Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

by Julia Quinn

  Olivia opened her mouth to reply—something clever and cunning, to be sure—but just then the butler appeared in the doorway and saved them all. “Your mother requires your company, Lady Olivia.”

  “I shall be back,” Olivia warned as she exited the room. “I am most eager to complete this conversation.” And then, with a devilish smile and a wag of her fingers, she departed.

  Turner stifled a groan—his sister was going to be the death of someone, just hopefully not him—and looked to Miranda. She was curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her, a large, dusty tome in her lap.

  “Heavy reading?” he murmured.

  She held up the book.

  “Oh,” he said, his lips twitching.

  “Don’t laugh,” she warned.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Don’t lie, either,” she said, her mouth assuming that governess expression she seemed to do so well.

  He leaned back with a chuckle. “Now that I cannot promise.”

  For a moment she just sat there, looking equal parts stern and serious, and then her face changed. Nothing dramatic, nothing to raise alarm, but enough so that it was clear that she’d been debating something in her mind. And that she’d reached a decision.

  “What do you think of Winston?” she asked.

  “My brother,” he stated.

  She held out her hand and flicked her wrist, as if to say—Who else?

  “Well,” he said, stalling because, really, what did she expect him to say? “He’s my brother.”

  Her eyes glanced upward sarcastically. “Positively revelatory of you.”

  “What exactly is it you are asking me?”

  “I want to know what you think of him,” she insisted.

  His heart slammed in his chest for no reason he could identify. “Are you asking me,” he inquired carefully, “if I believe that Winston would make a good husband?”

  She gave him that owlish stare of hers, and then she blinked, and—it was the strangest thing—it was almost as if she were clearing her head before she said, in quite the most conversational tone, “It does seem that everyone is trying to make a match of us.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, Olivia.”

  “Hardly the person I’d turn to for romantic advice.”

  “So you don’t think I should set my cap for Winston,” she said, leaning forward.

  Turner blinked. He knew Miranda, and he’d known her for years, which was why he was quite certain that she had not adjusted her position with the intention of showcasing her surprisingly lovely bosom. But rather distractingly, that had been the end result.

  “Turner?” she murmured.

  “He’s too young,” he blurted out.

  “For me?”

  “For anyone. Good God, he’s barely twenty-one.”

  “Actually, he’s still twenty.”

  “Exactly,” he said uncomfortably, wishing very much there was some way to adjust his cravat without looking like a fool. It was starting to feel rather warm, and it was getting difficult to keep his attention focused on something other than Miranda without being obvious about it.

  She sat back. Thank God.

  And she said nothing.

  Until finally he could not help himself. “Do you intend to pursue him, then?”

  “Winston?” She appeared to be pondering it. “I don’t know.”

  He snorted. “If you don’t know, then clearly you should not.”

  She turned and looked him directly in the eye. “Is that what you think? That love should be obvious and clear?”

  “Who said anything about love?” His voice was slightly unkind, which he regretted, but surely she understood that this was an untenable conversation.

  “Hmmm.”

  He had the unpleasant sensation that she’d judged him, and he’d come up lacking. A conclusion that was reinforced when she returned her attention to the book in her lap.

  And he sat there, like an idiot, really, just watching her read her book, trying to devise some sort of cunning remark.

  She looked up, her face irritatingly placid. “Do you have plans for the afternoon?”

  “None,” he bit off, even though he had had every intention of taking his gelding out for a trot.

  “Oh. Winston is expected soon.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “It’s why we were talking about him,” she explained, as if that mattered. “He is coming for my birthday.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She leaned forward again, God help him. “You did remember?” she asked. “We are to have a family supper tomorrow evening.”

  “Of course I remembered,” he muttered, even though he had not.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, “thank you for your thoughts, anyway.”

  “My thoughts,” he echoed. What the devil was she talking about now?

  “About Winston. There is much to consider, and I did wish for your opinion.”

  “Well. Now you have it.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I’m glad. It is because I have such great respect for you.”

  Somehow she was managing to make him feel like he was some kind of ancient relic. “You have great respect for me?” The words slipped distastefully off his tongue.

  “Well, yes. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Frankly, Miranda, most of the time I have no idea what you think,” he snapped.

  “I think about you.”

  His eyes flew to hers.

  “And Winston, of course. And Olivia. As if one could live in the same house with her and not think about her.” She snapped her book shut and stood. “I imagine I should go seek her out. She and your mother are at odds over some frocks Olivia wishes to order, and I promised to aid the cause.”

  He stood and escorted her to the door. “Olivia’s or my mother’s?”

  “Why, your mother’s, of course,” Miranda said with a laugh. “I’m young, but I’m no fool.”

  And with that, she departed.

  10 JUNE 1819

  Odd conversation with Turner this afternoon. It was not my intention to try to make him jealous, although I suppose it could have been interpreted that way, if anyone knew of my feelings for him, which of course they do not.

  It was my intention, however, to inspire certain notions of guilt as pertains to Le Morte d’Arthur. In this, I do not believe I succeeded.

  Later that afternoon, Turner returned from a ride in Hyde Park with his friend Lord Westholme, only to find Olivia loitering in the main hall.

  “Shush,” she said.

  It was enough to pique anyone’s interest, and so Turner immediately went to her side. “Why are we being quiet?” he asked, refusing to whisper.

  She shot him an angry glare. “I’m eavesdropping.”

  Turner could not imagine upon whom, as she was edged up against the stairwell that led down to the kitchens. But then he heard it—a lilt of laughter.

  “Is that Miranda?” he asked.

  Olivia nodded. “Winston just arrived, and they have gone downstairs.”

  “Why?”

  Olivia peered around the corner, then snapped back to face Turner. “Winston was hungry.”

  Turner yanked off his gloves. “And he needs Miranda to feed him?”

  “No, he’s gone down for some of Mrs. Cook’s butter biscuits. I was going to join them, as I hate being left alone, but now that you’re here, I believe I’ll let you keep me company instead.”

  Turner glanced past her down the hall, even though he couldn’t possibly see his brother and Miranda. “I’m rather hungry myself,” he murmured thoughtfully.

  “Abstain,” Olivia ordered. “They need time.”

  “To eat?”

  Her eyes actually rolled up. “To fall in love.”

  There was something rather galling about receiving such a disdainful look from one’s younger sister, but Turner decided that he would take, if not the high road, then at least something middle-ish, and so
he gave her a somewhat arch look and returned with a pithy “And they intend to do this over biscuits and tea in a single afternoon?”

  “It’s a start,” Olivia retorted. “I don’t see you doing anything to further the match.”

  That, Turner thought with unexpected forcefulness, was because any fool could see that it would be a dreadful misalliance. He loved Winston dearly, and held him in as high an esteem as anyone could hold a twenty-year-old boy, but he was clearly the wrong man for Miranda. It was true that he had only come to know her well these past few weeks, but even he could see that she was wise beyond her years. She needed someone who was more mature, older, better able to appreciate her finer points. Someone who could keep a firm hand on her when her temper made one of its rare appearances.

  Winston, he supposed, could be that man…in ten years.

  Turner looked to his sister and said, rather firmly, “I need food.”

  “Turner, don’t!” But Olivia couldn’t stop him. By the time she even tried he was halfway down the hall.

  The Bevelstokes had always run a relatively informal house, at least when they were not entertaining guests, and so none of the servants had been particularly surprised when Winston had poked his head into the kitchen, melted Mrs. Cook with his sweetest, most puppy-dog expression, and then plopped down at a table with Miranda to wait while she whipped up some of her famous butter biscuits. They had just been laid on the table, still steaming and smelling like heaven, when Miranda heard a loud thump behind her.

  She turned, blinking, to see Turner standing at the base of the stairs, looking rakish, sheepish, and utterly adorable, all at once. She sighed. She couldn’t help it.

  “Took the stairs two at a time,” he explained, although she wasn’t quite certain of the significance of it.

  “Turner,” Winston grunted, too busy eating his third biscuit to greet him more eloquently.

  “Olivia said you two were down here,” Turner said. “Good timing on my part. I’m famished.”

  “We’ve a plate of biscuits if you want some,” Miranda said, motioning to a dish on the table.

  Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat down next to her. “Mrs. Cook’s?”

  Winston nodded.

  Turner took three, then turned to Mrs. Cook with the same puppyish expression Winston had adopted earlier. “Oh, very well,” she huffed, clearly adoring the attention, “I’ll make more.”

  Just then Olivia appeared in the doorway, her lips pursed as she glared at her elder brother. “Turner,” she said in an irritated voice. “I told you I wanted to show you the new, er, book I got.”

  Miranda stifled a groan. She’d told Olivia to stop trying to force a match.

  “Turner,” Olivia ground out.

  Miranda decided that if Olivia ever asked her about it, she’d say that she just could not help herself when she looked up, smiled sweetly, and asked, “And what book would that be?”

  Olivia glared long pointy swords at her. “You know the one.”

  “Would it be the one about the Ottoman Empire, the one about fur trappers in Canada, or the one about the philosophy of Adam Smith?”

  “The Smith fellow,” Olivia bit out.

  “Really?” Winston asked, turning to his twin with renewed interest. “I had no idea you enjoyed that sort of thing. We’ve been reading Wealth of Nations this year. It’s quite an interesting mixture of philosophy and economics.”

  Olivia smiled tightly. “I’m certain it is. I’ll be sure to give you my opinion once I finish reading it.”

  “How far along are you?” Turner asked.

  “Just a few pages.”

  Or at least that was what Miranda thought she heard. It was difficult to tell over the grinding of Olivia’s teeth.

  “D’you want a biscuit, Olivia?” Turner asked, and then he flashed Miranda a grin, as if to say, We’re in this together.

  He looked boyish. He looked young. He looked…happy.

  And Miranda melted.

  Olivia crossed the room to sit next to Winston, but on the way she leaned down and hissed in Miranda’s ear, “I was trying to help you.”

  Miranda, however, was still recovering from Turner’s smile. Her stomach felt as if it had just dropped to her feet, her head was dizzy, and her heart felt like it was thumping out an entire symphony. Either she was in love or she had contracted influenza. She stole a peek at Turner’s chiseled profile and sighed.

  All signs pointed to love.

  “Miranda. Miranda!”

  She looked up at Olivia, who was impatiently calling her name.

  “Winston wants to know my opinion on Wealth of Nations when I finish reading it. I told him you would be reading it along with me. I’m sure we can purchase another copy.”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course, I love to read.” It was only when she saw Olivia’s smirk that Miranda realized just what she’d agreed to.

  “Now, Miranda,” Winston said, leaning across the table and patting her hand with his. “You must tell me how you have been enjoying the season.”

  “Those biscuits are delicious,” Turner declared loudly, reaching for one. “Excuse me, Winston, could you move your arm?”

  Winston retrieved his hand, and Turner took a biscuit and popped it into his mouth. He smiled broadly. “Wonderful as always, Mrs. Cook!”

  “I’ll have another plate for you in just a few minutes,” she assured him, beaming at the praise.

  Miranda waited through the exchange and then said to Winston, “It has been quite lovely. I only wish you were here more often to enjoy it with us.”

  Winston turned to her with a lazy smile that ought to have made her heart skip. “As do I,” he said, “but I’ll be down for part of the summer.”

  “You won’t have much time for the ladies, I’m afraid,” Turner put in helpfully. “If I recall, my summer holidays were spent carousing with my friends. Great fun. You won’t wish to miss it.”

  Miranda looked at him oddly. He sounded almost too jolly.

  “I’m sure it was,” Winston replied. “But I’d like to attend some of the ton events, too.”

  “Good idea,” Olivia said. “You’ll want to acquire some town polish.”

  Winston turned to her. “I have sufficient polish, thank you very much.”

  “Of course you do, but there is nothing like actual experience to, er, polish a man.”

  Winston flushed. “I have experience, Olivia.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened.

  Turner stood in one smooth movement. “I do believe this conversation is rapidly deteriorating to a level that is not fit for gentle ears.”

  Winston looked as if he might like to say something more, but luckily for the cause of familial peace, Olivia clapped her hands together with a cheerful “Well said!”

  But Miranda should have known better than to trust her—at least when matchmaking was on the table. And sure enough, she soon found herself on the receiving end of Olivia’s most devious smile.

  “Miranda,” she said, rather too prettily.

  “Er, yes?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to take Winston to that glove shop we noticed last week? They’ve the most amazingly well-made gloves,” Olivia continued, directing this to Winston. “For both men and women. We thought you might need a pair. Weren’t sure what sort of quality was available up at Oxford, you know.”

  It was quite the most obvious speech, and Miranda was sure Olivia knew it. She stole a glance at Turner, who was watching the proceedings with an air of amusement. Or maybe it was disgust. Sometimes it was difficult to discern.

  “What do you say, dear brother?” Olivia said in her most charming voice. “Shall we go?”

  “I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to say something, then saw the futility and shut it. She was going to kill Olivia. She was going to sneak into her bedroom and skin the meddling girl alive. But for now, her only choice was to agree. She did not wish to d
o anything that might lead Winston to believe she had romantic feelings for him, but it would be the height of insensitivity to attempt to wiggle out of the outing right in front of him.

  And so, when she realized that three pairs of eyes were focused expectantly on her, there was nothing to do but say, “We could go today. It would be lovely.”

  “I’ll join you,” Turner announced, rising rather decisively to his feet.

  Miranda turned to him with surprise, as did both Olivia and Winston. He had never shown interest in accompanying them on any of their outings back in Ambleside, and in truth, why should he have done? He was nine years their senior.

  “I need a pair of gloves,” he said simply, his lip curling slightly as if to say—Why else would I come along?

  “Of course,” Winston said, still blinking at the unexpected attention from his older brother.

  “Good of you to suggest it,” Turner said briskly. “Thank you, Olivia.”

  She did not look as if she were very welcome.

  “It will be lovely to have you along,” Miranda said, perhaps a touch more enthusiastically than she’d intended. “You don’t mind, do you, Winston?”

  “No, of course not.” But he looked as if he did. At least a little bit.

  “Are you almost done with your milk and biscuits, Winston?” Turner asked. “We ought to be on our way. It looks like it might cloud over in the afternoon.”

  Winston perversely reached for another biscuit, the largest one on the table. “We can take a closed carriage.”

  “I’m going to fetch my coat,” Miranda said, standing up. “The two of you can decide on carriages and such. Shall we meet in the rose salon? In twenty minutes?”

  “I’ll escort you upstairs,” Winston said quickly. “I need to retrieve something from my traveling case.”

  The pair left the kitchen, and Olivia immediately turned on Turner with an expression that was positively feline. “What is wrong with you?”

  He regarded her blandly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have been working with every breath in my body to make a match of those two, and you are ruining it all.”

  “Do try not to be such a thespian,” he said with a brief shake of his head. “I am merely purchasing gloves. It won’t stop a wedding, if indeed one is imminent.”