by Julia Quinn
“Haggis?” she asked breathlessly. She could feel her chest growing light, as if the air itself had become something intoxicating, as if she might grow drunk, just breathing in his presence.
“Mmm-hmm. Hideous food, I think.”
“It’s—it’s not bad.” What was he talking about? And why was he looking at her that way? His eyes looked like sapphires. No, like a moonlit sky. Oh, dear. Was that her resolve flying out the window?
Turner smiled indulgently. “Your memory is quite diminished, darling. I think you need some reminding.” His lips descended gently on hers, spreading fire quickly throughout her body. She sagged against him, sighing his name.
He pulled her more tightly against him, the force of his arousal pressing against her. “Can you feel what you do to me?” he whispered. “Can you?”
Miranda nodded shakily, barely aware that she was standing in the middle of her grandparents’ salon.
“Only you can do that to me, Miranda,” he murmured huskily. “Only you.”
That remark struck a discordant chord within her, and she stiffened in his arms. Hadn’t he just spent more than a month in Kent with his friend Lord Harry Whatever-his-name-was? And hadn’t Olivia blithely informed her that the festivities would have included wine, whiskey, and women? Loose women. Lots of them.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
His words were whispered against her skin, and a part of her wanted to melt right back against him. But she would not be seduced. Not this time. Before she could change her mind, she planted her palms against his chest and pushed. “Don’t try to do this to me,” she warned.
“Do what?” His face was the picture of innocence.
If Miranda had had a vase in her hands, she would have thrown it at him. Or better yet, a half-eaten scone. “Seduce me into bending to your will.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” she repeated incredulously. “Why not? Because I…Because you…”
“Because why?” He was grinning now.
“Because—oh!” Her fists balled up at her sides, and she actually stamped her foot. Which made her even more furious. To be reduced to this—it was humiliating.
“Now, now, Miranda.”
“Don’t ‘now, now’ me, you overbearing, patronizing—”
“You’re angry with me, I gather.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You always were clever, Turner.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “Well, here you have it—I’m sorry. I never intended to remain so long in Kent. I don’t know why I did it, but I did, and I’m sorry. It was meant to be a two-day trip.”
“A two-day trip that lasted nearly two months?” she scoffed. “Pardon me if I have difficulty believing you.”
“I wasn’t in Kent the entire time. When I returned to London, my mother said you were tending to a sick relative. It wasn’t until Olivia returned that I learned otherwise.”
“I don’t care how long you were…wherever you were!” she yelled, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “You shouldn’t have abandoned me like that. I can understand that you needed time to think, because I know you never wanted to marry me, but good heavens, Turner, did you need seven weeks? You cannot treat a woman like that! It’s rude and unconscionable and…and downright ungentlemanly!”
Was that the worst thing she could think to call him? Turner resisted the urge to smile. This wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as he thought. “You’re right,” he said quietly.
“And furthermore—what?” She blinked.
“You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Don’t you want to be?”
She opened her mouth, shut it, and then said, “Stop trying to confuse me.”
“I’m not. I’m agreeing with you, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He offered her his most engaging smile. “Is my apology accepted?”
Miranda sighed. It ought to be illegal for a man to have this much charm. “Yes, fine. It’s accepted. But what,” she asked suspiciously, “were you doing in Kent?”
“Mostly getting drunk.”
“Is that all?”
“A bit of hunting.”
“And?”
“And I did my best to keep Winston out of trouble when he found his way down there from Oxford. That chore kept me an extra fortnight, I’ll have you know.”
“And?”
“Are you trying to ask me if there were women there?”
Her eyes slid away from his face. “Perhaps.”
“There were.”
She tried to swallow the enormous lump that suddenly popped up in her throat as she stepped aside to clear his path to the door. “I think you should leave,” she said quietly.
He gripped her upper arms and forced her to look at him. “I never touched any of them, Miranda. Not one.”
The intensity of his voice was enough to make her want to cry. “Why not?” she whispered.
“I knew I was going to marry you. I know how it feels to be cuckolded.” He cleared his throat. “I would not do that to you.”
“Why not?” The words were barely a whisper.
“Because I have a care for your feelings. And I hold you in the highest regard.”
She pulled away from him and walked over to the window. It was early evening, but the days were long during the Scottish summertime. The sun was high in the sky, and people were still walking to and fro, completing their daily errands as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Miranda wanted to be one of those people, wanted to walk down the street away from her problems and never return.
Turner wanted to marry her. He had remained faithful to her. She should be dancing with joy. But she could not shake the feeling that he was doing this out of duty, not out of any love or affection for her. Except for desire, of course. It was abundantly clear that he desired her.
A tear trickled down her face. It wasn’t enough. It might be, if she didn’t love him so well. But this…It was too uneven. It would sicken her slowly, until she was nothing but a sad, lonely shell.
“Turner, I…I appreciate your coming all the way up here to see me. I know it was a long trip. And it was truly…” She searched for the right word. “…honorable of you to stay away from all those women in Kent. I’m sure they were very pretty.”
“Not half as pretty as you,” he whispered.
She swallowed convulsively. This was getting harder by the second. She clutched at the windowsill. “I cannot marry you.”
Dead silence. Miranda didn’t turn around. She could not see him, but she could feel the rage emanating from his body. Please, please just leave the room, she silently pleaded. Don’t come over here. And please—oh, please, don’t touch me.
Her prayers went unanswered, and his hands descended brutally on her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. “What did you say?”
“I said I cannot marry you,” she replied tremulously. She let her gaze fall to the floor. His blue eyes were burning holes into her.
“Look at me, damn it! What are you thinking? You have to marry me.”
She shook her head.
“You little fool.”
Miranda didn’t know what to say to that so she said nothing.
“Have you forgotten this?” He yanked her hard against him and plundered her lips with his. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Then have you forgotten that you told me you loved me?” he demanded.
Miranda wanted to die on the spot. “No.”
“That should count for something,” he said, shaking her until some of her hair broke free of its pins. “Doesn’t it?”
“And have you ever said you loved me?” she shot back.
He stared at her mutely.
“Do you love me?” Her cheeks were flaming with anger and embarrassment. “Do you?”
Turner swallowed, suddenly feeling as if he were choking. The walls seemed close, and he could not say anything, could not utter the words she wanted to hear.
�
�I see,” she said in a low voice.
A muscle worked spasmodically in his throat. Why couldn’t he say it? He wasn’t sure if he loved her, but he wasn’t sure that he didn’t. And he sure as hell didn’t want to hurt her, so why didn’t he just say those three words that would make her happy?
He had told Leticia he loved her.
“Miranda,” he said haltingly. “I—”
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it!” she burst out, her voice catching on the words.
Turner spun on his heel and walked across the room to where he had noticed a decanter of brandy. There was a bottle of whiskey on the shelf beneath it, and without asking her permission, he poured himself a glass. It went down in one fiery gulp, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “Miranda,” he said, wishing his voice were just a little steadier. “I’m not perfect.”
“You were supposed to be!” she cried. “Do you know how wonderful you were to me when I was little? And you didn’t even try. You were just…just you. And you made me feel like I wasn’t such an awkward little thing. And then you changed, but I thought I could change you back. And I tried, oh, how I tried, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”
“Miranda, it isn’t you…”
“Don’t make excuses for me! I can’t be what you need, and I hate you for that! Do you hear me? I hate you!” Overcome, she turned away and hugged her arms to herself, trying to control the tremors that shook her body.
“You don’t hate me.” His voice was soft and oddly soothing.
“No,” she said, choking back a sob. “I don’t. But I hate Leticia. If she weren’t already dead, I’d kill her myself.”
One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a wry smile.
“I’d do it slowly and painfully.”
“You really do have a vicious streak, puss,” he said, offering her a cajoling smile.
She tried to smile, but her lips just wouldn’t obey.
There was a long pause before Turner spoke again. “I will try to make you happy, but I can’t be everything you want.”
“I know,” she said sadly. “I thought you could, but I was wrong.”
“But we could still have a good marriage, Miranda. Better than most.”
“Better than most” might mean only that they spoke to each other at least once a day. Yes, they might have a good marriage. Good, but empty. She didn’t think she could bear living with him without his love. She shook her head.
“Damn it, Miranda! You have to marry me!” When she didn’t acknowledge his outburst, he yelled, “For the love of God, woman, you’re carrying my child!”
And there it was. She’d known that had to be the reason he’d traveled so far, and with such single-minded purpose. And as much as she appreciated his sense of honor—belated though it might have been—there was no getting around the fact that the baby was gone. She had bled, and then her appetite had returned, and her chamber pot had gone back to its regular manner of use.
Her mother had told her about this, had said that she had gone through exactly the same thing twice before Miranda and three times after. It had been, perhaps, an indelicate subject for a young woman not even out of the schoolroom, but Lady Cheever had known that she was dying, and she had wished to pass along to her daughter as much womanly knowledge as she could. She had told Miranda not to mourn if the same should happen to her, that she had always felt that those lost babes were never meant to be.
Miranda wet her lips and swallowed. And then, in a low, solemn voice, she said, “I’m not carrying your child. I was, but I’m not any longer.”
Turner said nothing. And then: “I don’t believe you.”
Miranda stood stunned. “I beg your pardon.”
He shrugged. “I don’t believe you. Olivia told me you were pregnant.”
“I was, when Olivia was here.”
“How do I know you’re not simply trying to be rid of me?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “Do you think I’d refuse to wed you if I were carrying your child?”
He seemed to consider that for a moment, and then he crossed his arms. “Well, you’re still compromised, and you’re still marrying me.”
“No,” she said derisively, “I’m not.”
“Oh, you will,” he said, his eyes glittering ruthlessly. “You just don’t know it yet.”
She backed away from him. “I don’t see how you’re going to force me.”
He took a step forward. “I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.”
“I’ll yell for MacDownes.”
“I don’t think you will.”
“I will. I swear it.” She opened her mouth and then looked sideways at him to see if he caught her warning.
“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging casually. “He won’t catch me off guard this time.”
“Mac—”
He clamped his hand on her mouth with stunning speed. “You little fool. Aside from the fact that I have no wish for your aging pugilistic butler to interrupt my privacy, did you stop to consider that his barging in here will only hasten our marriage? You wouldn’t want to get caught in a compromising position, would you?”
Miranda grumbled something against his hand and then punched him in the hip until he removed it. But she did not call out for MacDownes again. Much as she was loath to admit it, he had a point. “Why didn’t you just let me yell, then?” she taunted. “Hmmm? Isn’t marriage what you want?”
“Yes, but I thought you might prefer to enter into it with a little dignity.”
Miranda had no ready response, so she crossed her arms.
“Now I want you to listen to me,” he said in a low voice, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. “And listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You are going to marry me before the week is out. Since you have conveniently run off to Scotland, we don’t need a special license. You’re just lucky I don’t haul you off to a church right this instant. Get yourself a dress and get yourself some flowers, because, sweetheart, you’re getting yourself a new name.”
She shot him a scathing glare, unable to think of any words to sufficiently express her fury.
“And don’t even think about running off again,” he said lazily. “For your information, I have rented rooms just two doors down and have arranged for surveillance on this house twenty-four hours a day. You won’t make it to the end of the street.”
“My God,” she breathed. “You’ve gone mad.”
He laughed at that. “Consider that statement if you will. If I brought ten people in here and explained that I had taken your virginity, asked you to marry me, and you refused, who do you think they would think is mad?”
She was fuming so badly, she thought she might explode.
“Not me!” he said brightly. “Now buck up, puss, and look on the bright side. We shall make more babies and have a splendid time doing so, I promise never to beat you or forbid you to do anything that is not utterly foolish, and you’ll finally be sisters with Olivia. What more could you want?”
Love. But she couldn’t voice the word.
“All in all, Miranda, you could be in a far worse position.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“Many women would be thrilled to change places with you.”
She wondered if there was any way to wipe the smug expression off his face without doing him permanent harm.
He leaned forward suggestively. “And I can promise you I shall be very, very attentive to your needs.”
She clasped her hands behind her back because they were starting to shake with frustration and rage.
“You’ll thank me for this someday.”
And that was it. “Aaaaargh!” she yelled incoherently, launching herself onto him.
“What on earth?” Turner twisted around, trying to get her and her pummeling fists off him.
“Don’t you ever—ever say, ‘You’ll thank me for this someday’ again! Do you hear me! Ever!”
“Stop, woman! Good God, you’ve gone mad!” He raised his arms to shield his face. The position was rather cowardly for his taste, but the alternative was to have her accidentally jab him in the eye. There wasn’t much else to do, as he couldn’t exactly defend himself. He had never hit a woman, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“And don’t ever use that patronizing tone with me again,” she demanded, poking him furiously in the chest.
“Calm down, dear. I promise I’ll never use that patronizing tone with you again.”
“You’re using it now,” she ground out.
“Not in the least.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
Good Lord, this was growing tedious. “Miranda, we’re acting like children.”
She seemed to grow taller, and her eyes took on a wild look that should have struck fear in his heart. And as she gave her head a little shake, she spat, “I don’t care.”
“Well, maybe if you start acting like an adult, I’ll stop speaking to you in my so-called patronizing tone.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she growled from the back of her throat. “Do you know something, Turner? Sometimes you act like a complete ass.” With that, she balled her hand into a fist, pulled back her arm, and let fly.
“Holy bloody hell!” His hand shot up to his eye, and he touched his burning skin in disbelief. “Who the hell taught you to throw a punch?”
She smiled smugly. “MacDownes.”
24 AUGUST 1819—LATER IN THE EVENING
MacDownes informed Grandmother and Grandfather of my visitor today, and they quickly guessed who he is to me. Grandfather blustered for about ten minutes about how could that son of a something I cannot possibly write show his face, until Grandmother finally calmed him down and asked me why he had come.
I cannot lie to them. I never have been able to. I told them the truth—that he had come to marry me. They reacted with great joy and even greater relief until I told them that I refused. Grandfather launched into another tirade, only this time the object was me, and my lack of common sense. Or at least I think that was what he said. He is from the Highlands, and although he speaks the King’s English with a perfect accent, his brogue breaks through when he gets upset.
