The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

For a moment he thought she might not answer. She just stood there, utterly still save for the blinking of her eyes. And then, as if finally reaching a conclusion, she said, 'That's a nice name. A bit odd, but I like it.'

'Much better than Nigel, don't you think?'

Miranda nodded. 'Did you choose it? I've often thought that people ought to choose their own names. I should think that most people would choose something different from what they have.'

'And what would you choose?'

'I'm not certain, but not Miranda. Something plainer, I think. People expect something different from a Miranda and are almost always disappointed when they meet me.'

'Nonsense,' Turner said briskly. 'You are a perfect Miranda.'

She beamed. 'Thank you, Turner. May I call you that?'

'Of course. And I didn't choose it, I'm afraid. It's just a courtesy title. Viscount Turner. I've been using it in place of Nigel since I went to Eton.'

'Oh. It suits you, I think.'

'Thank you,' he said gravely, completely entranced by this serious child. 'Now, give me your hand again, and we shall be on our way.'

He had held out his left hand to her. Miranda quickly moved the ribbon from her right hand to her left.

'What's that?'

'This? Oh, a ribbon. Fiona Bennet gave two dozen of them to Olivia, and Olivia said I might keep one.'

Turner's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he remembered Olivia's parting words. Don't worry about what Fiona said. He plucked the ribbon out of her hand. 'Ribbons belong in hair, I think.'

'Oh, but it doesn't match my dress,' Miranda said in feeble protest. He'd already fastened it atop her head. 'How does it look?' she whispered.

'Smashing.'

'Really?' Her eyes widened doubtfully.

'Really. I've always thought that violet ribbons look especially nice with brown hair.'

Miranda fell in love on the spot. So intense was the feeling that she quite forgot to thank him for the compliment.

'Shall we be off?' he said.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

They made their way out of the house and to the stables. 'I thought we might ride,' Turner said. 'It's far too nice a day for a carriage.'

Miranda nodded again. It was uncommonly warm for March.

'You can take Olivia's pony. I'm sure she won't mind.'

'Livvy hasn't got a pony,' Miranda said, finally finding her voice. 'She has a mare now. I've one at home, too. We're not babies, you know.'

Turner suppressed a smile. 'No, I can see that you are not. How silly of me. I wasn't thinking.'

A few minutes later, their horses were saddled, and they set off on the fifteen-minute ride to the Cheever home. Miranda stayed silent for the first minute or so, too perfectly happy to spoil the moment with words.

'Did you have a good time at the party?' Turner finally asked.

'Oh, yes. Most of it was just lovely.'

'Most of it?'

He saw her wince. Obviously, she hadn't meant to say so much. 'Well,' she said slowly, catching her lip between her teeth and then letting it go before continuing, 'one of the girls said some unkind words to me.'

'Oh?' He knew better than to be overly inquisitive.

And obviously, he was right, because when she spoke, she rather reminded him of his sister, staring up at him with frank eyes as her words spilled firmly from her mouth. 'It was Fiona Bennet,' she said, with great distaste, 'and Olivia called her a silly old cow, and I must say I'm not sorry that she did.'

Turner kept his expression appropriately grave. 'I'm not sorry that she did, either, if Fiona said unkind things to you.'

'I know I'm not pretty,' Miranda burst out. 'But it's dreadfully impolite to say so, not to mention downright mean.'

Turner looked at her for a long moment, not exactly certain how to comfort the little girl. She wasn't beautiful, that was true, and if he tried to tell her that she was, she wouldn't believe him. But she wasn't ugly. She was just…rather awkward.

He was saved, however, from having to say anything by Miranda's next comment.

'It's this brown hair, I think.'

He raised his brows.

'It's not at all fashionable,' Miranda explained. 'And neither are brown eyes. And I'm too skinny by half, and my face is too long, and I'm far too pale.'

'Well, that's all true,' Turner said.

Miranda turned to face him, her eyes looming large and sad in her face.

'You certainly do have brown hair and eyes. There is no use arguing that point.' He tilted his head and pretended to give her a complete inspection. 'You are rather thin, and your face is indeed a trifle long. And you certainly are pale.'

Her lips trembled, and Turner could tease her no more. 'But as it happens,' he said with a smile, 'I myself prefer women with brown hair and eyes.'

'You don't!'

'I do. I always have. And I like them thin and pale, as well.'

Miranda eyed him suspiciously. 'What about long faces?'

'Well, I must admit, I never gave the matter much thought, but I certainly don't mind a long face.'

'Fiona Bennet said I have big lips,' she said almost defiantly.

Turner bit back a smile.

She heaved a great sigh. 'I never even noticed I had big lips before.'

'They're not so big.'

She shot him a wary glance. 'You're just saying that to make me feel better.'

'I do want you to feel better, but that's not why I said it. And next time Fiona Bennet says you have big lips, tell her she's wrong. You have full lips.'

'What's the difference?' She looked over at him patiently, her dark eyes serious.

Turner took a breath. 'Well,' he stalled. 'Big lips are unattractive. Full lips are not.'

'Oh.' That seemed to satisfy her. 'Fiona has thin lips.'

'Full lips are much, much better than thin lips,' Turner said emphatically. He quite liked this funny little girl and wanted her to feel better.

'Why?'

Turner offered up a silent apology to the gods of etiquette and propriety before he answered, 'Full lips are better for kissing.'

'Oh.' Miranda blushed, and then she smiled. 'Good.'

Turner felt absurdly pleased with himself. 'Do you know what I think, Miss Miranda Cheever?'

'What?'

'I think you just need to grow into yourself.' The minute he said it, he was sorry. She would surely ask him what he meant, and he had no idea how to answer her.

But the precocious little child simply tilted her head to one side as she pondered his statement. 'I expect you're right,' she finally said. 'Just look at my legs.'

A discreet cough masked the chuckle that welled up in Turner's throat. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, they're far too long. Mama always says that they start at my shoulders.'

'They appear to begin quite properly at your waist to me.'

Miranda giggled. 'I was speaking metaphorically.'

Turner blinked. This ten-year-old had quite a vocabulary, indeed.

'What I meant,' she went on, 'is that my legs are all the wrong size compared to the rest of me. I think that's