by Julia Quinn
"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.
He was, to understate, particularly upset.
So now I find myself with all three of them aligned against me. I fear I might be fighting a losing battle.
Chapter 15
Given the opposition against her, it was remarkable that Miranda held out as long as she did, which was three days.
Her grandmother launched the attack, using the sweet and sensible approach. "Now, dear," she had said, "I understand that Lord Turner was perhaps a bit tardy in his attentions, but he did come up to scratch, and well, you did…"
"You don't need to say it," Miranda had replied, blushing furiously.
"Well, you did."
"I know." Heaven above, she knew. She could rarely think of anything else.
"But really, sweetling, what is wrong with the viscount? He seems a rather nice fellow, and he has assured us that he will be able to provide for you and look after you properly."
Miranda gritted her teeth. Turner had stopped by the evening before to introduce himself to her grandparents. Trust him to make her grandmother fall in love with him in under an hour. That man ought to be kept away from women of all ages.
"And he's quite handsome, I think," her grandmother continued. "Don't you think so? Of course you think so. After all, his is not the kind of face that some think is handsome and some don't. His is the kind that everyone finds handsome. Don't you agree?"
Miranda did agree, but she wasn't about to say so.
"Of course, handsome is as handsome does, and so many well-formed people have ill-formed minds."
Miranda wasn't even going to touch that one.
"But he appears to have all his wits about him, and he's quite affable, too. All in all, Miranda, you could do much worse." When her granddaughter did not reply, she said with uncharacteristic severity, "And I don't think you'll be able to do better."
It stung, but it was true. Still, Miranda said, "I could remain unmarried."
Since her grandmother did not view that as a viable option, she did not dignify it with a response. "I'm not talking about his title," she said sharply. "Or his fortune. He would be a good catch if he hadn't a farthing."
Miranda found a way to respond that involved a noncommittal throat sound, a bit of a head shake, a bit of a head twist, and a shrug. And that, she hoped, would be that.
But it wasn't. The end wasn't nearly in sight. Turner took up the next round by trying to appeal to her romantic nature. Large bouquets of flowers arrived every two or so hours, every one with a note reading, "Marry me, Miranda."
Miranda did her best to ignore them, which wasn't easy, because they soon filled every corner of the house. He made great inroads with her grandmother, however, who was redoubled in her resolve to see her Miranda married to the charming and generous viscount.
Her grandfather tried next, his approach considerably more aggressive. "For the love of God, lassie," he roared. "Have you lost your mind?"
Since Miranda was no longer quite so certain she knew the answer to that question, she did not reply.
Turner went next, this time making a tactical mistake. He sent a note reading, "I forgive you for hitting me." Miranda was initially enraged. It was that condescending tone which had caused her to punch him in the first place. Then she recognized it for what it was— a gentle warning. He was not goin
g to put up with her stubbornness for much longer.
On the second day of the siege, she decided she needed some fresh air— really, the scent of all those flowers was positively cloying— so Miranda picked up her bonnet and headed out to the nearby Queen Street Garden.
Turner began to follow her immediately. He had not been jesting when he had told her that he was keeping her house under surveillance. He had not bothered to mention, however, that he wasn't hiring professionals to keep watch. His poor beleaguered valet had that honor, and after eight straight hours of staring out the window, he was much relieved when the lady in question finally departed, and he could abandon his post.
Turner smiled as he watched Miranda make her way to the park with quick, efficient steps, then frowned when he realized that she had not taken a maid along with her. Edinburgh was not as dangerous as London, but surely a gentle lady did not venture out by herself. This sort of behavior would need to stop once they were married.
And they would get married. End of discussion.
He was, however, going to have to approach this matter with a certain measure of finesse. In retrospect, the note expressing his forgiveness was probably a mistake. Hell, he'd known it would irk her even as he wrote it, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Not when, every time he looked in the mirror, he was greeted by his blackened eye.
Miranda entered the park and strode along for several minutes until she found an unoccupied bench. She brushed away some dust, sat down, and pulled a book out of the bag she'd been carrying with her.
Turner smiled from his vantage point fifty yards or so away. He liked watching her. It surprised him how content he felt just standing there under a tree, watching her read a book. Her fingers arched so delicately as she turned each page. He had a sudden vision of her sitting behind the desk in the sitting room attached to his bedroom at his home in Northumberland. She was writing a letter, probably to Olivia, and smiling as she recounted the day's events.
Turner suddenly realized that this marriage wasn't just the right thing, it was also a good thing, and he was going to be quite happy with her.
Whistling to himself, he ambled over to where she was sitting and plopped down next to her. "Hello, puss."
She looked up and sighed, rolling her eyes at the same time. "Oh, it's you."
"I certainly hope no one else uses endearments."
She grimaced as she caught sight of his face. "I'm sorry about your eye."
"Oh, I've already forgiven you for that, if you recall."
She stiffened. "I recall."
"Yes," he murmured. "I rather thought you would."
She waited for a moment, most probably for him to leave. Then she turned pointedly back to her book and announced, "I'm trying to read."
"I see that. Very good of you, you know. I like a female who broadens her mind." He plucked the volume from her fingers and turned it over to read the title. "Pride and Prejudice. Are you enjoying it?"
"I was."
He ignored her barb as he flipped to the first page, holding her place with his index finger. "'It is a truth universally acknowledged,'" he read aloud, "'that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.'"
Miranda tried to grab her book back, but he moved it out of her reach.
"Hmmm," he mused. "An interesting thought. I certainly am in want of a wife."
"Go to London," she retorted. "You'll find lots of women there."
"And I am in possession of a good fortune." He leaned forward and grinned at her. "Just in case you didn't realize."
"I cannot tell you how relieved I am in the knowledge that you will never starve."
He chuckled. "Oh, Miranda, why don't you just give up? You can't win this one."
"I don't imagine there are many priests who will marry a couple without the woman's consent."
"You'll consent," he said in a pleasant tone.
"Oh?"
"You love me, remember?"
Miranda's mouth tightened. "That was a very long time ago."
"What, two, three months? Not so long. It'll come back to you."
"Not the way you're acting."
"Such a pointy tongue," he said with a sly smile. And then he leaned in. "If you must know, it's one of the things I like best about you."
She had to flex her fingers to keep herself from wrapping them around his neck. "I believe I've had my fill of fresh air," she announced, holding her book tightly to her chest as she stood. "I'm going home."
He stood immediately. "Then I shall accompany you, Lady Turner."
She whirled around. "What did you just call me?"
"Just testing the name," he murmured. "It fits quite well, I think. You might as well accustom yourself to it as soon as possible."
Miranda shook her head and resumed her walk home. She tried to keep a few steps ahead of him, but his legs were far longer, and he had no trouble remaining even with her. "You know, Miranda," he said affably, "if you could give me one good reason why we should not be married, I would leave you alone."
"I don't like you."
"That's a lie, so it doesn't count."
She thought for a few more moments, still walking as quickly as she could. "I don't need your money."
"Of course you don't. Olivia told me last year that your mother left you a small bequest. Enough to live on. But it's a bit shortsighted to refuse to marry someone because you don't wish to have more money, wouldn't you think?"
She ground her teeth together and kept walking. They reached the steps leading up to her grandparents' house, and Miranda marched up. But before she could enter, Turner's hand settled upon her wrist with just enough pressure to assure her that he had lost his levity.
And yet he was still smiling when he said, "You see? Not a single reason."
She should have been nervous.
"Perhaps not," she said icily, "but nor is there a reason to do it."
"Your reputation is not a reason?" he asked softly.
Her eyes met his warily. "But my reputation is not in danger."
"Is it not?"
She sucked in her breath. "You wouldn't."
He shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulder that sent a shiver down her spine. "I am not ordinarily described as ruthless, but do not underestimate me, Miranda. I shall marry you."
"Why do you even want to?" she cried. He didn't have to do it. No one was forcing him. Miranda had practically offered him an escape route on a silver platter.
"I am a gentleman," he bit off. "I take care of my transgressions."
"I am a transgression?" she whispered. Because the air had been knocked from her lungs. A whisper was all she could do.
He stood across from her, looking as uncomfortable as she had ever seen him. "I should not have seduced you. I should have known better. And I should not have abandoned you for so many weeks following. For that I have no excuse, save my own shortcomings. But I will not allow my honor to be tossed aside. And you will marry me."
"Do you want me, or do you want your honor?" Miranda whispered.
He looked at her as if she had missed an important lesson. And then he said, "They are the same thing."
28 August 1819
I married him.
The wedding was small. Tiny, really, the only guests Miranda's grandparents, the vicar's wife, and— at Miranda's insistence— MacDownes.
At Turner's insistence, they departed for his home in Northumberland directly following the ceremony, which, also at his insistence, had been held at a shockingly early hour so that they might get a good start back to Rosedale, the Restoration-era manse that the new couple would call home.
After Miranda said her good-byes, he helped her up into the carriage, his hands lingering at her waist before he gave her a boost. An odd, unfamiliar emotion washed over him, and Turner was slightly bemused to realize that it was contentment.
Marriage to Leticia had been about many things, but never peace. Turner had entered into the union on a giddy rush of
desire and excitement that had turned quickly to disillusionment and crushing sense of loss. And when that was through, all that had been left was anger.
He rather liked the idea of being married to Miranda. She could be trusted. She would never betray him, with her body or with her words. And although he did not feel the obsession he had done with Leticia, he desired her— Miranda— with an intensity that he still could not quite believe. Every time he saw her, smelled her, heard her voice…He wanted her. He wanted to lay his hand on her arm, to feel the heat from her body. He wanted to brush up close, to breathe her in as they crossed paths.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at the hunting lodge, covering her body with his, powered by something deep within him, something primitive and possessive, and just a little bit wild.
She was his. And she would be again.
He entered the carriage after her and sat down on the same side, although not directly next to her. He wanted nothing more than to settle at her side and pull her into his lap, but he sensed that she needed a bit of time.
They would be many hours in the carriage this day. He could afford to take his time.
He watched her for several minutes as the carriage rolled away from Edinburgh. She was tightly clutching the folds of her mint green wedding gown. Her knuckles were turning white, a testament to her frayed nerves. Twice, Turner reached out to touch her, then pulled back, unsure if his overture would be welcome. After a few more minutes, however, he said softly, "If you wish to cry, I shan't judge you."
She didn't turn around. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
She swallowed. "Of course. I just got married, didn't I? Isn't that what every woman wants?"
"Is it what you want?"
"It's a little late to worry about that now, don't you think?"
He smiled wryly. "I'm not so dreadful, Miranda."
She let out a nervous laugh. "Of course not. You're what I've always wanted. That's what you've been telling me for days, have you not? I've loved you forever."
He found himself wishing that her words did not hold such a mocking tone. "Come over here," he said, taking hold of her arm and hauling her over to his side of the carriage.
