Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever Page 4

  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?”

  “Now you’re just cold and hard.”

  He closed his eyes, and for a moment Miranda thought he was in pain. But in the end he gave her a piercing stare, and one corner of his mouth tilted up in a wry mockery of a smile. “So I am.” He crossed his arms and leaned insolently against a bookcase. “Pray tell me, Miss Cheever, when did you grow so perceptive?”

  Miranda swallowed, fighting the disappointment that rose in her throat. His demons had won again. For a moment—when his eyes had been closed—it had almost seemed as if he heard her. Not her words, but the meaning behind them. “I’ve always been so,” she said. “You used to comment on it when I was little.”

  “Those big brown eyes,” he said with a heartless chuckle. “Following me everywhere. Do you think I didn’t know you fancied me?”

  Tears pricked Miranda’s eyes. How could he be so cruel to say it? “You were very kind to me as a child,” she said softly.

  “I daresay I was. But that was a long time ago.”

  “No one realizes that more than I.”

  He said nothing, and she said nothing. And then finally—

  “Go.”

  His voice was hoarse and pained and full of heartbreak.

  She went.

  And in her diary that night, she wrote nothing.

  The following morning, Miranda woke with one clear objective. She wanted to go home. She didn’t care if she missed breakfast, she didn’t care if the heavens opened and she had to slog through the driving rain. She just didn’t want to be here, with him, in the same building, on the same property.

  It was all too sad. He was gone. The Turner she’d known, the Turner she’d adored—he was gone. She’d sensed it, of course. She’d sensed it on his visits home. The first time it had been his eyes. The next his mouth, and the white lines of anger etched at the corners.

  She’d sensed it, but until now she had not truly allowed herself to know it.

  “You’re awake.”

  It was Olivia, fully dressed and looking charming, even in her mourning black.

  “Unfortunately,” Miranda muttered.

  “What was that?”

  Miranda opened her mouth, then remembered that Olivia wasn’t going to wait for an answer, so why expend the energy?

  “Well, hurry up,” Olivia said. “Get dressed, and I’ll have my maid do the finishing touches. She’s positively magical with hair.”

  Miranda wondered when Olivia would notice that she had not moved a muscle.

  “Get up, Miranda.”

  Miranda nearly jumped a foot. “Good heavens, Olivia. Has no one told you it’s rude to bellow in another human being’s ear?”

  Olivia’s face loomed over hers, a little too close. “You don’t look quite human this morning, to tell the truth.”

  Miranda rolled over. “I don’t feel human.”

  “You’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “But you can’t miss breakfast.”

  Miranda clenched her teeth. Such chirpiness ought to be illegal before noon.

  “Miranda.”

  Miranda shoved a pillow over her head. “If you say my name one more time, I will have to kill you.”

  “But we have work to do.”

  Miranda paused. What the devil was Livvy talking about? “Work?” she echoed.

  “Yes, work.” Olivia wrenched the pillow away and tossed it on the floor. “I’ve had the most wonderful idea. It came to me in a dream.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Very well, I’m joking, but it did come to me this morning as I was lying in bed.” Olivia smiled—a rather feline sort of smile, actually, the sort that meant she’d either had a flash of brilliance or was going to destroy the world as they knew it. And then she waited—it was about the only time she ever waited—and so Miranda rewarded her with “Very well, what is it?”

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  “And Winston.”

  For a moment, Miranda couldn’t speak. Then—“You’re mad.”

  Olivia shrugged and sat back. “Or very, very clever. Think of it, Miranda. It’s perfect.”

  Miranda couldn’t imagine thinking of anything involving gentlemen just at the moment, much less one with the Bevelstoke surname, even if it wasn’t Turner.

  “You know him well, and you’re of an age,” Olivia said, ticking the items off on her fingers.

  Miranda shook her head and escaped off the other side of the bed.

  But Olivia was nimble, and she was by her side within seconds. “You don’t really want a season,” she continued. “You’ve said so on numerous occasions. And you hate making conversation with people you don’t know.”

  Miranda attempted to dodge her by scooting to the wardrobe.

  “Since you know Winston—as I have already pointed out—that eliminates the need to make conversation with strangers, and besides”—Olivia’s smiling face came into view—“it means we shall be sisters.”

  Miranda went still, her fingers clutching the day dress she’d taken from the wardrobe. “That would be lovely, Olivia,” she said, because really, what else could she say?

  “Oh, I’m thrilled you agree!” Olivia exclaimed, and she threw her arms around her. “It shall be wonderful. Splendid. Beyond splendid. It shall be perfection.”

  Miranda stood still, wondering how on earth she had just managed to get herself into such a tangle.

  Olivia pulled back, still beaming. “Winston will have no idea what has hit him.”

  “Is the purpose of this to make a match or simply to somehow best your brother?”


  “Well, both, of course,” Olivia freely admitted. She released Miranda and plopped herself down in a nearby chair. “Does it matter?”

  Miranda opened her mouth, but Olivia was quicker. “Of course not,” she said. “All that matters is the commonality of the goal, Miranda. Truly, I’m surprised we have not given this serious thought before.”

  As her back was to Olivia, Miranda allowed herself a wince. Of course she had not given it serious thought. She had been too busy dreaming of Turner.

  “And I saw Winston looking at you last night.”

  “There were only five people in the room, Olivia. He couldn’t very well not look at me.”

  “It was all in the how,” Olivia persisted. “It was as if he’d never seen you before.”

  Miranda started pulling on her clothes. “I’m quite certain you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not. Here, turn around, I’ll do your buttons. I’m never wrong about things like these.”

  Miranda stood patiently as Olivia did up her frock. And then it occurred to her—

  “When have you had the opportunity to be right? We’re buried in the country. It’s not as if we’re witness to anyone falling in love.”

  “Of course we are. There was Billy Evans and—”

  “They had to get married, Olivia. You know that.”

  Olivia finished the last button, moved her hands to Miranda’s shoulders, and twisted her until they were facing. Her expression was arch, even for Olivia. “Yes, but why did they have to get married? Because they were in love.”

  “I don’t recall your predicting the match.”

  “Nonsense. Of course I did. You were in Scotland. And I couldn’t tell you in a letter—it makes it all seem so utterly sordid to put it into writing.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure why that should be the case—an unplanned pregnancy was an unplanned pregnancy was an unplanned pregnancy. Putting it down in writing wasn’t going to change anything. But regardless, Olivia did have a point. Miranda went to Scotland for six weeks every year to visit her maternal grandparents, and Billy Evans did get married while she was gone. Trust Olivia to come up with the one argument she couldn’t refute.

  “Shall we go to breakfast?” Miranda asked wearily. There was no way she was going to get out of making an appearance, and besides, Turner had been somewhat disguised the night before. If there was any justice in the world, he’d be plastered to his bed with a throbbing head all morning.

  “Not until Maria does your hair,” Olivia decided. “We must not leave anything to chance. It is your job to be beautiful now. Oh, don’t stare at me like that. You’re far prettier than you think you are.”

  “Olivia.”

  “No, no, bad choice of words. You’re not pretty. I’m pretty. Pretty and dull. You have something more.”

  “A long face.”

  “Not really. Not as much as when you were small, at least.” Olivia tilted her head to the side. And said nothing.

  Nothing. Olivia.

  “What is it?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

  “I think you’ve grown into yourself.”

  It was what Turner had said, all those years ago. Someday you’re going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart. Miranda hated that she remembered it. And she really hated that it made her want to cry.

  Olivia, seeing the emotion in her eyes, misted up as well. “Oh, Miranda,” she said, embracing her tightly. “I love you, too. We shall be the best of sisters. I cannot wait.”

  By the time Miranda arrived at breakfast (a full thirty minutes later; she vowed she had never spent so long dressing her hair, and then she vowed she never would again), her stomach was roaring.

  “Good morning, family,” Olivia said cheerily as she took a plate from the sideboard. “Where is Turner?”

  Miranda sent up a silent prayer of thanks for his absence.

  “Still in bed, I imagine,” Lady Rudland replied. “The poor man. He’s had a shock. It’s been a dreadful week.”

  No one said anything. None of them had liked Leticia.

  Olivia picked up the silence. “Right,” she said. “Well, I hope he does not grow too hungry. He did not dine with us last night, either.”

  “Olivia, his wife just died,” Winston said. “Of a broken neck, no less. Pray give him a spot of leniency.”

  “It is because I love him that I am concerned for his welfare,” Olivia said, with the testiness she reserved only for her twin brother. “The man is not eating.”

  “I had a tray sent up to his room,” their mother said, putting an end to the squabble. “Good morning, Miranda.”

  Miranda started. She’d been busy watching Olivia and Winston. “Good morning, Lady Rudland,” she said quickly. “I trust you slept well.”

  “As well as can be expected.” The countess sighed and took a sip of her tea. “These are trying times. But I must thank you again for spending the night. I know it was a solace to Olivia.”

  “Of course,” Miranda murmured. “I was happy to be of help.” She followed Olivia to the sideboard and fixed herself a plate for breakfast. When she returned to the table, she found that Olivia had left her a seat next to Winston.

  She sat and looked up at the Bevelstokes. They were all smiling at her, Lord and Lady Rudland quite benignly, Olivia with a hint of shrewdness, and Winston…

  “Good morning, Miranda,” he said warmly. And his eyes…They held…

  Interest?

  Good heavens, could Olivia have been right? There was something different in the way he was looking at her.

  “Very well, thank you,” Miranda said, completely unsettled. Winston was practically her brother, wasn’t he? He couldn’t possibly think of her like—And she couldn’t, either. But if he could, then could she? And—

  “Do you intend to remain at Haverbreaks through the morning?” he asked. “I thought we might go for a ride. Perhaps after breakfast?”

  Dear God. Olivia was right.

  Miranda felt her lips part with surprise. “I, er, I hadn’t decided.”

  Olivia kicked her under the table.

  “Oh!”

  “Has the mackerel gone off?” Lady Rudland inquired.

  Miranda shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “Ehrm, it was just a bone, I think.”

  “It’s why I never eat fish for breakfast,” Olivia announced.

  “What say you, Miranda?” Winston persisted. He smiled—a lazy, boyish masterpiece that was certain to break a thousand hearts. “Shall we go for a ride?”

  Miranda carefully edged her legs farther from Olivia and said, “I didn’t bring a habit, I’m afraid.” It was the truth, and it was really too bad, because she was beginning to think that an outing with Winston might be just the thing to banish Turner from her mind.

  “You can borrow one of mine,” Olivia said, smiling sweetly over her toast. “It will be only a little too big.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Winston said. “It shall be splendid to catch up. It has been an age since we have had the chance.”

  Miranda found herself smiling. Winston was so easy to be with, even now, when she was befuddled by his intentions. “It’s been several years, I think. I always manage to be in Scotland when you’re home from school.”

  “But not today,” he announced happily. He picked up his tea, smiling at her over the cup, and Miranda was struck by how very much he looked like Turner when he was younger. Winston was twenty now, just a year older than Turner had been when she’d fallen in love with him.

  When they’d first met, she corrected. She hadn’t fallen in love with him. She’d merely thought she had. She knew better now.

  11 APRIL 1819

  Splendid ride with Winston today. He is much like his brother—if his brother were kind and considerate and still in possession of a sense of humor.

  Turner had not slept well, but this did not surprise him; he rarely slept well anymore. And indeed, come morning, he was still irritabl
e and still angry—mostly with himself.

  What the hell had he been thinking? Kissing Miranda Cheever. The girl was practically his little sister. He’d been angry, and maybe just a little bit drunk, but that was no excuse for such poor behavior. Leticia had killed many things within him, but by God, he was still a gentleman. Otherwise, what had he left?

  He hadn’t even desired her. Not really. He knew desire, knew that gut-wrenching need to possess and claim, and what he’d felt for Miranda…

  Well, he didn’t know what it was, but it hadn’t been that.

  It was those big brown eyes of hers. They saw everything. They unnerved him. Always had. Even as a child, she had seemed uncannily wise. As he’d stood there in his father’s study, he’d felt exposed, transparent. She was just a chit, barely out of the schoolroom, and yet she saw through him. The intrusion had been infuriating, and so he lashed out in the only way that had seemed appropriate at the time.

  Except nothing could have been less appropriate.

  And now he was going to have to apologize. God, but the thought of it was intolerable. It would be so much easier to pretend it had never happened and ignore her for the rest of his life, but that clearly wasn’t going to wash, not if he intended to maintain ties with his sister. And besides that, he hoped he had some shred of gentlemanly decency left within him.

  Leticia had killed most of what was good and innocent within him, but surely there had to be something left. And when a gentleman wronged a lady, a gentleman apologized.

  By the time Turner went down to breakfast, his family had departed, which suited him fine. He ate quickly and gulped down his coffee, taking it black as a penance and not even flinching when it rolled hot and bitter down his throat.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  Turner looked up at the footman, hovering at his side. “No,” he said. “Not at this time.”

  The footman stepped back, but he did not exit the room, and Turner decided at that moment that it was time to depart Haverbreaks. There were too many people here. Hell, his mother had probably given instructions to all the servants to keep a close eye on him.

  Still scowling, he shoved back in his chair and strode out into the hall. He’d alert his valet that they would be departing posthaste. They could be gone in an hour. All that remained was to find Miranda and get this bloody business over and done with so he could go back to skulking about in his own home and—