"Deeply emotional Regency romance with remarkable characters and plot."
Reviewed by Suan Wilson
Posted June 15, 2007
Romance Historical
At the age of 10, Miss Miranda Cheever fell in love with
her best friend's brother, Viscount Turner. After she's
ridiculed about her gangly and plain appearance, he soothes
her hurt feelings and reassures her she will grow into her
unusual looks. Miranda keeps her schoolgirl crush hidden
and records her thoughts and dreams in her diary. As the
years fly by, Miranda watches from afar as Turner marries a
deceitful and hateful woman who changes the carefree man
into a bitter cynic. When she meets Turner at his wife's
funeral, Miranda decides its time to make him really see
her. She's more than just his little sister's best friend. Nigel Bevelstoke, Viscount Turner, fell madly in love and
gave his heart to his beautiful wife. His ideal marriage
turned into a nightmare as he learned she cuckold him from
the very beginning. After her accidental death, Turner
rejoices that he's free and swears he will never remarry.
Instead of returning to the country, Turner's mother
blackmails him into helping with his sister's debut in
London. Turner encounters Miranda, the precocious and funny
child who's grown into a clever young woman with the
uncanny talent to see right through him. Miranda's plans to heal Turner go awry when she discovers
how deeply his pain engulfs him. Turner rejects Miranda and
lashes out, trying to keep her away. But it's hard when he
enjoys her company and desires her so much. She deserves a
man who can love her and that part of his heart is dead.
Miranda persists, refusing to accept defeat, even when the
cost means losing her own peace of mind. After tackling the Bridgerton family, best-selling author
Julia Quinn enchants readers with a story about
remarkable characters engaged in deep emotional trials that
make it impossible to put down. Add to the mix Ms. Quinn's
trademark wit and charm and this tale becomes a treasure!
SUMMARY
2 March 1810 . . .
Today, I fell in love. At the age of ten, Miranda Cheever showed no signs of Great
Beauty. And even at ten, Miranda learned to accept the
expectations society held for her—until the afternoon when
Nigel Bevelstoke, the handsome and dashing Viscount Turner,
solemnly kissed her hand and promised her that one day she
would grow into herself, that one day she would be as
beautiful as she already was smart. And even at ten,
Miranda knew she would love him forever. But the years that followed were as cruel to Turner as they
were kind to Miranda. She is as intriguing as the viscount
boldly predicted on that memorable day—while he is a
lonely, bitter man, crushed by a devastating loss. But
Miranda has never forgotten the truth she set down on paper
all those years earlier—and she will not allow the love
that is her destiny to slip lightly through her
fingers . . .
ExcerptNigel Bevelstoke, better known as Turner to all who cared
to court his favor, knew a great many things.
He knew how to read Latin and Greek, and he knew how to
seduce a woman in French and Italian.
He knew how to shoot a moving target whilst atop a moving
horse, and he knew exactly how much he could drink before
surrendering his dignity.
He could throw a punch or fence with a master, and he could
do them both whilst reciting Shakespeare or
Donne.
In short, he knew everything a gentleman ought to know,
and, by all accounts, he'd excelled in every
area.
People looked at him.
People looked up to him.
But nothing--not one second of his prominent and privileged
life--had prepared him for this moment. And never had he
felt the weight of watchful eyes so much as now, as he
stepped forward and tossed a clump of dirt on the coffin of
his wife.
I'm so sorry, people kept saying. I'm so sorry. We're so
sorry.
And all the while Turner could not help but wonder if God
might smite him down, because all he could think was--
I'm not.
Ah, Leticia. He had quite a lot to thank her for.
Let's see, where to start? There was the loss of his
reputation, of course. The devil only knew how many people
were aware that he'd been cuckolded.
Repeatedly.
Then there was the loss of his innocence. It was difficult
to recall now, but he had once given mankind the benefit of
the doubt. He had, on the whole, believed the best of
people--that if he treated others with honor and respect,
they would do the same unto him.
And then there was the loss of his soul.
Because as he stepped back, clasping his hands stiffly
behind his back as he listened to the priest commit
Leticia's body to the ground, he could not escape the fact
that he had wished for this. He had wanted to be rid of
her.
And he would not--he did not mourn her.
"Such a pity," someone behind him whispered.
Turner's jaw twitched. This was not a pity. It was a farce.
And now he would spend the next year wearing black for a
woman who had come to him carrying another man's child. She
had bewitched him, teased him until he could think of
nothing but the possession of her. She had said she loved
him, and she had smiled with sweet innocence and delight
when he had avowed his devotion and pledged his
soul.
She had been his dream.
And then she had been his nightmare.
She'd lost that baby, the one that had prompted their
marriage. The father had been some Italian count, or at
least that's what she'd said. He was married, or
unsuitable, or maybe both. Turner had been prepared to
forgive her; everyone made mistakes, and hadn't he, too,
wanted to seduce her before their wedding night?
But Leticia had not wanted his love. He didn't know what
the hell she had wanted--power, perhaps, the heady rush of
satisfaction when yet another man fell under her
spell.
Turner wondered if she'd felt that when he'd succumbed. Or
maybe it had just been relief. She'd been three months
along by the time they married. She hadn't much time to
spare.
And now here she was. Or rather, there she was. Turner
wasn't precisely sure which locational pronoun was more
accurate for a lifeless body in the ground.
Whichever. He was only sorry that she would spend her
eternity in his ground, resting among the Bevelstokes of
days gone by. Her stone would bear his name, and in a
hundred years, someone would gaze upon the etchings in the
granite and think she must have been a fine lady, and what
a tragedy that she'd been taken so young.
Turner looked up at the priest. He was a youngish fellow,
new to the parish and by all accounts, still convinced that
he could make the world a better place.
"Ashes to ashes," the priest said, and he looked up at the
man who was meant to be the bereaved widower.
Ah yes, Turner thought acerbically, that would be
me.
"Dust to dust."
Behind him, someone actually sniffled.
And the priest, his blue eyes bright with that appallingly
misplaced glimmer of sympathy, kept on talking--
"In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection--
"
Good God.
"--to eternal life."
The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner
wondered what, exactly, he'd seen in his face. Nothing
good, that much was clear.
There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over.
Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at
Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping
Turner's hands in his own as he said, "She will be missed."
"Not," Turner bit off, "by me."
--I can't believe he said that. Miranda looked down at the words she'd just written. She
was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal,
but this was the first time--the first time since that
fateful day nine years earlier-- that she had not a clue
what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they
frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.
In May of her fourteenth year-- Woke.
Dressed.
Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.
Read Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady.
Hid Sense and Sensibility from Father.
Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.
Conjugated French verbs.
Composed letter to Grandmother.
Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.
Read more Sense and Sensibility, author's identity still
unknown.
Retired.
Slept.
Dreamed of him.
This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November
of the same year-- Woke.
Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.
Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.
Spent much of the time staring out the window.
Ate lunch: Fish, bread, peas.
Conjugated Latin verbs.
Composed letter to Grandmother.
Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.
Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event). Father did
not notice.
Retired.
Slept.
Dreamed of him.
But now-- now when something huge and momentous had
actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to
say except-- I can't believe he said that. "Well, Miranda," she murmured, watching the ink dry on the
tip of her quill, "you'll not achieve fame as a diarist."
"What did you say?"
Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that
Olivia had entered the room.
"Nothing," she said quickly.
Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the
bed. "What a horrible day."
Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing
her friend.
"I am glad you were here," Olivia said with a sigh. "Thank
you for remaining for the night."
"Of course," Miranda replied. There had been no question,
not when Olivia had said she'd needed her.
"What are you writing?"
Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing
that her hands were resting protectively across its
cover. "Nothing," she said.
Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she
quirked her head in Miranda's direction. "That can't be
true."
"Sadly, it is."
"Why is it sad?"
Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious
questions--and the ones with the least obvious answers.
"Well," Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time--
really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she
went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as
if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto
the cover. "This all I have. It is what I am."
Olivia looked dubious. "It's a book."
"It's my life."
"Why is it," Olivia opined, "that people call me dramatic?"
"I'm not saying it is my life," Miranda said with a flash
of impatience, "just that it contains it. Everything. I
have written everything down. Since I was ten."
"Everything?"
Miranda thought about the many days she'd dutifully
recorded what she'd eaten and little else. "Everything."
"I could never keep a journal."
"No."
Olivia rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her
hand. "You needn't have agreed with me so quickly."
Miranda only smiled.
Olivia flopped back down. "I suppose you are going to write
that I have a short attention span."
"I already have."
Silence, then: "Really?"
"I believe I said you bored easily."
"Well," her friend replied, with only the barest moment of
reflection, "that much is true."
Miranda looked back down at the writing desk. Her candle
was shedding flickers of light on the blotter, and she
suddenly felt tired. Tired, but unfortunately, not sleepy.
Weary, perhaps. Restless.
"I'm exhausted," Olivia declared, sliding off the bed. Her
maid had left her nightclothes atop the covers, and Miranda
respectfully turned her head while Olivia changed into them.
"How long do you think Turner will remain here in the
country?" Miranda asked, trying not to bite her tongue. She
hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him,
but it had been this way for years. Even when he'd married,
and she'd sat in the pews at his wedding, and watching him
meant watching him watch his bride with all the love and
devotion that burned in her own heart--
She'd still watched. She still loved him. She always would.
He was the man who'd made her believe in herself. He had no
idea what he'd done to her--what he'd done for her-- and he
probably never would. But Miranda still ached for him. And
she probably always would.
Olivia crawled into bed. "Will you be up long?" she asked,
her voice thick with the beginnings of slumber.
"Not long," Miranda assured her. Olivia could not fall
asleep while a candle burned so close. Miranda could not
understand it, as the fire in the grate did not seem to
bother her, but she had seen Olivia toss and turn with her
own eyes, and so, when she realized that her mind was still
racing and "not long" had been a bit of a lie, she leaned
forward and blew out the candle.
"I'll take this elsewhere," she said, tucking her journal
under her arm.
"Thankthsh," Olivia mumbled, and by the time Miranda pulled
on a wrapper and reached the corridor, she was asleep.
Miranda tucked her journal under her chin and wedged it
against her breastbone to free her hands so that she could
tie the sash around her waist. She was a frequent overnight
guest at Haverbreaks, but still, it wouldn't do to be
wandering the halls of someone else's home in nothing but
her nightgown.
It was a dark night, with nothing but the moonlight
filtering through the windows to guide her, but Miranda
could have made her way from Olivia's room to the library
with her eyes closed. Olivia always fell asleep before she
did--too many thoughts rumbling about in her head, Olivia
pronounced--and so Miranda frequently took her diary to
another room to record her ponderings. She supposed she
could have asked for a bedchamber of her own, but Olivia's
mother did not believe in needless extravagance, and she
saw no reason to heat two rooms when one would suffice.
Miranda did not mind. In fact, she was grateful for the
company. Her own home was far too quiet these days. Her
beloved mother had passed away nearly a year earlier, and
Miranda had been left alone with her father. In his grief,
he had closeted himself away with his precious manuscripts,
leaving his daughter to fend for herself. Miranda had
turned to the Bevelstokes for love and friendship, and they
welcomed her with open arms. Olivia even wore black for
three weeks in honor of Lady Cheever.
"If one of my first cousins died, I'd be forced to do the
same," Olivia had said at the funeral. "And I certainly
loved your mama better than any of my cousins."
"Olivia!" Miranda was touched, but nonetheless, she thought
she ought be shocked.
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Have you met my cousins?"
And she'd laughed. At her own mother's funeral, Miranda had
laughed. It was, she'd later realized, the most precious
gift her friend could have offered.
"I love you, Livvy," she said.
Olivia took her hand. "I know you do," she said
softly. "And I, you." Then she squared her shoulders and
assumed her usual stance. "I should be quite incorrigible
without you, you know. My mother often says you are the
only reason I have not committed some irredeemable offense."
It was probably for that reason, Miranda reflected, that
Lady Rudland had offered to sponsor her for a season in
London. Upon receiving the invitation, her father had
sighed with relief and quickly forwarded the necessary
funds. Sir Rupert Cheever was not an exceptionally wealthy
man, but he had enough to cover a season in London for his
only daughter. What he did not possess was the necessary
patience –or, to be frank, the interest--to take her
himself.
Their debut was delayed for a year. Miranda could not go
while in mourning for her mother, and Lady Rudland had
decided to allow Olivia to wait, as well. Nineteen would do
as well as eighteen, she'd announced. And it was true; no
one was worried about Olivia making a grand match. With her
stunning looks, vivacious personality (and, as Olivia wryly
pointed out, her hefty dowry) she was sure to be a success.
But Leticia's death, in addition to being tragic, had been
particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of
mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just
six weeks, however, Lady Rudland decided firmly, as Leticia
had not been a sister in blood.
They would only be a little bit late in their arrival for
the season. It couldn't be helped.
Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball
positively terrified her. It wasn't that she was shy,
precisely, because she didn't think she was. It was just
that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so
many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.
Can't be helped, she thought as she made her way down the
stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck
out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company.
Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where
to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the
library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly
night. On the other hand--
Hmmm... what was that?
She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had
a fire burning in Lord Rudland's study. Miranda couldn't
imagine that anyone was still up and about--the Bevelstokes
always retired early.
She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached
the open door. "Oh!"
Turner looked up from his father's chair. "Miss Miranda,"
he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy
sprawl. "Quelle surprise."
Turner wasn't certain why he wasn't surprised to see Miss
Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father's
study. When he'd heard footsteps in the hall, he'd somehow
known it had to be her. True, his family tended to sleep
like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of
them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search
of a snack or something to read.
But it had been more than the process of elimination that
had led him to Miranda as the obvious choice. She was a
watcher, that one, always there, always observing the scene
with those owlish eyes of hers. He couldn't remember when
he'd first met her--probably before the chit had been out
of leading strings. She was a fixture, really, somehow
always there, even at times like these, when it ought to
have been only family.
"I'll go," she said.
"No, don't," he replied, because... because why?
Because he felt like making mischief?
Because he'd had too much to drink?
Because he didn't want to be alone?
"Stay," he said, waving his arm expansively. Surely there
had to be somewhere else to sit in here. "Have a drink."
Her eyes widened.
"Didn't think they could get any bigger," he muttered.
"I can't drink," she said.
"Can't you?"
"I shouldn't," she corrected, and he thought he saw her
brows draw together. Good, he'd irritated her. It was good
to know he could still provoke a woman, even one as
unschooled as she.
"You're here," he said with a shrug. "You might as well
have a brandy."
For a moment she held still, and he could swear he could
hear her brain whirring. Finally, she set her little book
on a table near the door and stepped forward. "Just one,"
she said.
He smiled. "Because you know your limit?"
Her eyes met his. "Because I don't know my limit."
"Such wisdom in one so young," he murmured.
"I'm nineteen," she said, not defiantly, just as statement
of fact.
He lifted a brow. "As I said..."
"When you were nineteen..."
He smiled caustically, noticing that she did not finish the
statement. "When I was nineteen," he repeated for her,
handing her a liberal portion of brandy, "I was a fool." He
looked at the glass he'd poured for himself, equal in
volume to Miranda's. He downed it in one long, satisfying
gulp.
The glass landed on the table with a clunk, and Turner
leaned back, letting his head rest in his palms, his elbows
bent out to the sides. "As are all nineteen-year-olds, I
should add," he finished.
He eyed her. She hadn't touched her drink. She hadn't even
yet sat down. "Present company quite possibly excluded," he
amended.
"I thought brandy was meant to go in a snifter," she said.
He watched as she moved carefully to a seat. It wasn't next
to him, but it wasn't quite across from him, either. Her
eyes never left his, and he couldn't help but wonder what
she thought he might do. Pounce?
"Brandy," he announced, as if speaking to an audience that
numbered more than one, "is best served in whatever one has
handy. In this case--" He picked up his tumbler and
regarded it, watching firelight dance along the facets. He
didn't bother to finish his sentence. It didn't seem
necessary, and besides, he was busy pouring himself another
drink.
"Cheers." And down it went.
He looked over at her. She was still just sitting there,
watching him. He couldn't tell if she disapproved; her
expression was far too inscrutable for that. But he wished
that she would say something. Anything would do, really,
even more nonsense about stemware would be enough to nudge
his mind off the fact that it was still half eleven, and he
had thirty more minutes to go before he could declare this
wretched day over.
"So tell me, Miss Miranda, how did you enjoy the service?"
he asked, daring her with his eyes to say something beyond
the usual platitudes.
Surprise registered on her face--the first emotion of the
night he was clearly able to discern. "You mean the
funeral?"
"Only service of the day," he said, with considerable
jauntiness.
"It was, er, interesting."
"Oh, come now, Miss Cheever, you can do better than that."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Leticia used to
do that, he recalled. Back when she still pretended to be
an innocent. It had stopped when his ring had been safely
on her finger.
He poured another drink.
"Don't you think--"
"No," he said forcefully. There wasn't enough brandy in the
world for a night like this.
And then she reached forward, picked up her glass, and took
a sip. "I thought you were splendid."
God damn it. He coughed and spluttered, as if he were the
innocent, taking his first taste of brandy. "I beg your
pardon?"
She smiled placidly. "It might help to take smaller sips."
He glared at her.
"It's rare that someone speaks honestly of the dead," she
said. I'm not certain that that was the most appropriate
venue, but... well... she wasn't a terribly nice person,
was she?"
She looked so serene, so innocent, but her eyes... they
were sharp.
"Why, Miss Cheever," he murmured, "I do believe you've a
bit of a vindictive streak."
She shrugged and took another sip of her drink--a small
one, he noted. "Not at all," she said, although he was
quite certain he did not believe her, "but I am a good
observer."
He chuckled. "Indeed."
She stiffened. "I beg your pardon."
He'd ruffled her. He didn't know why he found this so
satisfying, but he couldn't help but be pleased. And it had
been so long since he'd been pleased about anything. He
leaned forward, just to see if he could make her
squirm. "I've been watching you."
She paled. Even in the firelight he could see it.
"Do you know what I've seen?" he murmured.
Her lips parted, and she shook her head.
"You have been watching me."
She stood, the suddenness of the movement nearly knocking
her chair over. "I should go," she said. "This is highly
irregular, and it's late, and--"
"Oh, come now, Miss Cheever," he said, rising to his
feet. "Don't fret. You watch everyone. Do you think I
hadn't noticed?"
He reached out and took her arm. She froze. But she didn't
turn around.
His fingers tightened. Just a touch. Just enough to keep
her from leaving, because he didn't want her to leave. He
didn't want to be alone. He had twenty more minutes, and he
wanted her to be angry, just as he was angry, just as he'd
been angry for years.
"Tell me, Miss Cheever," he whispered, touching two fingers
to the underside of her chin. "Have you ever been kissed?"
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