Two weeks later, Miranda was sitting in her new rose salon, trying to read a book but spending far more time staring out the window. Turner had sent word that he would be arriving within the next few days, and she couldn't stop her heart from racing every time she heard a noise that sounded like a carriage coming up the drive.
The sun had slipped down below the horizon before she realized that she hadn't yet turned a single page in her book. A concerned servant brought in the supper she had forgotten to request, and Miranda had barely finished her bowl of soup before she fell asleep on the sofa.
A few hours later, the carriage for which she'd been watching so diligently came to a halt in front of the house, and Turner, weary from travel yet still eager to see his wife, hopped down. He reached into one of his bags and withdrew a neatly wrapped package, leaving the rest of his luggage with the vehicle for the footmen to bring in. He looked up at the house and noted that no light was burning in their bedroom. He hoped that Miranda wasn't already asleep; he hadn't the heart to wake her, but he really wanted to speak with her that evening and try to make amends.
He stomped up the front steps, trying to dislodge some of the mud from his boots as he did so. The butler, who had been watching for him almost as long as Miranda, opened the door before Turner could knock.
'Good evening, Brearley,' Turner said affably.
'May I be the first to welcome you home, my lord.'
'Thank you. Is my wife still awake?'
'I believe she is in the rose salon, my lord. Reading, I think.'
Turner shrugged off his coat. 'She certainly likes to do that.'
'We are fortunate to have such a well-read lady,' Brearley added.
Turner blinked. 'We don't have a rose salon, Brearley.'
'We do now, my lord. In the former west salon.'
'Oh? So she decorated. Well, good for her. I want her to think of this place as home.'
'As do we all, my lord.'
Turner smiled. Miranda had aroused a fierce loyalty among the household staff. The maids positively worshipped her. 'I'll go surprise her now.' He strode across the front hall, veering right until he reached what used to be the west salon. The door was slightly ajar, and Turner could see the flicker of a candle. Silly woman. She ought to know that she needed more than one candle to read.
He pushed the door open a few more inches and poked his head in. Miranda was lying back on the sofa, her mouth soft and slightly open as she slept. A book was lying across her belly, and a half-eaten meal sat on the table next to her. She looked so lovely and innocent, his heart ached. He had missed her on his journey- he had thought of her, and their inauspicious parting, nearly every minute of every day. But he did not think he'd realized just how deep and elemental his longing had been until this very moment, when he saw her again, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling gently in slumber.
He'd told himself he would not wake her, but that, he reasoned, was when he'd thought she would be in their bedchamber. She was going to have to be awakened in order to go upstairs to bed, so he might as well be the one to do it.
He walked over to the sofa, pushed her dinner to the side, and perched on the table, letting his package rest on his lap. 'Wake up, dar- ' He broke off, belatedly remembering how she had ordered him not to use endearments any longer. He touched her shoulder. 'Wake up, Miranda.'
She blinked. 'Turner?' Her voice was groggy.
'Hello, puss.' Hang her if she didn't want him to call her that. If he wanted to use an endearment, he damned well would.
'I'd almost- ' She yawned. 'I'd almost given up on you.'
'I told you I'd arrive today.'
'But the roads…'
'They weren't so bad.' He smiled down at her. Her sleepy mind hadn't yet remembered that it was mad at him, and he saw no reason to issue a reminder. He touched her cheek. 'I missed you.'
Miranda yawned again. 'Did you?'
'Very much.' He paused. 'Did you miss me?'
'I…yes.' Lying served no purpose, she realized. He already knew that she loved him. 'Did you have a good time in London?' she asked politely.
'I'd rather you had been with me,' he replied, and he sounded too measured, as if his sentences had been carefully balanced so as not to offend.
And then, in the same polite voice: 'Did you have a good time while I was gone?'
'Olivia came for a few days.'
'Did she?'
Miranda nodded. And then she said, 'Other than that, however, I had a great deal of time to think.'
There was a long silence, and then: 'I see.'
She watched as he set his package down, stood, and walked over to where the solitary candle was burning. 'It's quite dark in here,' he said, but there was something stilted about it, and she wished she could see his face as he picked up the candle and used it to light several more.
'I fell asleep while it was still twilight,' she told him, because…well, because there seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement between them to keep this all cordial and careful and civil and everything else that meant they avoided anything real.
'Really?' he replied. 'It gets dark quite early now. You must have been very tired.'
'It's wearying to carry an extra person around one's middle.'
He smiled. Finally. 'It won't be much longer.'
'No, but I want this last month to be as pleasant as possible.'
The words hung in the air. She had not meant them innocently, and he did not misinterpret. 'What do you mean by that?' he asked, each word so soft and so precise that she could not miss his serious intent.
'I mean…' She swallowed nervously, wishing that she was standing up with her hands on her hips, or with her arms crossed, or anything but this utterly vulnerable position lying back on the sofa. 'It means that I cannot go on as we were before.'
'I thought we were happy,' he said cautiously.
'We were. I was. I mean…but I wasn't.'
'Either you were or you weren't, puss. One or the other.'
'Both,' she said, hating the low tone of finality in his voice. 'Don't you understand?' And then she looked at him. 'No, I can see you do not.'
'I don't know what you want me to do,' he said flatly. But they both knew he was lying.
'I need to know where I stand with you, Turner.'
'Where you stand with me?' he asked in a disbelieving voice. 'Where you stand with me? Bloody hell, woman. You're my wife. What else do you need to know?'
'I need to know that you love me!' she burst out, clumsily getting to her feet. He made no reply, just stood there with a muscle twitching in his cheek, so she added, 'Or I need to know that you don't.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'It means I want to know what you feel, Turner. I need to know how you feel about me. If you don't- if you don't- ' She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands, trying to figure out just what it was she wanted to say. 'It doesn't matter if you don't care,' she finally said. 'But I have to know.'
'What the devil are you talking about?' He raked his fingers angrily through his hair. 'Every minute of the day I tell you I adore you.'
'You don't tell me you adore me. You tell me you adore being married to me.'
'What is the difference?' he fairly yelled.
'Maybe you just adore being married.'
'After Leticia?' he spat.
'I'm sorry,' she said, because she was. For that. But not for the rest. 'There is a difference,' she said in a low voice. 'A large one. I want to know if you care for
