by Julia Quinn
"At all?"
She shook her head. "I feel splendid. And…hungry." She ran her fingers hesitantly along the length of his back.
Turner shuddered at her feather-light touch and felt his control slipping.
"How do you feel?" she whispered. "Are you hungry, too?"
He grunted something she couldn't understand and began to move faster. Miranda felt a quickening in her abdomen, then an unbearable tightness. Her fingers and toes began to tingle, and then just when she was certain that her body would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, something inside her snapped, and her hips jerked up off the mattress with such force that she actually lifted him.
"Oh, Turner!" she yelled. "Help me!"
He pumped forward relentlessly. "I will," he groaned. "I swear it." And then he cried out, and his face looked almost pained, and then finally, he breathed, and he sank against her.
They lay entwined for several minutes, damp with exertion. Miranda loved his weight on top of her, loved this feeling of languid contentment. She idly stroked his hair with her hand, wishing the world around them would just go away. How long could they stay here, cocooned in the small hunting lodge, before they would be missed?
"How do you feel?" she asked softly.
His lips curled into a boyish smile. "How do you think I feel?"
"Good, I hope."
He rolled off her, propped himself up on one elbow, and caught her under her chin with two fingers. "Good, I know," he said, deliberately emphasizing the final word.
Miranda smiled. One couldn't hope for better than that.
"How do you feel?" he said quietly, concern marking his brow. "Are you sore?"
"I don't think so." She shifted her weight as if to test her body. "I might be later."
"You will."
Miranda frowned. Had he so much experience deflowering virgins, then? He'd said Leticia had already been with child when they'd married. And then she pushed the thought from her mind. She did not want to be thinking of Leticia. Not now. Turner's dead wife had no place in bed with them.
And she found herself dreaming of babies. Little blond ones, with bright blue eyes, smiling up at her with delight. A miniature Turner, that's what she wanted. She supposed a babe might take after her and be saddled with her less remarkable coloring, but in her mind, it was all Turner, right down to the dimples.
When she finally opened her eyes, she saw him gazing down at her, and he touched her mouth, right where the corner had been curling up. "What has you in such a reverie?" he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.
Miranda avoided his gaze, embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts. "Nothing important," she murmured. "Is it still raining?"
"I don't know," he replied, and he rose to peek out the window.
Miranda pulled the sheets over her nude body, wishing that she hadn't inquired about the weather. If the rain had let up, they would have to return to the main house. They had surely been missed by now. They could claim that they had sought shelter in the rain, but that excuse would ring hollow if they did not return just as soon as the weather cleared.
He pushed the curtains back into place and turned to face her, and Miranda caught her breath at the sheer male beauty of him. She had seen drawings of statues in her father's many books, and he even possessed a miniature of the David statue in Florence. But nothing compared to the living, breathing man standing before her, and she dropped her gaze to the floor, fearing that the mere sight of him would seduce her anew.
"It's still raining," he said evenly. "But it's getting lighter. We should clean up our, er, mess, so that we'll be ready to go just as soon as it clears."
Miranda nodded. "Could you hand me my clothing?"
He raised a brow. "Modest now?"
She nodded. Perhaps it was silly, after her wanton behavior, but she was not so sophisticated that she could rise from a bed nude with someone else in the room. She jerked her head toward her skirt, which was still lying on the floor in a heap. "Could you please?"
He picked it up and handed it to her. It was still wet in places since she hadn't bothered to lay it out flat, but as it had been rather close to the fire, it wasn't too dreadful. She quickly dressed and put the bed aright, pulling the sheets neat and tight, the way she saw the maids doing it at home. It was harder work than she'd expected, what with the bed pushed up against the wall.
By the time they and the lodge were presentable, the rain had thinned down to a vague drizzle. "I don't suppose our clothing will get much wetter than it already is," Miranda said as she poked her hand out the window to test the rain.
He nodded, and they made their way back to the main house. He did not speak, and Miranda couldn't bring herself to break the silence, either. What happened now? Did he have to marry her? He should, of course, and if he was the gentleman she'd always thought him to be, he would, but no one knew that she had been compromised. And he knew her too well to worry that she would tell someone in order to trap him into marriage.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood just before the steps leading up to the front door of Chester House. Turner paused and looked at Miranda, his eyes serious and intent. "Will you be all right?" he asked gently.
She blinked several times. Why was he asking her this now?
"We won't be able to speak once we go inside," he explained.
She nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her belly. Something was not quite right.
He cleared his throat and stretched his neck as if his cravat were too tight. He cleared his throat again, and then for a third time. "You will notify me if a situation should arise for which we must act quickly."
Miranda nodded again, trying to discern whether that had been a statement or a question. A little of both, she decided. And she wasn't sure why it mattered.
Turner took a deep breath. "I will need a bit of time to think."
"About what?" she asked, before she had the chance to think the better of it. Shouldn't it all be simple now? What was there left to debate?
"Myself, mostly," he said, his voice a little hoarse, and maybe a little detached. "But I will see you shortly, and I will make everything right. You do not need to worry."
And then, because she was sick of waiting, and she was sick of being so bloody convenient, she blurted out, "Are you going to marry me?"
Because by God, it was as if the man were speaking through fog.
He looked taken aback by her shrill query, but nonetheless, he said brusquely, "Of course."
And while Miranda waited for the jubilation she knew she ought to feel, he added, "But I see no reason to rush unless we are presented with a compelling reason."
She nodded and swallowed. A baby. He wanted to marry her only if there was a baby. He would still do it regardless, but he'd take his sweet time.
"If we marry right away," he said, "it will be obvious that we had to."
"That you had to," Miranda muttered.
He leaned in. "Hmmm?"
"Nothing." Because it would be humiliating to say it again. Because it was humiliating that she'd said it once already.
"We should go in," he said.
She nodded. She was getting very good at nodding.
Ever the gentleman, Turner inclined his head and took her arm. Then he led her into the drawing room and acted as if he hadn't a care in the world.
3 July 1819
And after it happened, he did not speak to me once.
Chapter 12
When Turner returned home the next day, he retreated into his study with a glass of brandy and a muddled mind. Lady Chester's house party wasn't due to conclude for a few more days, but he had made up some story about pressing matters with his solicitors in the city and left early. He was fairly certain that he could behave as if nothing had happened, but of Miranda he was not so sure. She was an innocent— or at least she had been— and unused to such playacting. And for the sake of her reputation, all must appear scrupulously normal.
He did regre
t that he had been unable to explain to her the reasons for his early departure. He did not think that she would be affronted; he had, after all, told her that he needed time to think. He had also told her that they would marry; surely she would not doubt his intentions for his having taken a few days to ruminate upon his unexpected situation.
The enormity of his actions was not lost on him. He had seduced a young, unmarried lady. One he actually liked and respected. One his family adored.
For a man who had not wished to remarry, he had clearly not been thinking with his head.
Groaning, he sank down into a chair and remembered the rules he and his friends had set down years ago when they'd left Oxford for the pleasures of London and the ton. There were only two. No married ladies, unless it was extremely obvious that her husband did not mind. And above all, no virgins. Never, never, never seduce a virgin.
Never.
He took another swig of his drink. Good Lord. If he'd needed a woman, there were dozens who would have been more suitable. The lovely young widowed countess had been coming along quite nicely. Katherine would have been the perfect mistress, and there would have been no need to marry her.
Marriage.
He'd done it once, with a romantic heart and stars in his eyes, and he'd been crushed. It was laughable, really. The laws of England gave absolute authority in a marriage to the husband, but he had never felt less in control of his life than when he'd been married.
Leticia had ground his heart into dust and left him an angry, soulless man. He was glad that she'd died. Glad. What sort of man did that make him? When the butler had found him in his study, and haltingly informed him that there had been an accident, and his wife was dead, Turner had not even felt relief. Relief would have at least been an innocent emotion. No, Turner's first thought had been—
Thank God.
And no matter how despicable Leticia might have been, no matter how many times he wished he had never married her, should he not have felt something more charitable at her passing? Or at the very least, something that was not entirely uncharitable?
And now…and now…Well, the truth was, he did not wish to marry. It was what he had decided when they'd brought Leticia's broken body into the house, and it was what he'd confirmed when he'd stood over her grave. He'd had a wife. He did not want another one. At least not anytime soon.
But despite Leticia's best attempts, she had apparently not killed everything right and good in him, because here he was, planning his marriage to Miranda.
He knew she was a good woman, and he knew she would never betray him, but dear Lord she could be headstrong. Turner thought of her in the bookshop, assaulting the proprietor with her reticule. Now she would be his wife. It would be up to him to keep her out of trouble.
He swore and took another drink. He did not want that kind of responsibility. It was too much. He just wanted a rest. Was that too much to ask? A rest from having to think about anyone other than himself. A rest from having to care, from having to protect his heart from another beating.
Was it so very selfish? Probably. But after Leticia, he deserved a bit of selfishness. Surely, he must.
But on the other hand, marriage could bring a few welcome benefits. His skin began to tingle just thinking of Miranda. In bed. Underneath him. And then when he started to imagine what the future might bring…
Miranda. Back in bed. And then back in bed. And back in bed. And back—
Who would've thought? Miranda.
Marriage. To Miranda.
And, he reasoned, draining the last of his drink, he did like her better than almost anyone else. She was certainly more interesting and more fun to talk to than any of the other ladies of the ton. If one had to have a wife, it might as well be Miranda. She was a damned sight better than anyone else out there.
It occurred to him that he was not approaching this with a terribly romantic outlook. He was going to need more time to think. Perhaps he should go to bed and hope that his mind was clearer in the morning. With a sigh, he placed his glass back down on the table and stood up, then thought better of it and picked his glass back up. Another brandy might be just thing.
* * *
The next morning, Turner's head was throbbing, and his mind certainly was not any more disposed to deal with the matter at hand than it had been the night before. Of course, he still planned to marry Miranda— a gentleman did not compromise a wellborn lady without paying the consequences. But he hated this feeling of being rushed. It didn't matter that this mess was entirely of his own making; he needed to feel that he had sorted everything out to his own satisfaction.
This was why, when he went down for breakfast, the letter from his friend Lord Harry Winthrop was such a welcome diversion. Harry was contemplating buying some property in Kent. Would Turner like to come down and take a look at it and offer his opinion?
Turner was out the door in under an hour. It was only for a few days. He would take care of Miranda when he got back.
* * *
Miranda didn't mind terribly that Turner had left the house party early. She would have done the same had she been able. Besides, she could think more clearly with him gone, and although there wasn't really much to debate— she had behaved in a manner contrary to every tenet of her up-bringing, and if she did not marry Turner, she would be forever disgraced— it was a bit of a relief to feel at least slightly in control of her emotions. When they returned to London a few days later, Miranda fully expected Turner to show his face immediately. She didn't particularly want to trap him into marriage, but a gentleman was a gentleman and a lady was a lady, and when the two of them were put together, a wedding usually followed. He knew that. He'd said he would marry her.
And surely he would want to do it. She had been so deeply moved by their intimacy— he must have felt something, too. It could not have been one-sided, at least not completely.
She managed a casual tone when she asked Lady Rudland where he was, but his mother replied that she hadn't the slightest idea except that he had left town. Miranda's chest grew tight, and she murmured, "Oh," or "I see," or something like that before dashing up the stairs to her room, where she wept as quietly as she could.
But soon her optimistic side broke through, and she decided that perhaps he had been called away from town on emergency estate business. It was a long way up to Northumberland. He would certainly be gone at least a week.
A week came and went, and frustration built up next to the despair in Miranda's heart. She could not inquire as to his whereabouts— no one in the Bevelstoke family realized that the two were close— Miranda had always been considered Olivia's friend, not Turner's— and if she asked repeatedly where he was, it would look suspicious. And it went without saying that Miranda could have no logical reason to go to Turner's lodgings and inquire herself. That would ruin her reputation completely. At least now her disgrace was still a private matter.
When another week passed, however, she decided that she couldn't bear to remain in London any longer. She fabricated an illness for her father and told the Bevelstokes that she had to return to Cumberland immediately to care for him. They were all terribly concerned, and Miranda felt somewhat guilty when Lady Rudland insisted that she travel back in their coach with two outriders and a maid.
But it had to be done. She could not remain in London any longer. It hurt too much.
A few days later, she was home. Her father was perplexed. He didn't know very much about young women, but he'd been assured that they all wanted seasons in London. But he didn't mind; Miranda was certainly never a bother. Half the time he didn't even realize she was there. So he patted her on the hand and returned to his precious manuscripts.
As for Miranda, she almost convinced herself that she was happy to be back at home. She'd missed the green fields and clean air of the Lakes, the sedate pace of the village, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise attitude. Well, perhaps not that— with no commitments and nothing to do, she slept in until noon and stayed up late
every night, scribbling furiously in her journal.
A letter arrived from Olivia only two days after Miranda did. Miranda smiled as she opened it— trust Olivia to be so impatient that she would send up a missive right away. Miranda's eyes flew over the letter for Turner's name before reading it, but there was no mention of him. Not quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved, she turned back to the beginning and began to read. London was dull without her, Olivia wrote. She hadn't realized how much she had enjoyed Miranda's wry observations of society until they were gone. When was she coming home? Was her father improved? If not, was he at least improving? (Thrice underlined, in typical Olivia fashion.) Miranda read those sentences with a pang in her conscience. Her father was downstairs in his study poring over his manuscripts without even the teeniest of sniffles.
With a sigh, Miranda shoved her conscience over to the side and folded Olivia's letter, placing it in her desk drawer. A lie wasn't always a sin, she decided. Surely she was justified in whatever she had to do to get away from London, where all she could do was sit and wait and hope that Turner would stop by.
Of course, all she did in the country was sit and think about him. One evening she forced herself to count how many times his name appeared in her journal entry, and to her supreme disgust, the total was thirty-seven.
Clearly, this trip to the country was not clearing her mind.
Then, after a week and a half, Olivia arrived on a surprise visit.
"Livvy, what are you doing here?" Miranda asked as she rushed into the parlor where her friend was waiting. "Is someone hurt? Is something wrong?"
"Not at all," Olivia returned breezily. "I've just come up to retrieve you. You are desperately needed in London."
Miranda's heart began to thump erratically. "By whom?"
"By me!" Olivia linked arms with her and led her into the sitting room. "Good heavens, I am an utter disaster without you."
"Your mother let you leave town in the middle of the season? I don't believe it."