Miranda looked back down at the writing desk. Her candle was shedding flickers of light on the blotter, and she suddenly felt tired. Tired, but unfortunately, not sleepy.
Weary, perhaps. Restless.
"I'm exhausted," Olivia declared, sliding off the bed. Her maid had left her nightclothes atop the covers, and Miranda respectfully turned her head while Olivia changed into them.
"How long do you think Turner will remain here in the country?" Miranda asked, trying not to bite her tongue. She hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years. Even when he'd married, and she'd sat in the pews at his wedding, and watching him meant watching him watch his bride with all the love and devotion that burned in her own heart—
She'd still watched. She still loved him. She always would. He was the man who'd made her believe in herself. He had no idea what he'd done to her— what he'd done for her— and he probably never would. But Miranda still ached for him. And she probably always would.
Olivia crawled into bed. "Will you be up long?" she asked, her voice thick with the beginnings of slumber.
"Not long," Miranda assured her. Olivia could not fall asleep while a candle burned so close. Miranda could not understand it, as the fire in the grate did not seem to bother her, but she had seen Olivia toss and turn with her own eyes, and so, when she realized that her mind was still racing and "not long" had been a bit of a lie, she leaned forward and blew out the candle.
"I'll take this elsewhere," she said, tucking her journal under her arm.
"Thankthsh," Olivia mumbled, and by the time Miranda pulled on a wrapper and reached the corridor, she was asleep.
Miranda tucked her journal under her chin and wedged it against her breastbone to free her hands so that she could tie the sash around her waist. She was a frequent overnight guest at Haverbreaks, but still, it wouldn't do to be wandering the halls of someone else's home in nothing but her nightgown.
It was a dark night, with nothing but the moonlight filtering through the windows to guide her, but Miranda could have made her way from Olivia's room to the library with her eyes closed. Olivia always fell asleep before she did— too many thoughts rumbling about in her head, Olivia pronounced— and so Miranda frequently took her diary to another room to record her ponderings. She supposed she could have asked for a bedchamber of her own, but Olivia's mother did not believe in needless extravagance, and she saw no reason to heat two rooms when one would suffice.
Miranda did not mind. In fact, she was grateful for the company. Her own home was far too quiet these days. Her beloved mother had passed away nearly a year earlier, and Miranda had been left alone with her father. In his grief, he had closeted himself away with his precious manuscripts, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. Miranda had turned to the Bevelstokes for love and friendship, and they welcomed her with open arms. Olivia even wore black for three weeks in honor of Lady Cheever.
"If one of my first cousins died, I'd be forced to do the same," Olivia had said at the funeral. "And I certainly loved your mama better than any of my cousins."
"Olivia!" Miranda was touched, but nonetheless, she thought she ought to be shocked.
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Have you met my cousins?"
And she'd laughed. At her own mother's funeral, Miranda had laughed. It was, she'd later realized, the most precious gift her friend could have offered.
"I love you, Livvy," she said.
Olivia took her hand. "I know you do," she said softly. "And I, you." Then she squared her shoulders and assumed her usual stance. "I should be quite incorrigible without you, you know. My mother often says you are the only reason I have not committed some irredeemable offense."
It was probably for that reason, Miranda reflected, that Lady Rudland had offered to sponsor her for a season in London. Upon receiving the invitation, her father had sighed with relief and quickly forwarded the necessary funds. Sir Rupert Cheever was not an exceptionally wealthy man, but he had enough to cover a season in London for his only daughter. What he did not possess was the necessary patience— or, to be frank, the interest— to take her himself.
Their debut was delayed for a year. Miranda could not go while in mourning for her mother, and Lady Rudland had decided to allow Olivia to wait, as well. Twenty would do as well as nineteen, she'd announced. And it was true; no one was worried about Olivia making a grand match. With her stunning looks, vivacious personality and, as Olivia wryly pointed out, her hefty dowry, she was sure to be a success.
But Leticia's death, in addition to being tragic, had been particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just six weeks, however, as Leticia had not been a sister in blood.
They would be only a little bit late in their arrival for the season. It couldn't be helped.
Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball positively terrified her. It wasn't that she was shy, precisely, because she didn't think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.
Can't be helped, she thought as she made her way down the stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company.
Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly night. On the other hand—
Hmmm…what was that?
She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had a fire burning in Lord Rudland's study. Miranda couldn't imagine that anyone was still up and about— the Bevelstokes always retired early.
She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached the open door.
"Oh!"
Turner looked up from his father's chair. "Miss Miranda," he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy sprawl. "Quelle surprise."
* * *
Turner wasn't certain why he wasn't surprised to see Miss Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father's study. When he'd heard footsteps in the hall, he'd somehow known it had to be she. True, his family tended to sleep like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search of a snack or something to read. But it had been more than the process of elimination that had led him to Miranda as the obvious choice. She was a watcher, that one, always there, always observing the scene with those owlish eyes of hers. He couldn't remember when he'd first met her— probably before the chit had been out of leading strings. She was a fixture, really, somehow always there, even at times like these, when it ought to have been only family.
"I'll go," she said.
"No, don't," he replied, because…because why?
Because he felt like making mischief?
Because he'd had too much to drink?
Because he didn't want to be alone?
"Stay," he said, waving his arm expansively. Surely there had to be somewhere else to sit in here. "Have a drink."
Her eyes widened.
"Didn't think they could get any bigger," he muttered.
"I can't drink," she said.
"Can't you?"
"I shouldn't," she corrected, and he thought he saw her brows draw together. Good, he'd irritated her. It was good to know he could still provoke a woman, even one as un-schooled as she.
"You're here," he said with a shrug. "You might as well have a brandy."
For a moment she held still, and he could swear he could hear her brain whirring. Finally, she set her little book on a table near the door and stepped forward. "Just one," she said.
He smiled. "Because you know your limit?"
Her eyes met his. "Because I don't know my limit."
"Such wisdom in one so young," he murmured.
"I'm nineteen," she said, not defiantly, just as statement of fact.
He lifted a brow. "As I said…"
"When
you were nineteen…"
He smiled caustically, noticing that she did not finish the statement. "When I was nineteen," he repeated for her, handing her a liberal portion of brandy, "I was a fool." He looked at the glass he'd poured for himself, equal in volume to Miranda's. He downed it in one long, satisfying gulp.
The glass landed on the table with a clunk, and Turner leaned back, letting his head rest in his palms, his elbows bent out to the sides. "As are all nineteen-year-olds, I should add," he finished.
He eyed her. She hadn't touched her drink. She hadn't even yet sat down. "Present company quite possibly excluded," he amended.
"I thought brandy was meant to go in a snifter," she said.
He watched as she moved carefully to a seat. It wasn't next to him, but it wasn't quite across from him, either. Her eyes never left his, and he couldn't help but wonder what she thought he might do. Pounce?
"Brandy," he announced, as if speaking to an audience that numbered more than one, "is best served in whatever one has handy. In this case— " He picked up his tumbler and regarded it, watching firelight dance along the facets. He didn't bother to finish his sentence. It didn't seem necessary, and besides, he was busy pouring himself another drink.
"Cheers." And down it went.
He looked over at her. She was still just sitting there, watching him. He couldn't tell if she disapproved; her expression was far too inscrutable for that. But he wished that she would say something. Anything would do, really, even more nonsense about stemware would be enough to nudge his mind off the fact that it was still half eleven, and he had thirty more minutes to go before he could declare this wretched day over.
"So tell me, Miss Miranda, how did you enjoy the service?" he asked, daring her with his eyes to say something beyond the usual platitudes.
Surprise registered on her face— the first emotion of the night he was clearly able to discern. "You mean the funeral?"
"Only service of the day," he said, with considerable jauntiness.
"It was, er, interesting."
"Oh, come now, Miss Cheever, you can do better than that."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Leticia used to do that, he recalled. Back when she still pretended to be an innocent. It had stopped when his ring had been safely on her finger.
He poured another drink.
"Don't you think— "
"No," he said forcefully. There wasn't enough brandy in the world for a night like this.
And then she reached forward, picked up her glass, and took a sip. "I thought you were splendid."
God damn it. He coughed and spluttered, as if he were the innocent, taking his first taste of brandy. "I beg your pardon?"
She smiled placidly. "It might help to take smaller sips."
He glared at her.
"It's rare that someone speaks honestly of the dead," she said. "I'm not certain that that was the most appropriate venue, but…well…she wasn't a terribly nice person, was she?"
She looked so serene, so innocent, but her eyes…they were sharp.
"Why, Miss Cheever," he murmured, "I do believe you've a bit of a vindictive streak."
She shrugged and took another sip of her drink— a small one, he noted. "Not at all," she said, although he was quite certain he did not believe her, "but I am a good observer."
He chuckled. "Indeed."
She stiffened. "I beg your pardon."
He'd ruffled her. He didn't know why he found this so satisfying, but he couldn't help but be pleased. And it had been so long since he'd been pleased about anything. He leaned forward, just to see if he could make her squirm. "I've been watching you."
She paled. Even in the firelight he could see it.
"Do you know what I've seen?" he murmured.
Her lips parted, and she shook her head.
"You have been watching me."
She stood, the suddenness of the movement nearly knocking her chair over. "I should go," she said. "This is highly irregular, and it's late, and— "
"Oh, come now, Miss Cheever," he said, rising to his feet. "Don't fret. You watch everyone. Do you think I hadn't noticed?"
He reached out and took her arm. She froze. But she didn't turn around.
His fingers tightened. Just a touch. Just enough to keep her from leaving, because he didn't want her to leave. He didn't want to be alone. He had twenty more minutes, and he wanted her to be angry, just as he was angry, just as he'd been angry for years.
"Tell me, Miss Cheever," he whispered, touching two fingers to the underside of her chin. "Have you ever been kissed?"
Chapter 2
It would not have been an overstatement to say that Miranda had been dreaming of this moment for years. And in her dreams, she always seemed to know what to say. But reality, it seemed, was far less articulate, and she couldn't do anything but stare at him, breathless— literally, she thought, quite literally without breath.
Funny, she'd always thought it was a metaphor. Breathless. Breathless.
"I thought not," he was saying, and she could barely hear him over the frantic racing of her thoughts. She should run, but she was frozen, and she shouldn't do this, but she wanted to, at least she thought she wanted to— she'd certainly thought about wanting to since she was ten and didn't particularly even know what it was she'd been wanting and—
And his lips touched hers. "Lovely," he murmured, raining delicate, seductive kisses along her cheek until he reached the line of her jaw.
It felt like heaven. It felt like nothing she knew. There was a quickening within her, a strange tension, coiling and stretching, and she wasn't sure what she was meant to do, so she stood there, accepting his kisses as he moved across her face, along her cheekbone, back to her lips.
"Open your mouth," he ordered, and she did, because this was Turner, and she wanted this. Hadn't she always wanted this?
His tongue dipped inside, and she felt herself being pulled more tightly against him. His fingers were demanding, and then his mouth was demanding, and then she realized that this was wrong. This wasn't the moment she'd been dreaming of for years. He didn't want her. She didn't know why he was kissing her, but he didn't want her. And he certainly did not love her. There was no kindness in this kiss.
"Kiss me back, damn it," he growled, and he pressed his lips against hers with renewed insistence. It was hard, and it was angry, and for the first time that night, Miranda began to feel afraid.
"No," she tried to say, but her voice was lost against his mouth. His hand had somehow found her bottom, and was squeezing, pressing her up against him in the most intimate of places. And she didn't understand how she could want this and not want this, how he could make her tingle and make her scared, how she could love him and hate him at the very same time, in equal measures.
"No," she said again, wedging her hands between them, palms against his chest. "No!"
And then he stepped away, utterly abrupt, without even the slightest hint of a desire to linger.
"Miranda Cheever," he murmured, except it was really more of a drawl, "who knew?"
She slapped him.
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded, her voice steady even as the rest of her shook.
"Kiss you?" He shrugged. "Why not?"
"No," she shot back, horrified by the note of pain she heard in her voice. She wanted to be furious. She was furious, but she wanted to sound it. She wanted him to know. "You may not take the easy way out. You lost that privilege."
He chuckled, damn him, and said, "You're quite entertaining as a dominatrix."
"Stop it," she cried. He kept talking about things she did not understand, and she hated him for it. "Why did you kiss me? You don't love me."
Her fingernails bit into her palms. Stupid, stupid girl. Why did she say that?
But he only smiled. "I forget that you are only nineteen and thus do not realize that love is never a prerequisite for a kiss."
"I don't
think you even like me."
"Nonsense. Of course I do." He blinked, as if he were trying to remember how well, exactly, he knew her. "Well, I certainly don't dislike you."
"I'm not Leticia," she whispered.
In a split second, his hand had wrapped around her upper arm, squeezing nearly to the point of pain. "Don't you ever mention her name again. Do you hear me?"
Miranda stared in shock at the raw fury emanating from his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said hastily. "Please let me go."
But he didn't. He loosened his grip, but only slightly, and it was almost as if he were staring through her. At a ghost. At Leticia's ghost.
"Turner, please," Miranda whispered. "You're hurting me."
Something cleared in his expression, and he stepped back. "I'm sorry," he said. He looked to the side— at the window? At the clock? "My apologies," he said curtly. "For assaulting you. For everything."
Miranda swallowed. She should leave. She should slap him again and then leave, but she was a wretch, and she couldn't help herself when she said, "I'm sorry she made you so unhappy."
His eyes flew to hers. "Gossip travels all the way to the schoolroom, does it?"
"No!" she said quickly. "It's just that…I could tell."
"Oh?"
She chewed on her lip, wondering what she should say. There had been gossip in the schoolroom. But more than that, she'd seen it for herself. He'd been so in love at his wedding. His eyes had shone with it, and when he looked at Leticia, Miranda could practically see the world falling away. It was as if they were in their own little world, just the two of them, and she was watching from the outside.
And the next time she saw him…it had been different.
"Miranda," he prodded.
She looked up and gently said, "Anyone who knew you before your marriage could tell that you were unhappy."
"And how is that?" He stared down at her, and there was something so urgent in his eyes that Miranda could only tell him the truth.
"You used to laugh," she said softly. "You used to laugh, and your eyes twinkled."
"And now?"