The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

by Julia Quinn

  From Winston: a set of lovely lace handkerchiefs.

  From Olivia: a box of stationery, engraved with my name. She enclosed a little note marked, "For Your Eyes Only," which said, "I hope you shan't be able to use this for long!" Which of course means she hopes my name shall soon be Bevelstoke.

  I did not comment.

  And from Turner, a bottle of scent. Violets. I immediately thought of the violet ribbon he pinned to my hair when I was ten, but of course he would not have remembered such a thing. I said nothing about it; it would have been far too embarrassing to be revealed as so maudlin. But I thought it a lovely and sweet gift.

  I cannot seem to sleep. Ten minutes have passed since I wrote the previous sentence, and although I yawn quite frequently, my eyelids do not seem the least bit heavy. I think I shall go down to the kitchens to see if I might get a glass of warm milk.

  Or perhaps I will not go to the kitchens. It is not likely that anyone will be down there to assist me, and while I am perfectly able to heat some milk, the chef will probably have palpitations when he sees that someone has used one of his pots without his knowledge. And more importantly, I am twenty years old now. I can have a glass of sherry to help me sleep if I want.

  I think that is what I will do.

  Chapter 7

  Turner had been through one candle and three glasses of brandy, and now he was sitting in the dark in his father's study, staring out the window, listening to the leaves of a nearby tree rustle in the wind and slap up against the glass.

  Dull, perhaps, but just now he was embracing dull. Dull was precisely what he wanted after a day such as this.

  First there had been Olivia, accusing him of wanting Miranda. Then there had been Miranda, and he had—

  Dear Lord, he had wanted her.

  He knew the exact moment he had realized it. It wasn't when she had bumped into him. It wasn't when his hands had gone 'round her upper arms to steady her. She'd felt nice, yes, but he hadn't noticed. Not like that.

  The moment…the moment that could quite possibly ruin him had occurred a split second later, when she looked up.

  It was her eyes. It had always been her eyes. He had just been too stupid to realize it.

  And as they stood there, for what felt like an eternity, he felt himself changing. He felt his body coiling and his breath ceasing altogether, and then his fingers tightened, and her eyes— they widened even more.

  And he wanted her. Like nothing he could have imagined, like nothing that was proper and good, he wanted her.

  He had never been so disgusted with himself.

  He didn't love her. He couldn't love her. He was quite certain he could not love anyone, not after the destruction Leticia had wrought on his heart. It was lust, pure and simple, and it was lust for what was quite possibly the least suitable woman in all England.

  He poured himself another drink. They said that what didn't kill a man made him stronger, but this…

  This was going to kill him.

  And then, as he sat there, pondering his own weaknesses, he saw her.

  It was a test. It could only be a test. Someone somewhere was determined to test his mettle as a gentleman, and he was going to fail. He would try, he would hold back as long as he could, but deep down, in a little corner of his soul that he didn't particularly like to examine, he knew. He would fail.

  She moved like a ghost, almost glowing in some billowy white gown. It was plain cotton, he was sure, prim and proper and perfectly virginal.

  It made him desperate for her.

  He clutched the sides of his chair and held on for all he was worth.

  * * *

  Miranda felt a little uneasy at entering Lord Rudland's study, but she had not found what she was looking for in the rose salon, and she knew that he kept a decanter on a shelf by the door. She could be in and out in under a minute; surely mere seconds would not count as an invasion of privacy. "Now where are those glasses?" she murmured, setting her candle down on the table. "Here we are." She found the bottle of sherry and poured herself a small amount.

  "I hope you are not making this a habit," a voice drawled out.

  The glass slipped through her fingers and landed on the floor with a loud smash.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

  She followed his voice until she saw him, seated in a wingback chair, his hands perched awkwardly on the arms. The light was dim, but even so, she could see the expression on his face, sardonic and dry. "Turner?" she whispered foolishly, as if maybe, possibly, it could be someone else.

  "The very one."

  "But what are you— why are you here?" She took a step forward. "Ouch!" A shard of glass pierced the skin on the ball of her foot.

  "You little fool. Coming down here with bare feet." He rose from his chair and strode across the room.

  "I wasn't planning on breaking a glass," Miranda replied in a defensive tone, leaning down and plucking the splinter out.

  "It doesn't matter. You'll catch the death of a cold wandering around like that." He scooped her up in his arms and carried her away from the broken glass.

  It crossed Miranda's mind just then that she was as close to heaven as she had ever been in her short life. His body was warm, and she could feel the heat of him pouring through her nightgown. Her skin tingled from his nearness, and her breath started coming in strange little pants.

  It was the scent of him. That must be it. She had never been this near to him before, never been close enough to smell his uniquely male essence. He smelled like warm wood and brandy, and a little of something else, something she couldn't quite pinpoint. Something that was simply Turner. Clutching his neck, she allowed her head to drop closer to his chest just so she could take another deep breath of him.

  And then, just when she was convinced that life was as perfect as it could possibly be, he dumped her unceremoniously on the sofa.

  "What was that for?" she asked, scrambling to sit up straight.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "What are you doing here?"

  He sat down across from her on a low table. "I asked you first."

  "We sound like a pair of children, she said, tucking her legs beneath her. But she answered him, nonetheless. It seemed silly to argue over such a thing. "I couldn't sleep. I thought a glass of sherry might do the trick."

  "Because you've reached the ripe old age of twenty," he said mockingly.

  But she would not take his bait. She just tilted her head in gracious acknowledgment that said— Exactly.

  He chuckled at that. "Then, by all means, allow me to assist in your downfall." He stood and walked to a nearby cabinet. "But if you are going to drink, then by God, do it properly. Brandy is what you need, preferably the sort smuggled from France."

  Miranda watched as he plucked two snifters from a shelf and set them down on the table. His hands were steady and— could hands be beautiful?— as he poured two liberal doses. "My mother occasionally gave me brandy when I was small. When I got caught in the rain," she explained. "Just a sip to warm me up."

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes piercing even in the dark. "Are you cold now?"

  "No. Why?"

  "You're shivering."

  Miranda looked down at her traitorous arms. She was shivering, but it wasn't the cold that had caused it. She hugged her arms to her body, hoping he would not pursue the subject further.

  He walked back across the room and handed her the brandy, his body infused with lean, masculine grace. "Don't drink it all at once."

  She shot him an extremely irritated expression at his condescending tone before taking a sip. "Why are you here?" she asked.

  He sat down across from her and lazily propped one ankle on the opposite knee. "I had to discuss some estate matters with my father, so he invited me to share a drink with him after our meal. I never left."

  "And you've been sitting here in the dark all by yourself?"

  "I like the dark."

  "No one likes the dark."

  H
e laughed aloud, and she felt terribly green and young.

  "Ah, Miranda," he said, still chuckling. "Thank you for that."

  She narrowed her eyes. "How much have you had to drink?"

  "An impertinent question."

  "Aha, so you have had too much."

  He leaned forward. "Do I look drunk to you?"

  She drew back involuntarily, unprepared for the unwavering intensity of his gaze. "No," she said slowly. "But you're far more experienced than I am, and I would imagine that you know how to handle your liquor. You probably could drink eight times as much as I do and not show it at all."

  Turner laughed harshly. "All true, every bit of it. And you, dear girl, should learn to stay away from men who are 'far more experienced' than you."

  Miranda took another sip of her drink, just barely resisting the urge to toss it back in one gulp. But it would burn, and she would choke, and then he would laugh.

  And she would want to die of the embarrassment.

  He'd been in a foul mood all evening. Cutting and mocking when they were alone, and silent and surly when they were not. She cursed her traitorous heart for loving him so; it would have been far easier to adore Winston, whose smile was sunny and open, who had doted upon her the entire evening.

  But no, she wanted him. Turner, whose quicksilver moods meant that he was laughing and joking with her one moment, and treating her like an antidote the next.

  Love was for idiots. Fools. And she was the biggest fool of them all.

  "What are you thinking about?" he demanded.

  She said, "Your brother." Just to be perverse. It was a little bit true, anyway.

  "Ah," he said, adding more brandy to his glass. "Winston. Nice fellow."

  "Yes," she said. Almost defiantly.

  "Jolly."

  "Lovely."

  "Young."

  She shrugged. "So am I. Perhaps we are well matched."

  He said nothing. She finished her drink.

  "Don't you agree?" she asked.

  Still, he did not speak.

  "About Winston," she pushed. "He's your brother. You want him to be happy, don't you? Do you think I'd be good for him? Do you think I'd make him happy?"

  "Why are you asking me this?" he asked, his voice low and almost disembodied in the night.

  She shrugged, then slipped her finger into her glass to dab up the last drops. After licking her skin, she looked up.

  "At your service," he murmured, and splashed two more fingers of brandy into the snifter.

  Miranda nodded her thanks and then answered his question. "I want to know," she said simply, "and I don't know who else to ask. Olivia is so eager to see me married off to Winston, she'd say whatever she thought would bring me to the altar quickest."

  She waited, counting the seconds until he spoke. One, two, three…and then he took a ragged breath.

  It was almost like a surrender.

  "I don't know, Miranda." He sounded tired, weary. "I don't see why you wouldn't make him happy. You'd make anyone happy."

  Even you? Miranda ached to say the words, but instead she asked, "Do you think he'd make me happy?"

  It took him longer to answer this question. And then finally, in slow, measured tones: "I'm not sure."

  "Why not? What's wrong with him?"

  "Nothing is wrong with him. I'm just not certain he'd make you happy."

  "But why?" She was being impertinent, she knew, but if she could just get Turner to tell her why Winston wouldn't make her happy, maybe he'd realize why he would.

  "I don't know, Miranda." He raked his hand through his hair until the gold strands stood at an awkward angle. "Must we have this conversation?"

  "Yes," she said intently. "Yes."

  "Very well." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as if to prepare her for unpleasant news. "You lack the current societal standards of beauty, you're too sarcastic by half, and you don't particularly like to make polite conversation. Frankly, Miranda, I really cannot see you wanting a typical society marriage."

  She swallowed. "And?"

  He looked away from her for a long minute before finally turning back. "And most men will not appreciate you. If your husband tries to mold you into something you're not, you will be spectacularly unhappy."

  There was something electric in the air, and Miranda was quite unable to take her eyes off him. "And do you think there is anyone out there who will appreciate me?" she whispered.

  The question hung heavily in the air, mesmerizing them both until Turner finally answered, "Yes."

  But his eyes fell to his glass, and then he drained the last of the brandy, and his sigh was that of a man satisfied by drink, not one pondering love and romance.

  She looked away. The moment— if there had been one, if it hadn't been just a figment of her imagination— was gone, and the silence that remained was not one of comfort. It was awkward and ungainly, and she felt awkward and ungainly, and so, eager to fill the space between them, she blurted the first completely unimportant thing she could think of.

  "Do you plan to attend the Worthington ball next week?"

  He turned, one of his brows lifting in query over her unexpected question. "I might."

  "I wish you would. You're always so kind to dance with me twice. Otherwise I should be sadly lacking in partners." She was babbling, but she wasn't sure she cared. In any case, she couldn't seem to stop herself. "If Winston could attend, I wouldn't need you, but I understand he has to return to Oxford in the morning."

  Turner flashed her a strange look. It wasn't quite a smile, and it wasn't quite mocking, and it wasn't even quite ironic. Miranda hated that he was so inscrutable; it gave her absolutely no indication how to proceed. But she plowed on, anyway. At this point, what had she to lose?

  "Will you go?" she asked. "I would so appreciate it."

  He regarded her for a moment, then said, "I will be there."

  "Thank you. I'm quite grateful."

  "I'm delighted to be of use," he said dryly.

  She nodded, her movements spurred more by nervous energy than anything else. "You need only dance with me once, if that is all you can manage. But if you might do it at the outset, I would appreciate it. Other men do seem to follow your lead."

  "Strange as it may seem," he murmured.

  "It's not so strange," she said, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. She was beginning to feel the effects of the liquor. She was not yet impaired, but she felt rather warm, perhaps a little daring. "You're quite handsome."

  He seemed not to know how to reply. Miranda congratulated herself. It was so rarely that she managed to disconcert him.

  The feeling was heady, and so she took another gulp of her brandy, careful this time to let it slide down her throat more smoothly, and said, "You're rather like Winston."

  "I beg your pardon."

  His voice was sharp, and she probably should have taken it as a warning, but she could not seem to step out of the ditch she was rapidly digging 'round herself. "Well, you both have blue eyes and blond hair, although I suppose his is a bit lighter. And you stand in a similar manner, although— "

  "That's enough, Miranda."

  "Oh, but— "

  "I said, that's enough."

  She silenced at his caustic tone, then muttered, "There is no need to take offense."

  "You've had too much to drink."

  "Don't be silly. I'm not the least bit drunk. I'm sure you've drunk ten times as much as I have."

  He regarded her with a deceptively lazy stare. "That's not quite true, but as you said earlier, I have a great deal more experience than you do."

  "I did say that, didn't I? I think I was right. I don't think you're the least bit drunk."

  He inclined his head and said softly, "Not drunk. Just a trifle reckless."

  "Reckless, are you?" she murmured, testing the word on her tongue. "What an interesting description. I think I am reckless, too."

  "You certainly must be, or you would have gone right back upstair
s when you saw me."

  "And I wouldn't have compared you to Winston."

  His eyes glinted steely blue. "You certainly would not have done that."

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  There was a long, dead silence, and for a moment Miranda thought she'd gone too far. How could she have been so foolish, so conceited to think that he might want her? Why on earth would he care if she compared him to his younger brother? She was nothing more than a child to him, the homely little girl he'd befriended because he'd felt sorry for her. She should never have dreamed that he might one day come to care for her.

  "Forgive me," she muttered, jerking to her feet. "I over-step." And then, because it was still there, she drained the rest of her brandy and rushed toward the door.

  "Aaaah!"

  "What the devil?" Turner shot to his feet.

  "I forgot about the glass," she whimpered. "The broken glass."

  "Oh, Christ, Miranda, don't cry." He walked swiftly across the room and for the second time that evening scooped her into his arms.

  "I'm so stupid. So bloody stupid," she said with a sniffle. The tears were more for her lost dignity than for pain, and for that reason they were harder to stop.

  "Don't curse. I've never heard you curse before. I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap," he teased, carrying her back to the sofa.

  His gentle tone affected her more than stern words ever could, and she took a few great gulps of air, trying to control the sobs that were hovering somewhere at the back of her throat.

  He set her gently back down on the sofa. "Let me see that foot now, all right?"

  She shook her head. "I can take care of it."

  "Don't be silly. You're shaking like a leaf." He walked over to the liquor cabinet and picked up the candle she'd left there earlier.

  She watched him as he crossed back to her and set the candle down on an end table. "Here now, we've got a bit of light. Let me see your foot."

  Reluctantly, she let him pick up her foot and place it in his lap. "I'm so stupid."

  "Will you stop saying that? You're the least stupid female I know."

  "Thank you. I— Ouch!"