The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

'This isn't about Miranda, is it? It is about Winston. You don't think she is good enough for him.'

'No,' he retorted, instantly and in a strange, almost indignant voice. 'No,' he said again, this time measuring the word more carefully. 'Nothing could be further from the truth. They are too young to marry. Winston especially.'

Olivia immediately took umbrage. 'That is not true, we are- '

'He is too young,' he cut in coldly, 'and you need look no further than this room to see why a man should not wed too young.'

She did not understand right away. Turner saw the exact moment that she did, saw the comprehension, and then the pity.

And he hated the pity.

'I'm sorry,' Olivia blurted out- the two words guaranteed to set him even more on edge. And then she said it again. 'I'm sorry.'

And ran off.

* * *

Miranda had been waiting in the rose salon for several minutes when a maid arrived in the doorway and said, 'Beg pardon, miss, but Lady Olivia has asked me to tell you that she will not be down.'

Miranda set down the figurine she'd been examining and looked to the maid with surprise. 'Is she unwell?'

The maid looked hesitant, and Miranda did not wish to put her in a difficult position when she could simply seek out Olivia herself, so she said, 'Never you mind. I shall ask her myself.'

The maid bobbed a curtsy, and Miranda turned to the table next to her to make sure she'd put the figurine back in its proper position, then, giving it one more backward glance- she knew Lady Rudland liked her curios to be displayed just so- she stepped toward the door.

And crashed into a large, male body.

Turner. She knew it even before he spoke. It could have been Winston, or it could have been a footman, or it could have even been- heaven help her, the embarrassment- Lord Rudland, but it wasn't. It was Turner. She knew his scent. She knew the sound of his breath.

She knew the way the air felt when she was near him.

And that was when she knew, for sure and forever, that it was love.

It was love, and it was the love of a woman for a man. The young girl who'd thought him a white knight was gone. She was a woman now. She knew his flaws and she saw his shortcomings, and still she loved him.

She loved him, and she wanted to heal him, and she wanted-

She didn't know what she wanted. She wanted it all. She wanted everything. She-

'Miranda?'

His hands were still at her arms. She looked up, even though she knew it would be almost unbearable to face the blue of his eyes. She knew what she would not see there.

And she didn't. There was no love, no revelation. But he looked strange, different.

And she felt hot.

'I'm sorry,' she stammered, pulling away. 'I should be more careful.'

But he didn't release her. Not right away. He was looking at her, at her mouth, and Miranda thought for one lovely, blessed second that maybe he wanted to kiss her. Her breath caught, and her lips parted, and-

And then it was over.

He stepped away. 'My apologies,' he said, with almost no inflection whatsoever. 'I should be more careful, as well.'

'I was going to find Olivia,' she said, mostly because she had no idea what else to say. 'She sent word that she will not be coming down.'

His expression changed- just enough and with just enough cynicism that she knew he knew what was wrong. 'Leave be,' he said. 'She'll be fine.'

'But- '

'For once,' he said sharply, 'let Olivia deal with her own problems.'

Miranda's lips parted with surprise at his tone. But she was saved from having to respond by the arrival of Winston.

'Ready to leave?' he asked jovially, completely unaware of the tensions in the room. 'Where's Olivia?'

'She's not coming,' Miranda and Turner said in unison.

Winston looked from one to the other, slightly nonplussed by their joint reply. 'Why?' he asked.

'She's not feeling well,' Miranda lied.

'That's too bad,' Winston said, not sounding particularly unhappy. He held out his arm to Miranda. 'Shall we?'

Miranda looked to Turner. 'Are you still coming?'

'No.' And it didn't take him even two seconds to reply.

11 June 1819

My birthday today- lovely and strange.

The Bevelstokes held a family supper in my honor. It was so very sweet and kind, especially as my own father has likely forgot that today is anything other than the day that a certain Greek scholar did a certain special mathematical computation or some such other Very Important Thing.

From Lord and Lady Rudland: a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings. I know I should not accept something so dear, but I could not make a fuss at the supper table, and I did say, 'I can't…' (if with something of a lack of conviction) and was roundly shushed.

From Winston: a set of lovely lace handkerchiefs.

From Olivia: a box of stationery, engraved with my name. She enclosed a little note marked, 'For Your Eyes Only,' which said, 'I hope you shan't be able to use this for long!' Which of course means she hopes my name shall soon be Bevelstoke.

I did not comment.

And from Turner, a bottle of scent. Violets. I immediately thought of the violet ribbon he pinned to my hair when I was ten, but of course he would not have remembered such a thing. I said nothing about it; it would have been far too embarrassing to be revealed as so maudlin. But I thought it a lovely and sweet gift.

I cannot seem to sleep. Ten minutes have passed since I wrote the previous sentence, and although I yawn quite frequently, my eyelids do not seem the least bit heavy. I think I shall go down to the kitchens to see if I might get a glass of warm milk.

Or perhaps I will not go to the kitchens. It is not likely that anyone will be down there to assist me, and while I am perfectly able to heat some milk, the chef will probably have palpitations when he sees that someone has used one of his pots without his knowledge. And more importantly, I am twenty years old now. I can have a glass of sherry to help me sleep if I want.

I think that is what I will do.

Chapter 7

Turner had been through one candle and three glasses of brandy, and now he was sitting in the dark in his father's study, staring out the window, listening to the leaves of a nearby tree rustle in the wind and slap up against the glass.

Dull, perhaps, but just now he was embracing dull. Dull was precisely what he wanted after a day such as this.

First there had been Olivia, accusing him of wanting Miranda. Then there had been Miranda, and he had-