The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever by Julia Quinn
"Of course," Olivia said quickly. "How silly of me to have forgotten."
"I believe I will get a glass of lemonade," Miranda said with a smile. She knew that Olivia always felt awkward when she went off for a dance and left Miranda alone.
"Are you certain?"
"Go. Go."
Olivia floated out onto the dance floor, and Miranda started to make her way to a footman who was pouring lemonade. As usual, she had been claimed for only about half of the dances. And where was Turner, she might ask, after he had promised to dance with her if she lacked partners?
Horrid, horrid man.
Somehow, it felt good to malign him in her mind, even if she didn't quite believe it.
Miranda had made it about halfway to the lemonade when she felt a firm masculine hand on her elbow. Turner? She whirled around, but was disappointed to find a gentleman she did not know but whose face looked vaguely familiar.
"Miss Cheever?"
Miranda nodded.
"May I have the pleasure of this dance?"
"Why yes, of course, but I do not believe we have been introduced."
"Oh, forgive me, please. I am Westholme."
Lord Westholme? Wasn't he the gentleman Turner had been talking to just a few moments earlier? Miranda smiled at him, but her mind was frowning. She had never been a great believer in coincidences.
Lord Westholme proved to be an excellent dancer, and the pair whirled effortlessly around the floor. When the music drew to a close, he bowed elegantly and escorted her to the perimeter of the room.
"Thank you for a lovely dance, Lord Westholme," Miranda said graciously.
"It is I who should thank you, Miss Cheever. I hope that we may repeat this pleasure soon."
Miranda noticed that Lord Westholme had managed to deposit her as far away from the lemonade as possible. It had been a white lie when she told Olivia she was thirsty, but now she was really quite parched. With a sigh, she realized that she would have to wiggle her way back through the crowd. She had not taken two steps toward the refreshments when another elegant, eminently eligible young man stepped in front of her. She recognized this one immediately. It was Mr. Abbott, the politically minded gentlemen with whom Turner had also been conversing.
Within seconds, Miranda was back on the dance floor and growing very irritated, indeed.
Not that she could fault her partners. If Turner had found it necessary to bribe men into dancing with her, at least he'd chosen handsome, well-mannered ones. Nevertheless, when Mr. Abbott led her from the dance floor, and she saw the Duke of Ashbourne making his way toward her, Miranda beat a hasty retreat.
Did he think she had no pride? Did he think she would appreciate his cajoling his friends into asking her to dance? It was humiliating. And even worse was the implication that he was getting those men to dance with her because he couldn't be bothered to do so himself. Tears pricked her eyes, and Miranda, terrified that she would spill them in the ballroom in full view of the ton, darted out into a deserted corridor.
She leaned back against a wall and took great big gulps of air. His rejection didn't just sting. It stabbed. It shot bullets. And its aim was accurate to a degree.
This was not like all those years when he had viewed her as a child. Then at least she could be consoled by telling herself that he did not know what he was missing. But now he did. Now he knew exactly what he was missing, and he didn't care a bit.
Miranda could not remain in the hallway all night, but she was not ready to return to the party, so she made her way out to the garden. It was a small patch of green, but well proportioned and tastefully laid out. Miranda sat down on a stone bench in the corner of the garden that faced back toward the house. Large glass doors opened onto the ballroom, and for several minutes she watched the lords and ladies twirling to the music. She sniffled and pulled off one of her gloves so she could wipe her nose with her hand. "My kingdom for a handkerchief," she said with a sigh.
Maybe she could feign illness and go home.
She tested out a little cough. Maybe she really was ill. Really, there was no sense in her staying the rest of the ball. The aim was to be pretty and sociable and engaging, wasn't it? There was no way she was going to manage any of that this evening.
And then she saw a flash of gold.
Gold-touched hair, to be more precise.
It was Turner. Of course. How could it not be he, when she was sitting off by herself, pathetic and alone? He was walking through the French doors that led to the garden.
And there was a woman on his arm.
A strange lump rolled about in her throat, and Miranda did not know whether to laugh or cry. Would she be spared no humiliation? Breath catching in her throat, she scooted down to the edge of the bench where she would be more hidden by shadows.
Who was that? She'd seen her before. Lady Something-or-other. A widow, she'd heard, and very, very wealthy and independent. She didn't look like a widow. Truth be told, she didn't look much older than Miranda.
Murmuring an insincere apology to no one in particular, Miranda strained her ears to hear their conversation. But the wind was carrying their words in the opposite direction, so she heard only the barest of snatches. Finally, after what sounded like "I'm not certain," from the lady's lips, Turner leaned down and kissed her.
Miranda's heart shattered.
The lady murmured something she could not hear and returned to the ballroom. Turner remained in the garden, his hands on his hips, staring enigmatically up at the moon.
Go away, Miranda wanted to scream. Go! She was trapped there until he left, and all she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed. And possibly never get out. But that did not appear to be an option just then, so she scooted farther along the bench, trying to cloak herself with even more shadows.
Turner's head moved sharply in her direction. Blast! He'd heard her. He squinted his eyes and took a couple of steps in her direction. Then he shut his eyes and slowly shook his head.
"Damn it, Miranda," he said with a sigh. "Please tell me that isn't you."
* * *
And here the evening had been going so well. He had managed to avoid Miranda completely, he had finally got himself introduced to the lovely Widow Bidwell— only twenty-five years young— and the champagne wasn't even that bad, either. But no, the gods were clearly not inclined to grant him any favors. There she was. Miranda. Sitting on a bench, watching him. Presumably watching him kiss the widow.
Good Lord.
"Damn it, Miranda," he said with a sigh. "Please tell me that isn't you."
"It isn't me."
She was trying to sound proud, but her voice held a hollow edge that pierced him. He closed his eyes for a moment because, damn it, she wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to have these sorts of complications in his life. Why couldn't anything ever be simple and easy?
"Why are you here?" he asked.
She shrugged a little. "I wanted some fresh air."
He took a few more steps toward her until he was as deeply embedded in the shadows as she was. "Were you spying on me?"
"You must have a very high opinion of yourself."
"Were you?" he demanded.
"No, of course not," she retorted, her chin drawing back with anger. "I don't stoop to spying. You ought to inspect your gardens more carefully the next time you plan a tryst."
He crossed his arms. "I find it difficult to believe that your being out here has nothing to do with my presence."
"Do tell, then," she bit off, "if I had followed you here, how could I have got all the way back to this bench without your noticing me?"
He ignored the question, mostly because she was right. He raked a hand through his hair, and then grabbed a hunk and squeezed, the tugging sensation at his scalp somehow helping him to rein in his temper.
"You're going to yank it out," Miranda said in an aggravatingly even voice.
He took a deep breath. He flexed his fingers. And his voice was almost steady when
"What is it about?" she echoed, rising to her feet. "What is it about? How dare you! It's about your ignoring me for a week and treating me like something that needs to be swept under a rug. It's about your thinking I have so little pride that I'd appreciate your bribing your friends to ask me to dance. It's about your rudeness and your selfishness and your inability to— "
He placed his hand over her mouth. "For God's sake, keep your voice down. What happened last week was wrong, Miranda. And you're a fool to call in your promises and force me to attend tonight."
"But you did it," she whispered. "You came."
"I came," he spat out, "because I am looking for a mistress. Not a wife."
She lurched backward. And she stared at him. She stared until he thought her eyes would burn holes in him. And then finally, in a voice so low it hurt, she said, "I don't like you right now, Turner."
That was convenient. He didn't much like himself just then, either.
Miranda's chin lifted, but she was trembling as she said, "If you'll excuse me. I have a ball to attend. Thanks to you, I have a goodly number of dance partners, and I wouldn't want to offend any of them."
He watched as she stalked off. And then he watched the door. And then he left.
20 June 1819
I saw that widow again tonight after I went back into the ballroom. I asked Olivia who she was, and she said her name is Katherine Bidwell. She is the Countess of Pembleton. She married Lord Pembleton when he was nearly sixty and promptly produced a son. Lord Pembleton passed soon after, and now she is in complete power of his fortune until the boy is of age. Smart woman. To have such independence. She probably won't want to marry again, which I'm sure suits Turner perfectly.
I had to dance with him once. Lady Rudland insisted upon it. And then, as if the evening could not get any worse, she pulled me aside to comment on my sudden popularity. The Duke of Ashbourne danced with me! (Exclamation point hers.) He is married, of course, and very happily, but still, he does not waste his time with little misses just out of the schoolroom. Lady R. was just thrilled and so very proud of me. I thought I might cry.
I am home now, however, and I resolve to invent some sort of illness so that I do not have to go out for a few days. A week, if I can manage it.
Do you know what disturbs me the most? Lady Pembleton is not even considered beautiful. Oh, she is not unpleasing to look at, but she is no diamond of the first water. Her hair is plain brown, and so are her eyes.
Just like mine.
Chapter 9
Miranda spent the next week pretending to read Greek tragedies. It was impossible to keep her mind focused on a book long enough to actually read one, but as long as she had to stare at the words on the page every now and then, she figured she might as well choose something that suited her mood.
A comedy would have made her cry. And a love story, God forbid, would have made her want to perish on the spot.
Olivia, who'd never been known for her lack of interest in other people's business, had been relentless in her quest to discover the reason for Miranda's morose mood. In fact, the only times she wasn't interrogating Miranda were when she was trying to brighten her mood. She was in the midst of one of these cheering-up sessions, regaling Miranda with the tales of a certain countess who'd thrown her husband out of the house until he agreed to let her buy four miniature poodles as pets, when Lady Rudland rapped on the door.
"Oh, good," she said, poking her head into the room. "You're both here. Olivia, don't sit like that. It's very unladylike."
Olivia dutifully adjusted her position before asking, "What is it, Mama?"
"I wanted to inform you that we have been invited to Lady Chester's home for a country visit next week."
"Who is Lady Chester?" Miranda inquired, setting her now dog-eared volume of Aeschylus down in her lap.
"A cousin of ours," Olivia replied. "Third or fourth, I can't remember."
"Second," Lady Rudland corrected. "And I accepted the invitation on our behalf. It would be rude not to attend, as she's such a close relation."
"Is Turner going?" Olivia asked.
Miranda wanted to thank her friend a thousand times over for asking the question she didn't dare voice.
"He had better. He has wormed his way out of his familial obligations for far too long," Lady Rudland said with uncharacteristic steeliness. "If he doesn't, he'll have to answer to me."
"Heavens," Olivia deadpanned. "What a terrifying thought."
"I don't know what is wrong with the boy," Lady Rudland said with a shake of her head. "It is almost as if he is avoiding us."
No, Miranda thought with a sad smile, only me.
* * *
Turner tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his family to come down. For about the fifteenth time that morning, he found himself wishing that he were more like the rest of the men of the ton, most of whom either ignored their mothers or treated them like pieces of fluff. But somehow his mother had managed to get him to agree to this blasted week-long house party, at which, of course, Miranda would also be in attendance. He was an idiot. That fact was growing clearer to him by the day.
An idiot who had apparently offended fate, because as soon as his mother arrived in the front hall she said, "You're going to have to ride with Miranda."
Apparently the gods had a sick sense of humor.
He cleared his throat. "Do you think that's wise, Mother?"
She gave him an impatient look. "You're not going to seduce the girl, are you?"
Holy bloody hell. "Of course not. It's just that she has her reputation to consider. What will people say when we arrive in the same carriage? Everyone will know we've spent several hours alone."
"Everyone thinks of the two of you as brother and sister. And we shall meet up a mile from Chester Park and switch everyone about so that you may arrive with your father. There won't be any problem. Besides, your father and I need to have a word alone with Olivia."
"What did she do now?"
"Apparently she called Georgiana Elster a silly widgeon."
"Georgiana Elster is a silly widgeon."
"To her face, Turner! She said it to her face."
"Lack of judgment on her part but nothing that requires a two-hour scolding, I think."
"That's not all."
Turner sighed. His mother's mind was made up. Two hours alone with Miranda. What had he done to deserve this torture?
"She called Sir Robert Kent an overgrown stoat."
"To his face, I suppose."
Lady Rudland nodded.
"What is a stoat?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, but I can't imagine it's complimentary."
"A stoat is a weasel, I think," Miranda said as she entered the hall in a creamy blue traveling dress. She smiled at them both, annoyingly composed.
"Good morning, Miranda," Lady Rudland said briskly. "You're to ride with Turner."
"I am?" She nearly choked on her words and had to cover for it with a few coughs. Turner took a rather juvenile satisfaction in that.
"Yes. Lord Rudland and I need to have a word with Olivia. She has been saying rather inappropriate things in public."
A groan was heard on the stairs. Three heads swiveled around to watch Olivia as she descended. "Is that really necessary, Mama? I didn't mean any harm. I would never have called Lady Finchcoombe a miserable harridan if I thought it might get back to her."
The blood drained from Lady Rudland's face. "You called Lady Finchcoombe a miserable what?"
"You didn't know about that?" Olivia asked weakly.
"Turner, Miranda, I suggest you leave now. We will see you in a few hours."
They walked in silence to the waiting carriage, and Turner held out his hand to assist Miranda as she climbed up. Her gloved fingers felt electric in his own, but she must not have felt the same, because she sounded singularly unaffected as she muttered, "I hope my presence is not too much a trial for you, my lord
Turner's reply was a cross between a grunt and a sigh.
"I didn't arrange this, you know."
He sat down across from her. "I know."
"I had no idea we'd— " She looked up. "You know?"
"I know. Mother was quite determined to get Olivia alone."
"Oh. Thank you for believing me, then."
He let out a pent-up breath, staring out the window for a moment as the carriage lurched into motion. "Miranda, I don't think you're some sort of habitual liar."
"No, of course not," she said quickly. "But you did look rather furious when you helped me into the carriage."
"I was furious at fate, Miranda, not you."
"What an improvement," she said coldly. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I brought along a book." She twisted around so that as much of her back was facing him as possible and began to read.
Turner waited about thirty seconds before asking, "What's that you're reading?"
Miranda froze, then moved slowly, as if completing the most odious of chores. She held up the book.
"Aeschylus. How depressing."
"It fits my mood."
"Oh dear, was that a barb?"
"Don't be condescending, Turner. Under the circumstances, it's hardly appropriate."
He raised his brows. "And what, precisely, might that mean?"
"It means that after all that has, er, occurred between us, your superior attitude is no longer justified."
"My, but that was a long sentence."
Miranda let her glare be her reply. This time, when she picked up the book again, it covered her face entirely.
Turner chuckled and leaned back, surprised by how much he was enjoying himself. The quiet ones were always the most interesting. Miranda might not ever choose to place herself at the center of attention, but she could hold her own in a conversation with wit and style. Baiting her was great fun. And he didn't feel the least bit guilty for it. For all her disgruntled behavior, he had no doubt that she enjoyed the verbal sparring every bit as much as he did.
This trip might not be quite so hellish. He just had to make sure he kept her engaged in this sort of amusing conversation and didn't stare too long at her mouth.