Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (9 page)

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 re
newed 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 do 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.”

Olivia scowled. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous.”

For a moment, Turner could do nothing but stare. And then he found his sense—and his voice—and bit off, “Well, you do know better. So I will thank you not to make unfounded accusations.”

Jealous of Miranda. Good Lord, what would she think of next?

Olivia crossed her arms. “Well, you were certainly acting strangely.”

Turner had, in his lifetime, treated his younger sister in a number of ways. Generally speaking, he employed benign neglect. Occasionally, he adopted a more avuncular role, surprising her with gifts and flattery when it was convenient for him to do so. But the gap in their ages had ensured that he had never treated her as an equal, never spoken to her without first considering her a child.

But now, with her accusing him of this, of wanting
Miranda
, of all things, he lashed out without measuring his words, without scaling them down in size and sentiment. And his voice was hard, biting, and sharp as he said, “If you would look beyond your own desire to have Miranda constantly at your beck and call, you would see that she and Winston are extremely ill-suited.”

Olivia gasped at the unexpected attack, but she recovered quickly. “Beck and call?” she repeated furiously. “Now who is making unfounded accusations? You know as well as anyone that I adore Miranda and want nothing more than her happiness. Furthermore, she lacks beauty and a dowry, and—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Turner clamped his mouth shut before he cursed in front of his sister. “You sell her short,” he snapped. Why did people persist in seeing Miranda as the gangly girl she'd once been? She might not fit the so
ciety's current standards of beauty, as did Olivia, but she had something far deeper and more interesting. One could look at her and know that there was something behind the eyes. And when she smiled, it wasn't practiced, it wasn't mocking—oh, very well, sometimes it was mocking, but he could excuse that, as she possessed the exact same sense of humor as he did. And truly, trapped in London for the season as they were, they were bound to come across any number of things worth mocking.

“Winston would be an excellent match for her,” Olivia continued hotly. “And she for—” She stopped, gasped, and clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, what now?” Turner said irritably.

“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 guar
anteed 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.