaps you and Olivia can come by for tea.”
“I would enjoy that very much.”
Turner managed to extend his bored mien to his fingernails, which he inspected with a significant lack of interest.
“Or if Olivia cannot visit,” Miranda continued, her voice impressively steely, “perhaps you can come by yourself.”
Winston’s eyes grew warm with interest. “I would be delighted,” he murmured, leaning over her hand.
“Are you ready?” Turner barked.
Miranda moved not a muscle as she ground out, “No.”
“Well, hurry it along, then, I haven’t all day.”
Winston turned to him in disbelief. “What is wrong with you?”
It was a good question. Fifteen minutes earlier, his only aim was to escape his parents’ house with all possible haste, and now he’d all but insisted that he take the time to escort Miranda home.
Very well, he had insisted, but he had his reasons.
“I am quite well,” Turner returned. “Best I’ve been in years. Since 1816, to be precise.”
Winston shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, and Miranda turned away. 1816 was, they all knew, the year of Turner’s marriage.
“June,” he added, just to be perverse.
“I beg your pardon?” Winston said stiffly.
“June. June of 1816.” And then he beamed at both of them, a patently false, self-congratulatory sort of smile. He turned to Miranda. “I will await you in the front hall. Don’t be late.”
Chapter 3
Don’t be late?
Don’t be late??!
For what, Miranda fumed for about the sixteenth time as she yanked on her clothing. They hadn’t set a time. He hadn’t even asked to escort her home. He’d ordered her, and then, after he’d instructed her to tell him when she was ready to leave, he’d not bothered to wait for an answer.
Was he so eager to have her gone?
Miranda didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Are you leaving already?”
It was Olivia, slipping in from the corridor.
“I need to return home,” Miranda said, choosing that moment to pull her dress over her head. She didn’t particularly wish Olivia to see her face. “Your habit is on the bed,” she added, the words muffled by the muslin.
“But why? Your father won’t miss you.”
Kind of her to point it out, Miranda thought uncharitably, even though she’d voiced the same opinion to Olivia on countless occasions.
“Miranda,” Olivia persisted.
Miranda turned her back so that Olivia could do up her buttons. “I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”
“What? Don’t be silly. My mother would have you live with us if it were possible. You will, in fact, once we go to London.”
“We’re not in London.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
Nothing. Miranda clenched her teeth.
“Did you have a row with Winston?”
“Of course not.” Because, really, who could have a row with Winston? Aside from Olivia.
“Then what is the matter?”
“It is nothing.” Miranda forced herself into a calmer disposition and reached for her gloves. “Your brother wishes to ask my father about an illuminated manuscript.”
“Winston?” Olivia asked doubtfully.
“Turner.”
“Turner?”
Good heavens, was she ever without questions?
“Yes,” Miranda answered, “and he plans to leave soon, so he needs to escort me now.”
The last bit was entirely fabricated, but Miranda thought it rather inspired, under the circumstances. Besides, maybe now he’d have to go back to his home in Northumberland, and the world could go back to its usual position, tilting contentedly on its axis, spinning ’round the sun.
Olivia leaned against the doorframe, situating herself in such a way that Miranda could not ignore her. “Then why are you in such a beastly mood? You’ve always liked Turner, haven’t you?”
Miranda almost laughed.
And then she almost cried.
How dare he order her about like some recalcitrant trollop.
How dare he make her so miserable here, at Haverbreaks, which had been more of a home to her these past few years than it had to him.
She turned away. She couldn’t let Olivia see her face.
How dare he kiss her and not mean it.
“Miranda?” Olivia said softly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly well,” Miranda choked out, brushing quickly by her as she flew toward the door.
“You don’t sound—”
“I’m sad about Leticia,” Miranda snapped. And
she was. Anyone who had made Turner that miserable surely deserved to be mourned.
But Olivia, being Olivia, would not be swayed, and as Miranda hurried down the stairs to the front hall, she was right at her heels.
“Leticia!” she exclaimed. “You must be joking.”
Miranda skidded ’round the landing, holding tight to the banister to keep herself from flying.
“Leticia was a nasty old witch,” Olivia continued. “She made Turner dreadfully unhappy.”
Precisely.
“Miranda! Miranda! Oh, Turner. Good day.”
“Olivia,” he said politely, giving her a tiny nod.
“Miranda says she is mourning Leticia. Is that not insupportable?”
“Olivia!” Miranda gasped. Turner might have detested his dead wife—enough to say so at her funeral, even—but there were certain things that were quite beyond the bounds of decency.
Turner just looked at Miranda, one of his brows rising into a mockingly quizzical expression.
“Oh, stuff. He hated her, and we all knew it.”
“Candid as always, dear sister,” Turner murmured.
“You’ve always said you don’t enjoy hypocrisy,” she returned.
“True enough.” He looked to Miranda. “Shall we?”
“You’re taking her home?” Olivia asked, even though Miranda had just told her that he was.
“I need to speak with her father.”
“Can’t Winston take her?”
“Olivia!” Miranda wasn’t sure what embarrassed her more—that Olivia was matchmaking or that she was doing it in front of Turner.
“Winston doesn’t need to speak with her father,” Turner said smoothly.
“Well, can’t he come along?”
“Not in my curricle.”
Olivia’s eyes grew round with longing. “You’re taking your curricle?” It was newly built, high, fast, and sleek, and Olivia had been dying to take the reins.
Turner grinned, and for a moment he almost looked like himself again—the man Miranda had known and loved, all those years ago. “Maybe I’ll even let her drive,” he said, clearly for no other reason than to torture his sister.
It worked, too. Olivia made a strange, gurgling sound, as if she were choking on her own envy.
“Ta, dear sis!” Turner said with a smirk. He slipped his arm through Miranda’s and drew her toward the door. “I shall see you later…or perhaps you’ll see me. As I drive by.”
Miranda bit back a laugh as they headed down the steps to the drive. “You’re terrible,” she said.
He shrugged. “She deserves it.”
“No,” Miranda said, feeling that she ought to stand up for her dearest friend, even if she had enjoyed the scene to an unseemly degree.
“No?”
“Very well, yes, but you’re still terrible.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, and as Miranda let him help her up into the curricle, she wondered how this had all come about, that she was sitting beside him and she was actually smiling and thinking that maybe she didn’t hate him, and maybe he could be redeemed.
They drove in silence for the first few minutes. The curricle was very smart, and Miranda could not help but feel terribly stylish as they sped along, high above the road.
“You made quite a conquest this afternoon,” Turner finally said.
Miranda stiffened.
“Winston seems quite taken with you.”
Still, she said nothing. There was nothing she could say, nothing that would leave her with dignity intact. She could deny it, and sound like a coquette, or she could agree and sound boastful. Or taunting. Or, God forbid, as if she wished to make him jealous.
“I suppose I ought to give you my blessing.”
Miranda turned to face him in shock, but Turner kept his eyes on the road as he added, “It would certainly be an advantageous match for you, and he could undoubtedly do no better. You may be lacking in the funds a younger son so earnestly needs, but you make up for it in sense. And sensibility, for that matter.”
“Oh. I—I—” Miranda blinked. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. It was a compliment, and not even a backhanded one at that, but still, it fell a bit flat. She didn’t want him to rave about all her stellar qualities if the only reason was to pair her with his brother.
And she didn’t want to be sensible. For once she wanted to be beautiful, or exotic, or captivating.
Good heavens. Sensible. It was a miserable designation.
Miranda realized he was waiting for her to finish her halting reply, so she muttered, “Thank you.”
“I do not wish for my brother to make the same mistakes that I did.”
She looked to him at that. His face was pinched, his eyes pointed determinedly at the road, as if a single glance in her direction might send the world crashing down around them. “Mistakes?” she echoed softly.
“Mistake,” he said, his voice clipped. “Singular.”
“Leticia.” There. She’d said it.
The curricle slowed, then stopped. And finally, he looked at her. “Indeed.”
“What did she do to you?” she asked softly. It was too personal, and highly inappropriate, but she could not stop herself, not when his eyes were focused so intently on hers.
But it was the wrong thing to say. Clearly, because his jaw tensed, and he turned away as he said, “Nothing that is fit for a lady’s ears.”
“Turner—”
He whirled back to face her, his eyes flaring. “Do you know how she died?”
Miranda was shaking her head even as she said, “Her neck. She fell.”
“From a horse,” he bit off. “She was thrown from a horse—”
“I know.”
“—riding to meet her lover.”
That, she hadn’t known.
“She was also with child.”
Good God. “Oh, Turner, I’m so s—”
He cut her off. “Don’t say it. I’m not.”
Her hand covered her open mouth.
“It wasn’t mine.”
She swallowed. What could she say? There was nothing to say.
“The first wasn’t mine, either,” he added. His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed, and there was a twist to his lips—almost as if he were daring her. Silently daring her to ask.
“T—” She tried to say his name, because she thought she ought to speak, but the truth was, she was blessedly thankful when he cut her off.
“She was carrying when we married. It’s why we married, if you must know.” He laughed caustically at that. “If you must know,” he said again. “That’s rich, considering I didn’t know.”
The pain in his voice cut through her, but not nearly as much as the self-loathing. She had wondered how he had come to this, and now she knew…and she knew she could never hate him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because she was, and because anything more would have been too much.
“It wasn’t your—” He cut himself off, cleared his throat. And then, after several seconds, he said, “Thank you.”
He picked up the reins again, but before he could set them in motion, she asked, “What will you do now?”
He smiled at that. Well, not really, but the corner of his mouth moved a little. “What will I do?” he echoed.
“Will you go to Northumberland? To London?” Will you remarry?
“What will I do,” he mused. “Whatever I please, I imagine.”
Miranda cleared her throat. “I know that your mother was hoping that you would make yourself present in London during Olivia’s season.”
“Olivia doesn’t need my help.”
“No.” She swallowed. Painfully. That was her pride sliding down her throat. “But I do.”
He turned and assessed her with raised brows. “You? I thought you had my little brother wrapped up neatly with a bow.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s rather young, don’t you think?”
“Ol
der than you.”
“By three months,” she shot back. “He’s still at university. He’s not going to wish to marry soon.”
His head tilted, and his gaze grew penetrating. “And you do?” he murmured.
Miranda fought the urge to leap over the side of the curricle. Surely there were some conversations a lady shouldn’t have to endure.
Surely this had to be one of them.
“I would like to marry someday, yes,” she said haltingly, hating that her cheeks were growing warm.
He stared at her. And he stared at her. And then he stared at her some more.
Or maybe it was barely a glance. She really couldn’t tell any longer, but she was beyond relieved when he finally broke the silence—however long it had lasted—and said, “Very well. I shall consider it. I owe you that, at least.”
Good Lord, her head was spinning. “Owe me what?”
“An apology, to begin with. What happened last night…It was unforgivable. It’s why I insisted upon escorting you home.” He cleared his throat, and for the barest of moments looked away. “I owe you an apology, and I thought you’d rather I did it in private.”
She stared straight ahead.
“A public apology would require that we tell my family just what exactly I was apologizing for,” he continued. “I didn’t think you’d want them to know.”
“You mean you don’t want them to know.”
He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “No, I don’t. I can’t say I’m proud of my behavior, and I would rather my family didn’t know. But I was also thinking of you.”
“Apology accepted,” she said softly.
Turner let out a long, weary sigh. “I don’t know why I did it,” he continued. “It wasn’t even desire. I don’t know what it was. But it wasn’t your fault.”
She gave him a look. It wasn’t difficult to decipher.
“Ah, bloody—” He let out an irritated breath and looked away. Brilliant job, Turner. Kiss a girl and then tell her you didn’t do it out of desire. “I’m sorry, Miranda. That came out the wrong way. I’m being an ass. I can’t seem to help myself these days.”
“Perhaps you ought to write a book,” she said bitterly. “One hundred and one ways to insult a young lady. I daresay you’re up to at least fifty by now.”
