by Julia Quinn
“Miranda? Miranda!”
Miranda heard Olivia impatiently repeating her name. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Livvy. My mind was miles away.”
“I know. It rarely seems to reside at Rosedale these days.”
Miranda faked a heartfelt sigh. “It’s the baby, I imagine. It makes me maudlin.” In another two months, she thought ruefully, she wasn’t going to be able to blame her momentary lapses of reason on the baby, and then what would she do? She smiled blandly at Olivia. “What did you want to tell me?”
“I was merely going to say that if you don’t like green, we might redo the room in a dusty rose color. You could call it the rose salon. Which would be so fitting for Rosedale.”
“You don’t think it would be too feminine?” Miranda asked. “Turner uses this room quite a bit, too.”
“Hmmm. That is a problem.”
Miranda didn’t even realize that she was clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Funny how even the mention of his name could set her off. “On the other hand,” she said, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “I’ve always liked dusty rose. Let’s do it.”
“Are you sure?” Now Olivia was doubtful. “Turner—”
“Hang Turner,” Miranda cut in with just enough vehemence to make Olivia raise her eyebrows. “If he wanted a say in the decor, he shouldn’t have gone off to London.”
“You shouldn’t get snappy,” Olivia said placatingly. “I’m certain he misses you very much.”
“Nonsense. He probably hasn’t thought of me at all.”
She was haunting him.
Turner had thought, after four interminable days in a closed carriage, that he would be able to remove Miranda from his thoughts when he reached London and all its distractions.
But he was wrong.
Their last conversation played out in his mind, over and over and over again, but every time Turner attempted to change his lines, to pretend that he had said something else, that he had thought of something else to say, the whole thing disappeared. The memory dissolved and all he was left with was her eyes, big, and brown, and flat with pain.
It was an unfamiliar emotion, guilt. It burned, and it prickled, and it grabbed him by the throat. Anger had been much, much easier. Anger was clean. It was precise. And it was never about him.
It had been about Leticia. It had been about her many men. But it had never had to be about him.
But this—This was something else. And there was no way he could live like this. They could be happy again, couldn’t they? He had certainly been happy before. She had been, too. She might complain about his failings, but he knew that she had been happy.
And she would be again, he vowed. Once Miranda accepted that he cared for her in every way he knew how, they could go back to the comfortable existence they’d carved out since their marriage. She would have the baby. They would be a family. He would make love to her with his hands and with his lips, with everything but words.
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 an
d 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.
7 JUNE 1820
Lady Rudland and Olivia arrived today to await the birth of “the heir,” as the entire Bevelstoke clan calls him. The physician does not seem to think that I will deliver for close to a month, but Lady Rudland said that she did not want to take any chances.
I am sure that they have noticed that Turner and I no longer share a bedroom. It is uncommon, of course, for married couples to share a bedroom, but last time they were here we did, and I am certain that they are wondering about our separation. It has been two weeks now since I moved my belongings.
My bed is drafty and cold. I hate it.
I am not even excited for the birth of the child.
Chapter 19
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 unab
le 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.
