The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

Chapter 4

Turner had planned to spend the spring and summer in Northumberland, where he could decline to mourn his wife with some degree of privacy, but his mother had employed an astonishing number of tactics- the most lethal being guilt, of course- to force his hand and compel him to come down to London in support of Olivia.

He had not given in when she had pointed out that he was a leader in society and thus his presence at Olivia's ball would ensure attendance by all the best young gentlemen.

He had not given in when she had said that he shouldn't molder away in the country, and it would do him good to be out and about among friends.

He had, however, given in when she had appeared on his doorstep and said, without even the benefit of a salutation, "She's your sister."

And so here he was, at Rudland House in London, surrounded by five hundred of, if not the country's finest, at least its most pompous.

Still, Olivia was going to have to find a husband from among this lot, Miranda, too, and Turner was bloody well not going to allow either one of them to make a match as disastrous as his own had been. London was teeming with male equivalents to Leticia, most of whom began their names with Lord This or Sir That. And Turner quite doubted that his mother would be privy to the more salacious of the gossip that ran through their circles.

Still, it didn't mean that he would be required to make too many appearances. He was here, at their debut ball, and he'd squire them about now and then, perhaps if there was something at the theater he actually cared to see, and beyond that, he'd monitor their progress from behind the scenes. By the end of summer, he'd be done with all this nonsense, and he could go back to-

Well, he could go back to whatever it was he'd been thinking about planning to do. Study crop rotation, perhaps. Take up archery. Visit the local public house. He rather liked their ale. And no one ever asked questions about the recently departed Lady Turner.

"Darling, you're here!" His mother suddenly filled his vision, lovely in her purple gown.

"I told you I would make it in time," he replied, finishing off the glass of champagne he'd been holding in his hand. "Weren't you alerted to my arrival?"

"No," she replied, somewhat distractedly. "I have been running about like a madwoman with all the last-moment details. I'm sure the servants did not wish to bother me."

"Or they could not find you," Turner remarked, idly scanning the crowd. It was a mad crush- a success by any measure. He did not see either of the guests of honor, but then again, he'd been quite content to remain in the shadows for the twenty minutes or so he'd been present.

"I have secured permission for both girls to waltz," Lady Rudland said, "so please do your duty by both of them."

"A direct order," he murmured.

"Especially Miranda," she added, apparently not having heard his comment.

"What do you mean, especially Miranda?"

His mother turned to him with no-nonsense eyes. "Miranda is a remarkable girl, and I love her dearly, but we both know that she is not the sort that society normally favors."

Turner gave her a sharp look. "We both also know that society is rarely an excellent judge of character. Leticia, if you recall, was a grand success."

"And so is Olivia, if this evening is any indication," his mother shot back tartly. "Society is capricious and rewards the bad as often as the good. But it never rewards the quiet."

It was at that moment that Turner caught sight of Miranda, standing near Olivia by the door to the hall.

Near Olivia, but worlds apart.

It wasn't that Miranda was being ignored, because she surely was not. She was smiling at a young gentleman who appeared to be asking her to dance. But she had nothing like the crowd surrounding Olivia, who, Turner had to admit, shone like a radiant jewel placed in its proper setting. Olivia's eyes sparkled, and when she laughed, music seemed to fill the air.

There was something captivating about his sister. Even Turner had to admit it.

But Miranda was different. She watched. She smiled, but it was almost as if she had a secret, as if she were jotting notes in her mind about the people she met.

"Go dance with her," his mother urged.

"Miranda?" he asked, surprised. He would have thought she'd wish him to bestow his first dance with Olivia.

Lady Rudland nodded. "It will be a huge coup for her. You have not danced since…since I cannot even recall. Long before Leticia died."

Turner felt his jaw tighten, and he would have said something, except his mother suddenly gasped, which was not half as surprising as what followed, which, he was quite certain, was the first incidence of blasphemy ever to cross her lips.

"Mother?" he queried.

"Where is your armband?" she whispered urgently.

"My armband," he said, with some irony.

"For Leticia," she added, as if he did not know that.

"I believe I told you that I have chosen not to mourn her."

"But this is London," she hissed. "And your sister's debut."

He shrugged. "My coat is black."

"Your coats are always black."

"Perhaps I am in perpetual mourning then," he said mildly, "for innocence lost."

"You will create a scandal," she fairly hissed.

"No," he said pointedly, "Leticia created scandals. I am simply refusing to mourn my scandalous wife."

"Do you wish to ruin your sister?"

"My actions will not reflect half so badly upon her as my dear departed's would have done."

"That is neither here nor there, Turner. The fact of the matter is your wife died, and- "

"I saw the body," he retorted, effectively halting her arguments.

Lady Rudland drew back. "There is no need to be vulgar about it."

Turner's head began to pound. "I apologize for that, then."

"I wish you would reconsider."

"I would prefer that I did not cause you distress," he said with a bit of a sigh, "but I will not change my mind. You may have me here in London without an armband, or you may have me in Northumberland…also without an armband," he finished after a pause. "It is your decision."

His mother's jaw clenched, and she did not say anything, so he simply shrugged and said, "I shall find Miranda, then."

And he did.

Miranda had been in town for two weeks, and while she was not sure she could term herself a success, she did not think she qualified as a failure, either. She was right where she'd expected herself to be- somewhere in the middle, with a dance card that was always half full and a journal that was overflowing with observations of the inane, insane, and occasionally in pain. (That would be Lord Chisselworth, who tripped on a step at the Mottram ball and sprained his ankle. Of the inane and insane, there were too many to count.)

All in all, she thought herself rather accomplished for one with her particular set of God-given talents and attributes. In her diary, she wrote-

Am meant to be honing my social skills, but as Olivia pointed out, idle chatter has never been my forte. But I have perfected my gentle, vacant smile, and it seems to be doing the trick. Had three requests for my company at supper!

It helped, of course, that her position as Olivia's closest friend was well known. Olivia had taken the ton by storm- as they all had known she would- and Miranda benefited by association. There were the gentlemen who reached Olivia's side too late to secure a dance, and there were those who were simply too terrified to speak with her. (At such times, Miranda always seemed like a more comfortable choice.)

But even with all the overflow attention, Miranda was still standing alone when she heard an achingly familiar voice-

"Never say I have caught you without company, Miss Cheever."

Turner.

She could not help but smile. He was devastatingly handsome in his dark evening clothes, and the candlelight flickered gold against his hair. "You came," she said simply.

"Didn't you think I would?"

Lady Rudland had said he was planning on it, but Miranda hadn't been so sure. He had made it abundantly clear that he wanted no part of society that year. Or possibly any year. It was hard to say just yet.

"I understand she had to blackmail you into attendance," she said, as they assumed side-by-side positions, both gazing idly out at the crowd.

He feigned affront. "Blackmail? What an ugly word. And incorrect in this instance."

"Oh?"

He leaned toward her ever so slightly. "It was guilt."

"Guilt?" Her lips twitched, and she turned to him with mischievous eyes. "What did you do?"

"It's what I didn't do. Or rather, what I wasn't doing." He gave a careless shrug. "I'm told that you and Olivia will be successes if I offer my support."

"I expect Olivia would be a success if she were penniless and born on the wrong side of the blanket."

"I have no worries for you, either," Turner said, smiling down at her in a somewhat annoyingly benevolent manner. Then he scowled. "And what would my mother blackmail me with, pray tell?"

Miranda smiled to herself. She liked it when he was disconcerted. He always seemed so in control of himself to her, whereas her heart always managed to thump in triplicate whenever she saw him. Luckily the years had made her comfortable with him. If she hadn't known him for so long, she doubted she would be able to manage a conversation in his presence. Besides, he would surely suspect something if she were tongue-tied each time they met.

"Oh, I don't know," she pretended to ponder. "Stories of when you were small and such."

"Hush your mouth. I was a perfect angel."

She raised her brows dubiously. "You must think I'm very gullible."

"No, just too polite to contradict me."

Miranda rolled her eyes and turned back to the crowd. Olivia was holding court across the room, surrounded by her usual bevy of gentlemen.

"Livvy's a natural at this, isn't she?" she said.

Turner nodded his assent. "Where are all of your admirers, Miss Cheever? I find it difficult to believe you haven't any."

She blushed at his compliment. "One or two, I suppose. I tend to blend into the woodwork when Olivia is near."

He shot her a disbelieving look. "Let me see your dance card."

Reluctantly, she handed it over to him. He gave it a quick examination, then returned it. "I was right," he said. "It is very nearly filled."

"Most of them found their way to me only because I was standing next to Olivia."

"Don't be silly. And it's nothing to get upset about."

"Oh, but I'm not," she replied, surprised that he should think so. "Why? Do I look upset?"

He drew back and surveyed her. "No. No, you don't. How odd."

"Odd?"

"I have never known a lady who did not wish for a gaggle of eligible young men surrounding her at a ball."

Miranda bristled at the condescension in his voice and was not quite able to keep the insolence out of hers, as she said, "Well, now you do."

But he just chuckled. "And how, dear girl, are you going to find a husband with that attitude? Oh, don't look at me as if I am being patronizing- "

Which only made her teeth grind harder.

"- you yourself told me that you wish to find a husband this season."

He was right, drat the man. Which left her with no option other than to say, "Don't call me 'dear girl,' if you please."

He grinned. "Why, Miss Cheever, do I detect a bit of temper in you?"

"I've always had a temper," she bit off.

"Apparently so." He was still smiling as he said it, which was all the more irritating.

"I thought you were meant to be moody and brooding," she grumbled.

He gave her a lopsided shrug. "You seem to bring out the best in me."

Miranda gave him a pointed look. Had he forgotten the night of Leticia's funeral? "The best?" she nearly drawled. "Really?"

He had the grace to look sheepish, at least. "Or occasionally the worst. But tonight, only the best." At her lifted brows, he added, "I am here to do my duty by you."

Duty. Such a solid, boring word.

"Hand me back your dance card, if you will."

She held it out. It was a festive little thing, with curlicues and a small pencil ribbon-tied to the corner. Turner's eyes grazed over it, and then narrowed. "Why have you left all of your waltzes free, Miranda? My mother told me quite specifically that she had secured permission for both you and Olivia to waltz."

"Oh, it's not that." She clenched her teeth for a split second, trying to control the flush that she knew was going to start creeping up her neck any second now. "It's just that, well, if you must know- "

"Out with it, Miss Cheever."

"Why do you always call me Miss Cheever when you're mocking me?"

"Nonsense. I also call you Miss Cheever when I'm scolding you."

Oh, well, that was an improvement.

"Miranda?"

"It is nothing," she muttered.

But he would not let it go. "It is quite obviously some- thing, Miranda. You- "

"Oh, very well, if you must know, I was hoping you would waltz with me."

He drew back, his eyes betraying his surprise.

"Or Winston," she said quickly, because there was safety- or at least fewer chances of embarrassment- in numbers.

"We are interchangeable, then?" Turner murmured.

"No, of course not. But I am not skilled at the waltz, and I would feel more comfortable if my first time in public is with someone I know," she hastily improvised.

"Someone who wouldn't take mortal offense if you trod on his toes?"

"Something like that," she mumbled. How had she got herself into this bind? He would either know she was in love with him or think her a silly twit scared to dance in public.

But Turner, bless his heart, was already saying, "I would be honored to dance a waltz with you." He took the little pencil and signed his name to her dance card. "There. You are now promised to me for the first waltz."

"Thank you. I shall look forward to it."

"Good. So do I. Shall I put myself down for another? I can't think of anyone else here with whom I'd rather to be forced into conversation for the four or so minutes of the waltz."

"I had no idea I was such a chore," Miranda said, grimacing.

"Oh, you're not," he assured her. "But everyone else is. Here you are, I'm putting myself down for the last waltz, too. You'll have to fend for yourself for the rest of them. It wouldn't do to dance with you more than twice."

Heavens no, Miranda thought acerbically. Someone might think he hadn't been browbeaten into dancing with her. But she knew what was expected of her, so she smiled tightly and said, "No, of course not."

"Very well, then," Turner said, with the tone of finality men liked to use when they were ready to end a conversation, regardless of whether anyone else was. "I see young Hardy over there is coming this way to claim the next dance. I'm going to get something to drink. I shall see you at the first waltz."

And then he left her standing in the corner, murmuring his greetings to Mr. Hardy as he departed. Miranda bobbed a dutiful curtsy at her dance partner and then took his gloved hand and followed him onto the dance floor for a quadrille. She was not surprised when, after commenting on her gown and the weather, he asked after Olivia.

Miranda answered his questions as politely as she was able, trying not to encourage him overmuch. Judging from the crowd around her friend, Mr. Hardy's chances were slim indeed.

The dance was over with merciful speed, and Miranda quickly made her way over to Olivia.

"Oh, Miranda, dear," she exclaimed. "Where have you been? I've been telling everyone about you."

"You have not," Miranda said, raising her brows disbelievingly.

"Indeed I have. Haven't I?" Olivia poked a gentleman in the side, and he immediately nodded. "Would I lie to you?"

Miranda bit back a smile. "If it suited your purposes."

"Oh, stop. You're terrible. And where have you been?"

"I needed a breath of fresh air, so I escaped to a corner and had a glass of lemonade. Turner kept me company."

"Oh, has he arrived, then? I shall have to save a dance for him."

Miranda was doubtful. "I don't think you have any left to save."

"That cannot be so." Olivia looked down at her dance card. "Oh, dear. I shall have to cross one of these off."

"Olivia, you can't do that."

"Why ever not? Listen, Miranda, I must tell you- " She broke off suddenly, remembering the presence of her many admirers. She turned, smiling radiantly at them all.

Miranda would not have been surprised if they had dropped to the floor, one by one, like proverbial flies.

"Would any of you gentlemen mind fetching some lemonade?" Olivia asked sweetly. "I'm utterly parched."

There was a rush of assurances, followed by a flurry of movement, and Miranda could only stare in awe as she watched them scuttle off in a pack. "They're like sheep," she whispered.

"Well, yes," Olivia agreed, "except for the ones who are more like goats."

Miranda had about two seconds to attempt to decipher that before Olivia added, "Brilliant of me, wasn't it, to be rid of all of them at once. I tell you, I'm getting quite good at all this."

Miranda nodded, not bothering to speak. Really, there was no use in forming a proper comeback, because when Olivia was telling a story-

"What I was going to say," Olivia continued, unknowingly confirming Miranda's hypothesis, "is that really, most of them are dreadful bores."

Miranda could not resist giving her friend a little jab. "One would certainly never be able to tell that from watching you in action."

"Oh, I'm not saying I'm not enjoying myself." Olivia gave her a vaguely sardonic look. "I mean, really, I'm not going to cut off my nose to spite my mother."

"To spite your mother," Miranda repeated, trying to recall the origin of the original proverb. "Somewhere someone is surely rolling in his grave."

Olivia cocked her head. "Shakespeare, do you think?"

"No." Blast, now she wasn't going to be able to stop thinking about it. "It wasn't Shakespeare."

"Machiavelli?"

Miranda mentally ran down her list of famous writers. "I don't think so."

"Turner?"

"Who?"

"My brother."

Miranda's head snapped up. "Turner?"

Olivia leaned a bit to the side, stretching her neck as she peered past Miranda. "He looks quite purposeful."

Miranda looked down at her dance card. "It must be time for our waltz."

Olivia tilted her head to the side in a ponderous sort of motion. "He looks handsome as well, doesn't he?"

Miranda blinked and tried not to sigh. Turner did look handsome. Almost unbearably so. And now that he was a widower, surely every unmarried lady- and all their mamas- would be after him like a shot.

"Do you think he'll marry again?" Olivia murmured.

"I- I don't know." Miranda swallowed. "I would think he'd have to, wouldn't you?"

"Well, there is always Winston to provide an heir. And if you- euf!"

Miranda's elbow. In her ribs.

Turner arrived at their sides and bowed smartly.

"Lovely to see you, brother," Olivia said with a wide smile. "I'd almost given up on your attendance."

"Nonsense. Mother would have had me filleted." His eyes narrowed (almost imperceptibly, but then again, Miranda tended to notice everything about him), and he asked, "Why'd Miranda jab you in the ribs?"

"I didn't!" Miranda protested. And then, when his stare turned quite dubious, she mumbled, "It was more of a tap."

"Jab, tap, it has all the hallmarks of a conversation that's a damned sight more entertaining than any of the rest in this ballroom."

"Turner!" Olivia protested.

Turner dismissed her with a flick of his head and turned to Miranda. "Do you think she objects to my language or my judgment of the attendees of your ball as idiots?"

"I think it was your language," Miranda said mildly. "She said most of them were idiots, too."

"That is not at all what I said," Olivia put in. "I said they were bores."

"Sheep," Miranda confirmed.

"Goats," Olivia added with a shrug.

Turner began to look alarmed. "Good God, do the two of you speak your own language?"

"No, we are being perfectly clear," Olivia said, "but tell me, do you know who first said, 'Do not cut off your nose to spite your face'?"

"I'm not certain I see the connection," Turner murmured.

"It's not Shakespeare," Miranda said.

Olivia shook her head. "Who else would it be?"

"Well," Miranda said, "any one of thousands of notable writers of the English language."

"Was this why you, er, tapped her in the ribs?" Turner inquired.

"Yes," Miranda replied, seizing the opportunity. Unfortunately, Olivia beat her by one half second with "No."

Turner looked from one to the other with an amused expression.

"It was about Winston," Olivia said impatiently.

"Ah, Winston." Turner looked about. "He's here, is he not?" Then he plucked Miranda's dance card from her fingers. "Why has he not claimed a dance or three? Aren't the two of you planning to make a match of it?"

Miranda gritted her teeth together and declined to answer. Which was a perfectly reasonable choice, as she knew that Olivia would not allow the opportunity to pass her by.

"Of course there is nothing official," she was saying, "but everyone agrees that it would be a splendid match."

"Everyone?" Turner asked softly, looking at Miranda.

"Who wouldn't?" Olivia replied with an impatient face.

The orchestra picked up their instruments, and the first strains of a waltz floated through the air.

"I believe this is my dance," Turner said, and Miranda realized that his eyes had not left hers.

She trembled.

"Shall we?" he murmured, and he held out his arm.

She nodded, needing a moment to regain her voice. He did things to her, she realized. Strange, shivery things that left her breathless. He need only to look at her- not in his usual, conversational way, but to really look at her, to let his eyes settle on hers, deeply blue and insightful, and she felt naked, her soul bared. And the worst of it all was- he had no idea. There she was, with her every emotion exposed, and Turner most probably saw nothing but the dull brown of her eyes.

She was his little sister's little friend, and in all likelihood, that was all she ever would be.

"You are leaving me here all alone, then?" Olivia said, not petulantly, but with a little sigh nonetheless.

"Have no fear," Miranda assured her, "you shan't be alone for long. I think I see your flock returning with lemonade."

Olivia made a face. "Have you ever noticed, Turner, that Miranda has quite the driest sense of humor?"

Miranda tilted her head to the side and suppressed a smile. "Why do I suspect that your tone was not precisely complimentary?"

Olivia gave her a dismissive little wave. "Off with you. Have a nice dance with Turner."

Turner took Miranda's elbow and led her out onto the dance floor. "You do have a rather odd sense of humor, you know," he murmured.

"Do I?"

"Yes, but it's what I like best about you, so please don't change."

She tried not to feel absurdly pleased. "I shall contrive not to, my lord."

He winced as he put his arms around her for the waltz. "'My lord,' is it now? Since when have you grown so proper?"

"It's all this time in London. Your mother has been beating etiquette into me." She smiled sweetly. "Nigel."

He scowled. "I believe I prefer 'my lord.'"

"I prefer Turner."

His hand tightened at her waist. "Good. Keep it that way."

Miranda let out a little sigh as they lapsed into silence. As waltzes went, this one was fairly sedate. There were no breathless whirls, nothing that would leave her dizzy and spinning. And it gave her every opportunity to savor the moment, to relish the feel of her hand in his. She breathed in the scent of him, felt the heat from his body, and simply enjoyed.

It all felt so perfect…so perfectly right. It was almost impossible to imagine that he did not feel it, too.

But he didn't. She did not delude herself that she could wish his desire into being. When she looked up at him, he was glancing out at someone in the crowd, his gaze just a little bit clouded, as if he were working through a problem in his mind. It was not the look of a man in love. And neither was what followed, when he finally peered down at her and said, "You're not bad at the waltz, Miranda. In fact, you're really quite accomplished. I don't see why you were so nervous about it."

His expression was kind. Brotherly.

It was heartbreaking.

"I haven't had much practice recently," she improvised, since he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Even with Winston?"

"Winston?" she echoed.

His eyes grew amused. "My younger brother, if you recall."

"Right," she said. "No. I mean, no, I haven't danced with Winston in years."

"Really?"

She looked up at him quickly. There was something odd in his voice, almost- but not quite- a faint note of pleasure. Not jealousy, unfortunately- she didn't think he would care one way or another if she danced with his brother. But she had the strangest sensation that he was congratulating himself, as if he had predicted her answer correctly and was pleased by his astuteness.

Good heavens, she was thinking far too much. She was overthinking- Olivia was forever accusing her of it, and for once, Miranda had to concede that she was right.

"I don't often see Winston," Miranda said, hoping that a conversation would stop her from obsessing about completely unanswerable questions- such as the true meaning of the word really.

"Oh?" Turner prompted, adding a touch of pressure to the small of her back as they turned to the right.

"He's usually at university. Even now he's not quite done with his term."

"I expect you shall see a great deal more of him over the summer."

"I expect so." She cleared her throat. "Er, how long do you plan to stay?"

"In London?"

She nodded.

He paused, and they did a lovely little whirl to the left before he finally said, "I'm not certain. Not long, I think."

"I see."

"I'm supposed to be in mourning, anyway. Mother was aghast that I left off the armband."

"I'm not," she declared.

He smiled down at her, and this time it wasn't brotherly. It wasn't full of passion and desire, but at least it was something new. It was sly and conspiring and it made her feel a part of a team. "Why, Miss Cheever," he murmured mischievously, "do I detect a hint of the rebel in you?"

Her chin rose a full inch. "I have never understood the necessity of donning black for someone with whom one is not acquainted, and I certainly don't see the logic in mourning a person one finds detestable."

For a moment his face remained blank, and then he grinned. "Who were you forced to mourn?"

Her lips slid into a smile. "A cousin."

He leaned in a hair closer. "Has anyone ever told you it's unseemly to smile when discussing the death of a relation?"

"I'd never even met the man."

"Still…"

Miranda let out a ladylike snort. She knew that he was goading her, but she was having far too much fun to stop. "He lived his entire life in the Caribbean," she added. It wasn't strictly true, but it was mostly true.

"Bloodthirsty little wench, you are," he murmured.

She shrugged. Coming from Turner, it seemed a compliment.

"I do believe you shall be a welcome member of the family," he said. "Provided you can tolerate my younger brother for lengthy periods of time."

Miranda tried for a sincere smile. Marrying Winston was not her preferred method of becoming a member of the Bevelstoke family. And despite Olivia's urgings and machinations, Miranda did not think a match was forthcoming.

There were many excellent reasons to consider marrying Winston, but there was one compelling reason not to, and he was standing right in front of her.

If Miranda was going to marry someone she did not love, it was not going to be the brother of the man she did.

Or thought she did. She kept trying to convince herself that she didn't, that it had all been a schoolgirl crush, and that she would outgrow it- that she already had outgrown it, and just didn't realize it yet.

She was in the habit of thinking herself in love with him. That's all it was.

But then he would do something utterly loathsome, like smile, and all her hard work flew out the window, and she had to start anew.

One day it would stick. One day she would wake up and realize it had been two days of sensible Turnerless thought, and then it would be magically three and then four and-

"Miranda?"

She looked up. He was watching her with an expression of amusement, and it would have been patronizing except his eyes were crinkling at the corners…and for a moment he looked unburdened, and young, and maybe even content.

And she was still in love with him. At least for the rest of the evening, there would be no convincing herself otherwise. Come morning, she'd start again, but for tonight, she wasn't going to bother to try.

The music ended, and Turner let go of her hand, stepping back to execute an elegant bow. Miranda curtsied in turn, and then took his arm as he led her to the perimeter of the room.

"Where do you suppose we might find Olivia?" he murmured, craning his neck. "I suppose I'll have to boot one of the gentlemen off her card and dance with her."

"Goodness, don't make it sound such a chore," Miranda returned. "We're not so very dreadful."

He turned and looked at her with a touch of surprise. "I didn't say anything about you. Don't mind dancing with you in the least."

As compliments went, it was lukewarm at best, but Miranda still found a way to hold it next to her heart.

And that, she thought miserably, had to be proof that she'd sunk quite as low as she could go. Unrequited love, she was discovering, was much worse when one actually saw the object of one's desire. She'd spent nearly ten years daydreaming about Turner, waiting patiently for whatever news the Bevelstokes happened to drop at afternoon tea, and then trying to hide her bliss and joy (not to mention her terror at being found out) when he happened to visit once or twice per year.

She'd thought that nothing could be more pathetic, but as it happened, she was wrong. This was definitely worse. Before, she'd been a nonentity. Now she was a comfortable old shoe.

Gad.

She stole a glance at him. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't not looking at her, and he certainly wasn't avoiding looking at her. He simply wasn't looking at her.

She perturbed him not at all.

"There's Olivia," she said, sighing. Her friend was surrounded, as usual, by a ridiculously large assortment of gentlemen.

Turner regarded his sister with narrowed eyes. "It doesn't look as if any of them are misbehaving, does it? It's been a long day, and I'd rather not have to play the ferocious older brother tonight."

Miranda rose onto her toes for a closer look. "I think you're safe."

"Good." And then he realized that his head was tilted to the side, and he was watching his sister with a strangely detached eye. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm?"

He turned back to Miranda, who was still at his side, watching him with those ever curious brown eyes.

"Turner?" he heard her say, and he replied with another "Hmmm?"

"You look a bit queer."

No Are you quite all right? or Are you unwell? Just You look a bit queer.

It made him smile. It made him think how much he actually liked this girl, and how much he'd wronged her the day of Leticia's funeral. And it made him want to do something nice for her. He looked at his sister one last time, and then said, as he slowly turned back around, "If I were a young buck, which mind you I'm not…"

"Turner, you're not even thirty."

Her expression turned impatient- in a somewhat governessy way that he found oddly entertaining, and he gave her a lazy, one-shouldered shrug as he answered, "Yes, well, I feel older. Ancient these days, to tell the truth." Then he realized that she was staring at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat and said, "I was merely trying to say that if I were nosing around the crop of new debutantes, I don't believe Olivia would catch my eye."

Miranda's brows rose. "Well, she is your sister. Aside from the illegalities- "

Oh, for the love of- "I was attempting to compliment you," he interrupted.

"Oh." She cleared her throat. Blushed a little, although it was difficult to be sure in the dim light. "Well, in that case, please do go right ahead."

"Olivia is quite beautiful," he continued. "Even I, her older brother, can see that. But there is something lacking behind her eyes."

Which elicited an immediate gasp. "Turner, that is a terrible thing to say. You know as well as I do that Olivia is very intelligent. Far more so than most of the men who are swarming around her."

He watched her indulgently. She was such a loyal little thing. He had no doubt she'd take a bullet for Olivia if the need ever arose. It was a good thing she was here. Aside from whatever calming tendencies she had on his sister- and he rather suspected the entire Bevelstoke family owed her an enormous debt of gratitude for that- Miranda was, he was fairly certain, the only thing that was going to make his time in London bearable. God knew he hadn't wanted to come. The last thing he needed just then were women angling for position, attempting to fill Leticia's miserable little shoes. But with Miranda about, at least he was assured of some decent conversation.

"Of course Olivia is intelligent," he said in a placating voice. "Allow me to restate myself. I personally would not find her intriguing."

She pursed her lips, and the governess was back. "Well, that's your prerogative, I suppose."

He smiled and leaned in, just a hint. "I think I'd be far more likely to make my way to your side."

"Don't be silly," she mumbled.

"I'm not," he assured her. "But then again, I am older than most of those fools with my sister. Perhaps my tastes have mellowed. But the point is moot, I suppose, because I'm not a young buck, and I'm not nosing around this year's crop of debutantes."

"And you're not looking for a wife." It was a statement, not a question.

"God, no," he blurted out. "What on earth would I do with a wife?"

2 June 1819

Lady Rudland announced at breakfast that last night's ball was a smashing success. I could not help but smile over her choice of words- I do not think anyone refused her invitation, and I vow the room was as crowded as any I have ever experienced. I certainly felt smashed up against all sorts of perfect strangers. I do believe I must be a country girl at heart because I am not so certain that I wish to ever again be quite so intimate with my fellow man.

I said so at breakfast, and Turner spit his coffee. Lady Rudland sent him a murderous glare, but I cannot imagine she is that enamored of her table linens.

Turner intends to remain in town for only a week or two, he is staying with us at Rudland House, which is lovely and terrible, all at once.

Lady Rudland reported that some crotchety old dowager (her words, not mine, and she would not reveal her identity in any case) said that I was acting Too Familiar with Turner and that people might get the Wrong Idea.

She said that she told the c.o.d. (cod! how apt!) that Turner and I are practically brother and sister, and that it is only natural that I would rely upon him at my debut ball, and that there are no Wrong Ideas to be had.

I am wondering if there is ever a Right Idea in London.