by Julia Quinn
Because he never voiced them aloud, she retorted silently. Oh, he complimented her and frequently made comments about how glad he was that he had married her.
It was the most pinpointedly cruel sort of torture, and he had no idea he was committing it. He thought he was being kind and attentive, and he was.
But every time he looked at her, and he smiled in that warm and secret way of his, and she thought— for one breathless second she thought he would lean forward and whisper—
I love you.
— and then every time, when it didn't happen, and he just brushed his lips by her cheek, or tousled her hair, or asked her if she'd enjoyed her bloody pudding, for heaven's sake—
She felt something inside crumpling. A little squeeze, making just a little crease, but all those folds on her heart were adding up, and every day, it seemed a little harder to pretend that her life was precisely how she wished it.
She tried to be patient. The last thing she wanted from him was falsehood. I love you was devastating when there wasn't any feeling behind it.
But she didn't want to think about this. Not right now, not when he was being so sweet and attentive, and she should have been utterly and completely happy.
And she was. Truly. Almost. It was only one tiny little piece of her that kept pushing it way to the fore, and it was getting annoying, really, because she didn't want to waste all her thought and energy thinking about something over which she had no control.
She just wanted to live in the moment, to enjoy her many blessings without having to think about it.
Turner made a timely entrance, striding back into the room and dropping a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "Mrs. Hingham says she'll send up a plate of food in a few minutes."
"I told you you shouldn't have bothered to go down," Miranda scolded. "I knew that nothing would be ready."
"If I hadn't gone down myself," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I would have had to wait for a maid to come and see what I wanted, then I would have had to wait for her to go down to the kitchens, then I would have had to wait while Mrs. Hingham prepared our food, then— "
Miranda held her hand up. "Enough! I see your point."
"It will arrive more quickly this way." He leaned forward with a devilish grin. "I'm not a patient person."
Neither was she, Miranda thought ruefully.
But her husband, oblivious to her stormy thoughts, merely smiled as he gazed out the window. A light dusting of snow covered the trees.
A footman and a maid slipped into the room, bringing food and setting it up on Turner's desk.
"Aren't you worried about your papers?" Miranda asked.
"They'll be fine." He shoved them all into a pile.
"But won't they get mixed up?"
He shrugged. "I'm hungry. That's more important. You're more important."
The maid let out a little sigh at his romantic words. Miranda smiled tightly. The household staff probably thought he professed his love to her whenever they were out of earshot.
"Now then," Turner said briskly. "Here is some beef and vegetable stew, puss. I want you to eat every bite."
Miranda looked dubiously at the tureen he'd set in front of her. It would take a small army of pregnant women to finish it all. "You're joking," she said.
"Not at all." He dipped the spoon into the stew and held it up in front of her mouth.
"Really, Turner, I can't— "
He darted the spoon into her mouth.
She choked in surprise for a second, then chewed and swallowed. "I can feed myself."
"But this is much more fun."
"For you, perha— "
In went the spoon again.
Miranda swallowed. "This is ridiculous."
"Not at all."
"Is this some way to teach me not to talk so much?"
"No, although I missed a great opportunity with that last sentence."
"Turner, you're incorr— "
Got her again. "Incorrigible?"
"Yes," she spluttered.
"Oh, dear," he said. "You got a bit on your chin."
"You're the one wielding the spoon."
"Sit still." He leaned forward and licked a drop of sauce off her skin. "Mmm, delicious."
"Have some," she deadpanned. "There's plenty."
"Oh, but I wouldn't want to deprive you of valuable nutrients."
She snorted in response.
"Here is another bite— oh, dear, I seem to have missed your mouth again." His tongue flicked out and cleaned up the mess.
"You did that deliberately!" she accused.
"And purposefully waste food that could be feeding my pregnant wife?" He placed one affronted hand on his chest. "What a cur you must think me."
"Perhaps not a cur, but certainly a sneaky little— "
"Victory!"
She wagged her finger at him. "Mmph grmphng gtrmph."
"Don't talk with your mouth full. It's very bad manners."
She swallowed. "I said, I will have my vengeance, you— " She broke off when the spoon connected with her nose.
"Now look what you did," he said, shaking his head in an exaggerated motion. "You were moving around so much I missed your mouth. Hold still now."
She pursed her lips but couldn't stop the barest hint of a smile from breaking through.
"That's a good girl," he murmured, leaning forward. He caught the tip of her nose in his mouth and gave it a little suck until all the gravy was gone.
"Turner!"
"The only woman in the world with a ticklish nose," he chuckled. "And I had the good sense to marry you."
"Stop, stop, stop."
"Putting gravy on your face, or kissing you?"
Her breath caught in her throat. "Putting gravy on my face. You don't need an excuse to kiss me."
He leaned forward. "I don't?"
"No."
"Imagine my relief." His nose touched hers.
"Turner?"
"Hmmm?"
"If you don't kiss me soon, I think I shall go mad."
He teased her with the most feathery light of kisses. "Will that do?"
She shook her head.
He deepened the kiss. "That?"
"I'm afraid not."
"What do you need?" he whispered, his voice hot against her lips.
"What do you need?" she countered. Her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, and out of habit, she began to knead.
And apparently instantly diffused his ardor. "Oh, Lord, Miranda," he groaned, his body going limp, "that's wonderful. No, don't stop. Please don't stop."
"It's remarkable," she said with a faint smile. "You really are putty in my hands."
"Anything," he moaned. "Just don't stop."
"Why are you so tense?"
He opened his eyes and leveled a wry glance at her. "You know very well."
She blushed. Her physician had informed her during his last visit that it was time to stop marital relations. Turner hadn't stopped grumbling for a week.
"I refuse to believe," she said, lifting her fingers from his shoulders and then smiling when he moaned in protest, "that I am the sole cause of your horrid backaches."
"Stress from not being able to make love to you, physical exertion from carrying your now enormous body up the stairs…"
"You've never once had to carry me up the stairs!"
"Yes, well, I've thought about it, and that has certainly been enough to give me a backache. Right…" He twisted his arm around and pointed to a spot on his back. "…there."
Miranda pursed her lips but nonetheless started rubbing where he indicated. "You, my lord, are a big baby."
"Mmmm-hmmm," he agreed, his head practically lolling to the side. "Mind if I lie down? It'll make it easier for you."
How, Miranda wondered, had he managed to manipulate her into rubbing his back right there on the carpet? But she was enjoying herself, too. She loved touching him, loved memorizing the contours of his body. Smiling to herself, she pulled h
is shirt out of the waistband of his breeches and slipped her hands underneath so that she could touch his skin. It was warm and silky, and she could not help but run her hands lightly over it, just to feel the golden softness that was uniquely him.
"I wish you could rub my back," she heard herself say. It had been many weeks since she'd last been able to lie on her stomach.
He turned his head so that she could see his face, and he smiled. Then, with a little groan, he sat up. "Sit still," he said softly, turning her around so that he could massage her back.
It felt like heaven. "Oh, Turner," she sighed. "That feels so lovely."
He made a noise— a strange one, and she twisted as best she could so that she could see his face. "I'm sorry," she said, grimacing as she saw the desire and restraint at war in his eyes. "I miss you, too, if that's any consolation."
He crushed her to him, holding her as tightly as he was able without pressing too hard against her belly. "It's not your fault, puss."
"No, I know, but I'm still sorry. I miss you dreadfully." She lowered her voice. "Sometimes you're so deep inside of me, it feels like you're touching my heart. I miss that most of all."
"Don't talk like that," he rasped.
"I'm sorry."
"And for the love of God, stop apologizing."
She almost giggled. "I'm— no, I take that back. I'm not. But I am sorry that you, er, that you are in such a state. It doesn't seem fair."
"It's more than fair. I get a healthy wife and a beautiful baby. And all I have to do is restrain myself for a few months."
"But you shouldn't have to," she murmured suggestively, her hand straying to the buttons at the front of his breeches. "You shouldn't have to."
"Miranda, stop. I can't take it."
"You shouldn't have to," she repeated as she pushed his already untucked shirt up over his chest and kissed his flat stomach.
"What— oh, God, Miranda." He let out a ragged moan.
Her lips moved ever lower.
"Oh, God! Miranda!"
7 May 1820
I am shameless.
But my husband does not complain.
Chapter 18
The next morning, Turner dropped a gentle kiss on his wife's forehead. "You're certain you'll be all right without me?"
Miranda swallowed and nodded, blinking back tears that she had sworn she wouldn't shed. The sky was still dark, but Turner had wanted an early start to London. She was sitting up in bed, her hands resting atop her belly as she watched him get dressed. "Your valet is going to have an apoplectic fit," she said, trying to tease him. "You know he thinks you don't know how to dress yourself properly."
Clad only in breeches, Turner walked to her side and perched on the edge of the bed. "You're sure you don't mind my leaving?"
"Of course I mind. I'd much rather have you here." A wobbly smile touched her face. "But I will be just fine. And I'll most likely get a lot more work done without you here to distract me."
"Oh? And am I so very distracting?"
"Very. Although"— she smiled sheepishly— "I can't be 'distracted' very much lately."
"Mmmm. Sad, but true. I, unfortunately, am distracted all the time." He cupped her chin with his fingers and lowered his lips onto hers in a passionately tender kiss. "Every time I see you," he murmured.
"Every time?" she asked doubtfully.
He gave her a solemn nod.
"But I look like a cow."
"Mmm-hmm." His lips never left hers. "But a very attractive cow."
"You wretch!" She pulled away and punched him playfully on the shoulder.
He smiled devilishly in return. "It appears that this trip to London is going to be beneficial to my health. Or at least my body. It is fortunate I do not bruise easily."
She pouted and stuck out her tongue.
He clucked at her before standing up and crossing the room. "I see that motherhood has not brought maturity along with it."
Her pillow went sailing across the room.
Turner was back at her side in an instant, his body spreading out on the bed along the length of hers. "Maybe I should remain, if only to keep a firm rein on you."
"Maybe you should."
He kissed her again, this time with barely restrained passion and emotion. "Have I told you," he murmured as his lips explored the soft planes of her face, "how much I adore being married to you?"
"N-not today."
"It's early yet. Surely you can excuse my lapse." He caught her earlobe between his teeth. "I'm certain I told you yesterday."
And the day before, Miranda thought bittersweetly. And the day before that, too, but he'd never told her that he loved her. Why was it always "I love being with you" and "I love doing things with you" and never "I love you"? He couldn't even seem to bring himself to say, "I adore you." "I adore being married to you" was obviously much safer.
Turner caught the melancholy look in her eye. "Is something wrong, puss?"
"No, no," she lied. "Nothing. I just…I'm just going to miss you, that's all."
"I shall miss you, too." He kissed her one last time and then stood up to pull on his shirt.
Miranda watched him as he moved about the room, gathering his belongings. Her hands were clenched under the covers, twisting the sheets into angry spirals. He wasn't going to say anything unless she did first. And why should he? He was obviously perfectly content with matters as they were. She was going to have to force the issue, but she was so scared— so scared that he wouldn't pull her into his arms and tell her that he had only been waiting for her to tell him that she loved him again. But most of all, she was terrified that he'd swallow uncomfortably and say something that began with, "You know how much I like you, Miranda…"
That thought was sufficiently chilling that she shuddered, her breath catching in a fearful sigh.
"Are you certain you're feeling well?" Turner asked in a concerned voice.
How easy it would be to lie to him. Only a few words and he would remain by her side, holding her warmly at night and kissing her so tenderly that she could almost let herself believe that he loved her. But if there was one thing they needed between them, it was truth, so she just nodded. "I am well, Turner, truly. It was just a waking-up-in-the-morning sort of shiver. My body is still asleep, I think."
"As the rest of you should be. I don't want you overdoing it while I'm gone. You're due in less than two months."
She smiled wryly. "A fact I am unlikely to forget."
"Good. You've my baby in there, after all." Turner pulled on his coat and leaned over to kiss her good-bye.
"My baby, too."
"Mmmm, I know." He straightened, preparing to depart. "That's why I love her so much already."
"Turner!"
He turned around. Her voice sounded odd, almost fearful. "What is it, Miranda?"
"I just wanted to tell you…that is, I wanted you to know…"
"What is it, Miranda?"
"I just wanted you to know that I love you." The words burst from her mouth in a tumbling rush, as if she were afraid that if she slowed down she'd lose her courage altogether.
He froze, and it felt as if his body were not his own. He'd been waiting for this. Hadn't he? And wasn't it a good thing? Didn't he want her love?
His eyes met hers, and he could hear what she was thinking—
Don't break my heart, Turner. Please don't break my heart.
Turner's lips parted. He'd been telling himself over the last few months that he wanted her to say it again, but now that she had, he felt as if a noose were tightening around his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. And he certainly couldn't see straight because all he could see were those big, brown eyes, and they looked so desperate.
"Miranda, I— " He choked on his words. Why couldn't he say it? Didn't he feel it? Why was it so hard?
"Don't, Turner," she said in a quavering voice. "Don't say anything. Just forget about it."
Something lurched in his throat, but he managed,
"You know how much I care for you."
"Have a good time in London."
Her voice was flat, devastatingly so, and he knew he could not leave her this way. "Miranda, please."
"Don't talk to me!" she cried out. "I don't want to hear your excuses, and I don't want to hear your platitudes! I don't want to hear anything!"
Except I love you.
The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Turner could feel her slipping farther and farther away from him, and he felt powerless to stop this gulf that was opening up between them. He knew what he had to do, and it shouldn't have been hard. It was just three little words, for God's sake. And he wanted to say them. But he was standing at the edge of something, and he just could not take that last step forward.
It was not rational. It did not make sense. He did not know if he was scared to love her or scared that she loved him. He didn't know if he was scared at all. Maybe he was just dead inside, his heart too battered from his first marriage to behave in a logical, normal manner.
"Darling," he began, trying to think of something that would make her happy again. Or if that wasn't possible, at least wipe away some of the devastation in her eyes.
"Don't call me that," she said in a voice so low he could barely hear her. "Call me by my name."
He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and make her understand that he didn't understand. But he didn't know how to do any of those things, so he just nodded his head and said, "I will see you in a few weeks, then."
She nodded. Once. And then she looked away. "I expect you will."
"Good-bye," he said softly, and he shut the door behind him.
* * *
"There is a lot you can do with green," Olivia said as she fingered the fraying drapes in the west salon. "And you have always looked good in green." "I'm not going to wear the drapes," Miranda replied.
"I know, but one wants to look one's best in one's drawing room, don't you think?"
"I suppose one does," Miranda returned, teasing Olivia for her affected speech.
"Oh, stop. If you didn't want my advice you shouldn't have invited me." Olivia's lips curved into an artless smile. "But I'm so glad you did. I've missed you dreadfully, Miranda. Haverbreaks is terribly dull in the winter. Fiona Bennet keeps calling on me."
