Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (22 page)

“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 his 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!”

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.”

“A hideous circumstance,” Miranda agreed.

“I'm tempted to accept one of her invitations out of sheer boredom.”

“Oh, don't do that.”

“You're not still holding a grudge for the ribbon incident at my eleventh birthday party, are you?”

Miranda held her thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart. “Just a small one.”

“Goodness, let it go. After all, you landed Turner. And right beneath all of our noses.” Olivia was still slightly miffed that her brother and her best friend had been courting without her knowledge. “Although I must say, it is perfectly beastly of him to run off to London and leave you here alone.”

Miranda smiled tightly as she fingered the fabric of her skirt. “It's not so bad,” she murmured.

“But your time is so near,” Olivia protested. “He shouldn't have left you alone.”

“He didn't,” Miranda said firmly, trying to change the subject. “You're here, aren't you?”

“Yes, yes, and I would stay for the birthing if I could, but Mama says it isn't proper for an unmarried lady.”

“I can't think of anything more proper,” Miranda retorted. “It's not as if you're not going to be in this very same situation in a few years.”

“I do require a husband first,” Olivia reminded her.

“I don't foresee any problem with that. How many offers did you receive this year? Six?”

“Eight.”

“So no complaining, then.”

“I'm not, I just…Oh, never mind, she says I may remain at Rosedale. I'm just not allowed to remain with
you
.”

“The drapes,” Miranda reminded her.

“Yes, of course,” Olivia said briskly, once again all business. “If we upholster in green, the drapes can be a contrasting color. Perhaps a secondary color from the upholstery fabric.”

Miranda nodded and smiled when appropriate, but her mind was far away. London, to be exact. Her husband intruded on her thoughts every second of the day. She would be discussing a matter with the housekeeper when his smile would suddenly dance before her eyes. She couldn't finish the book she was reading because the sound of his laughter kept floating through her ears. And at night, when she was nearly asleep, the feather-light touch of his kiss teased her lips until she ached for his warm body next to hers.

“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 momen
tary 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.