The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

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