by Julia Quinn
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.
Chapter 5
“I certainly don’t need another dress,” Miranda said as they strolled down the street, their maids a respectful distance behind them.
“Neither do I, but it’s always great fun to look, and besides, we might find a trinket or such to buy with our pin money. Your birthday will be here before we know it. You should purchase yourself a treat.”
“Perhaps.”
They wandered through dress shops, milliners, jewelers, and sweet shops before Miranda found what she hadn’t even known she’d been looking for.
“Look at that, Olivia,” she breathed. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Isn’t what magnificent?” Olivia replied, peering into the elegantly dressed window of the bookshop.
“That.” Miranda pointed her finger toward an exquisitely bound copy of Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. It looked rich and lovely, and Miranda wanted nothing more than to lean right through the window and inhale the air that wafted around it.
For the first time in her life, she saw something that she simply had to have. Forget economy. Forget practicality. She sighed—a deep, soulful, needy breath, and said, “I think I finally understand what you mean about shoes.”
“Shoes?” Olivia echoed, looking down at her feet. “Shoes?”
Miranda didn’t bother to explain further. She was too busy tilting her head so that she could peer at the gold leaf that edged the pages.
“And we’ve read that already,” Olivia continued. “I believe it was two years ago—when Miss Lacey was hired on as our governess. Don’t you recall? She was all aghast that we hadn’t got to it yet.”
“It’s not about reading it,” Miranda said, pressing even closer to the glass. “Is it not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”
Olivia regarded her friend with a doubtful expression. “Er…no.”
Miranda shook her head slightly and looked up at Olivia. “I suppose that’s what makes something art. What can send one person into raptures may fail to move another even the tiniest bit.”
“Miranda, that’s a book.”
“That book,” Miranda decided firmly, “is a piece of art.”
“It looks rather old.”
“I know.” Miranda sighed happily.
“Are you going to buy it?”
“If I have enough money.”
“I would think you must. You haven’t spent your pin money in years. You always put it in that porcelain vase Turner sent you for your birthday five years ago.”
“Six.”
Olivia blinked. “Six what?”
“It was six years ago.”
“Five years ago, six years ago—what is the difference?” Olivia burst out, looking rather exasperated by Miranda’s exactitude. “The point is, you have quite a bit of money tucked away, and if you truly want that book, you should buy it to celebrate your twentieth birthday. You never buy anything for yourself.”
Miranda turned back to the temptation in the window. The book had been set on a pedestal and opened to a page in the middle. A brightly colored illustration depicted Arthur and Guinevere. “It’s going to be expensive,” she said ruefully.
Olivia gave her a little shove and said, “You’ll never know if you don’t go in and ask.”
“You’re right. I’ll do it!” Miranda flashed her a smile that hovered somewhere between excitement and nervousness and headed into the store. The cozy bookshop was decorated in rich, masculine tones, with overstuffed leather chairs strategically placed for those who might want to sit and leaf through a volume.
“I don’t see the proprietor,” Olivia whispered in Miranda’s ear.
“Right there.” Miranda gestured with her head toward a thin, balding man about the age of their parents. “See, he’s helping that man find a book. I’ll just wait until he is available. I don’t wish to be a bother.”
The two ladies waited patiently for a few minutes while the bookseller was busy. Every so often, he shot them a scowling glance, which quite perplexed Miranda, as both she and Olivia were finely dressed and obviously able to afford most of his merchandise. Finally, he finished up his task and bustled toward them.
“I was wondering, sir—” Miranda began.
“This is a gentlemen’s bookshop,” he said in a hostile voice.
“Oh.” Miranda drew back, rather put off by his attitude. But she desperately wanted the Malory book, so she swallowed her pride, smiled sweetly, and continued. “I apologize. I did not realize. But I was hoping I—”
“I said this is a gentlemen’s shop.” His beady little eyes narrowed. “Kindly depart.”
Kindly? She stared at him, her lips parting with astonishment. Kindly? With that sort of tone?
“Let’s go, Miranda,” Olivia said, taking hold of her sleeve. “We should go.”
Miranda clenched her teeth and did not budge. “I would like to purchase a book.”
“I’m sure you would,” the bookseller said snidely. “And the ladies’ bookshop is only a quarter of a mile away.”
“The ladies’ bookshop doesn’t have what I want.”
He smirked. “Then I’m sure you shouldn’t be reading it.”
“I don’t believe it is your place to make that judgment, sir,” Miranda said coldly.
“Miranda,” Olivia whispered, wide-eyed.
“Just one moment,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the repulsive little man. “Sir, I can assure you that I possess ample funds. And if you would only allow me to inspect Le Morte d’Arthur, I might be persuaded to part with them.”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t sell books to women.”
And really, that was too much. “I beg your pardon.”
“Leave,” he spat, “or I will have you forcibly removed.”
“That would be a mistake, sir,” Miranda countered sharply. “Do you know who we are?” It was not her habit to pull rank, but she was not averse to doing so if the occasion warranted.
The bookseller was unimpressed. “I am certain I do not care.”
“Miranda,” Olivia pleaded, looking acutely uncomfortable.
“I am Miss Miranda Cheever, daughter of Sir Rupert Cheever, and this,” Miranda said with a flourish, “is Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, daughter of the Earl of Rudland. I suggest you reconsider your policy.”
He met her haughty glare with one of his own. “I don’t care if you’re bloody Princess Charlotte. Get out of my shop.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes before she moved to leave. It was bad enough that he’d insulted her. But to impugn the memory of the princess—it was beyond the pale. “You have not heard the end of this, sir.”
“Out!”
She took Olivia’s arm and left the premises in a huff, giving the door a good slam just to be contrary. “Can you believe him?” she said once they were safely outside. “That was appalling. It was criminal. It was—”
“A gentlemen’s bookshop,” Olivia cut in, looking at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a spare head.
“And?”
Olivia stiffened at her nearly belligerent tone. “There are gentlemen’s bookshops, and there are ladies’ bookshops. It’s the way of things.”
Miranda’s fists curled into tight little balls. “It’s a bloody stupid way, if you ask me.”
“Miranda!” Olivia audibly gasped. “What did you just say?”
Miranda had the grace to blush at her foul language. “Do you see how upset he made me? Have you ever known me to curse aloud before?”
“No, and I’m not sure I want to know how much cursing you’re doing in your mind.”
“It’s asinine,” Miranda fumed. “Absolutely asinine. He had something I wanted to buy, and I had the money to pay for it. It should have been a simple matter.”
Olivia glanced down the roa
d. “Why don’t we just go to the ladies’ bookshop?”
“There is nothing I would rather do under normal circumstances. I certainly would prefer not to patronize that dreadful man’s store. But I doubt they will have the same copy of Le Morte d’Arthur, Livvy. I’m certain it’s a singular item. And worse—” Miranda’s voice rose as the injustice of it all sank in more firmly. “And worse—”
“It gets worse?”
Miranda shot her an irritated look but nonetheless replied, “Yes. It does. The worst of it is, even if there were two copies, which I’m quite certain there are not, the ladies’ bookshop probably would not carry one, anyway, because no one would think that a lady would wish for such a book!”
“They wouldn’t?”
“No. It’s probably full of Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels.”
“I like Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels,” Olivia said, sounding vaguely affronted.
“So do I,” Miranda assured her, “but I enjoy other literature as well. And I certainly do not think it is the place of that man”—she jabbed an angry finger toward the bookshop window—“to decide what I may or may not read.”
Olivia stared at her for a moment, then politely asked, “Are you quite done?”
Miranda smoothed her skirts and sniffed. “Quite.”
Olivia’s back was to the bookshop, and she sent a rueful glance over her shoulder before placing a comforting hand on Miranda’s arm. “We’ll get Father to buy it for you. Or Turner.”
“That’s not the point. I cannot believe you’re not as upset about this as I am.”
Olivia sighed. “When did you become such a crusader, Miranda? I thought I was meant to be the unrestrained one of the duo.”
Miranda’s jaw began to ache from clenching. “I suppose,” she nearly growled, “that I have never had anything to get this upset about before.”
Olivia’s head drew back, just a touch. “Remind me to take pains not to upset you in the future.”
“I’m going to get that book.”
