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 me, not just for the way I make you feel."
He rested his hands on the windowsill, leaning heavily on it as he stared out the window. She could see only his back, but she heard him clearly as he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't want to know," she burst out. "You're afraid to think about it. You- "
Turner whirled around and silenced her with a look that was as hard as any she had ever seen. Even that night when he'd first kissed her, when he was sitting alone, getting drunk after burying Leticia- he had not looked like this.
He stepped toward her, his movements slow and seething with anger. "I am not a domineering husband, but my leniency does not extend to being called a coward. Choose your words with greater care, wife."
"And you may choose your attitudes with greater care," she countered, his snide tone raking along her spine. "I am not a silly little"- her entire body shook as she fought for words- "confection you can treat as if I lacked a brain."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Miranda. When have I ever treated you like that? When? You tell me, because I am damned curious."
Miranda stammered, unable to meet his challenge. Finally she said, "I don't like being spoken to in supercilious tones, Turner."
"Then don't provoke me." His expression came dangerously close to a sneer.
"Don't provoke you?" she burst out incredulously, advancing toward him. "You don't provoke me!"
"I haven't done a damned thing, Miranda. One minute I thought we were blissfully happy and the next you've come at me like a fury, accusing me of God knows what awful crime, and- "
He stopped when he felt her frantic fingers biting into his upper arms. "You thought we were blissfully happy?" she whispered.
For a moment, when he looked at her, it was almost as if he were merely surprised. "Of course I did," he said. "I told you all the time." But then he gave himself a shake, and he rolled his eyes and pushed her away. "Oh, but I forgot. Everything I've done, everything I've said- none of it mattered. You don't want to know that I am happy with you. You don't care if I like to be with you. You just want to know how I feel."
And then, because she couldn't not say it, she whispered, "How do you feel about me?"
It was as if she'd popped him with a pin. He had been all movement and energy, the words spilling mockingly from his mouth, and now…Now he just stood there, not making a noise, just staring at her as if she had released Medusa into their sitting room.
"Miranda, I- I- "
"You what, Turner? You what?"
"I…Oh, Christ, Miranda, this isn't fair."
"You can't say it." Her eyes filled with horror. Until that moment she had held out hope that he would simply blurt it out, that maybe he was just thinking too hard about everything, and when the moment was right, and their passions were high, the words would spill from his lips, and he would realize that he loved her.
"My God," Miranda breathed. The little piece of her heart that had always believed that he would come to love her shriveled and died in the space of a second, tearing out most of her soul along with it. "My God," she said again. "You can't say it."
Turner saw the emptiness in her eyes and knew that he had lost her. "I don't want to hurt you," he said lamely.
"It's too late." Her words caught in her throat, and she walked slowly to the door.
"Wait!"
She stopped, turned.
He reached down and picked up the package he'd brought in with him. "Here," he said, his tone dull and flat. "I brought you this."
Miranda took the package from his hand, staring at his back as he strode from the room. With shaking hands, she unwrapped it. Le Morte d'Arthur. The very copy she had so coveted from the gentlemen's bookshop. "Oh, Turner," she whispered. "Why did you have to go and do something so sweet? Why can't you just let me hate you?"
Many hours later, as she wiped the book with a handkerchief, she found herself hoping that her salty tears had not permanently ruined the leather cover.
7 June 1820
Lady Rudland and Olivia arrived today to await the birth of "the heir," as the entire Bevelstoke clan calls him. The physician does not seem to think that I will deliver for close to a month, but Lady Rudland said that she did not want to take any chances.
I am sure that they have noticed that Turner and I no longer share a bedroom. It is uncommon, of course, for married couples to share a bedroom, but last time they were here we did, and I am certain that they are wondering about our separation. It has been two weeks now since I moved my belongings.
My bed is drafty and cold. I hate it.
I am not even excited for the birth of the child.