by Julia Quinn
"…Lady Olivia Bevelstoke. Isn't that sweet? We have been doing this for five years, and this is our first brother-sister team."
Miranda began to breathe again, not certain if she was disappointed or relieved.
Olivia, however, had no doubt of her own feelings. "Quel disaster," she muttered, in her typically broken French. "All these gentlemen, and I'm stuck with my brother. When is the next time I will be allowed to wander off alone with a gentleman? It's a waste, I tell you, a waste."
"It could be worse," Miranda said pragmatically. "Not all the gentlemen here are, er, gentlemen. At least you know that Turner won't attempt to ravish you."
"It's a small consolation, I assure you."
"Livvy— "
"Shush, they just called out Lord Westholme."
"And for the ladies…" Lady Chester trilled. "Miss Miranda Cheever!"
Olivia nudged her. "Lucky you."
Miranda just shrugged.
"Oh, don't act like such a jade," Olivia admonished her. "Don't you think he's divine? I'd give my left foot to switch places with you. Say, why don't we switch places? There aren't any rules against it. And you like Turner, after all."
Only too much, Miranda thought gloomily.
"Well? Will you do it? Unless you have your eye on Lord Westholme as well?"
"No," Miranda replied, trying not to sound dismayed. "No, of course not."
"Then let's do it," Olivia said excitedly.
Miranda didn't know if she ought to jump at the chance or run to her room and hide in the wardrobe. Either way, she didn't have much of an excuse to refuse Olivia's request. Livvy would certainly want to know why she didn't want to be alone with Turner. And then what would she say? I just told your brother that I love him, and I'm afraid that he hates me? I can't be alone with Turner because I'm afraid he might ravish me? I can't be alone with him because I'm afraid I might ravish him?
Just thought of it made Miranda want to laugh.
Or cry.
But Olivia was staring at her expectantly, in that Oliviaish way she'd perfected at, oh, the age of three, and Miranda realized that it didn't really matter what she said or did, she was going to end up partnered with Turner.
It wasn't that Olivia was spoiled, although she was, perhaps, a little bit. It was just that any attempts on Miranda's part to dodge the issue would be met by an interrogation so precise and so persistent that she would surely end up revealing everything.
At which point she would have to flee the country. Or at least find a bed to crawl under. For a week.
So she sighed. And she nodded. And she thought about bright sides and silver linings and deduced that neither was in evidence.
Olivia grabbed her hand and squeezed. "Oh, Miranda, thank you!"
"I hope Turner doesn't mind," Miranda said cautiously.
"Oh, he won't mind. He'll probably get down on his knees and thank his lucky stars he doesn't have to spend the entire afternoon with me. He thinks I'm a brat."
"He does not."
"He does. He often tells me I ought to be more like you."
Miranda turned in surprise. "Does he really?"
"Mmm-hmm." But Olivia's attention was back on Lady Chester, who was completing the task of matching off the ladies and gentlemen. When she was done, the men rose to seek out their partners.
"Miranda and I have exchanged places!" Olivia exclaimed when Turner reached her side. "You don't mind, do you?"
He said, "Of course not," but Miranda wouldn't have bet even a farthing that he was telling the truth. After all, what else could he say?
Lord Westholme arrived soon after, and although he was polite enough to try to hide it, he appeared delighted by the switch.
Turner said nothing.
Olivia shot Miranda a perplexed frown, which Miranda ignored.
"Here is your first clue!" Lady Chester called out. "Would the gentlemen please come forward to collect their envelopes?"
Turner and Lord Westholme walked to the center of the room and returned a few seconds later with crisp white envelopes.
"Let's open ours outside," Olivia said to Lord Westholme, flashing a mischievous smile at Turner and Miranda. "I wouldn't want anyone to overhear us while we discuss our strategy."
The other competitors apparently had the same idea, because a moment later, Turner and Miranda found themselves very much alone.
He took a deep breath and planted his hands on his hips.
"I didn't ask to switch," Miranda said quickly. "Olivia wanted me to."
He raised a brow.
"I didn't!" she protested. "Livvy is interested in Lord Westholme, and she thinks you think she's a brat."
"She is a brat."
Miranda was not particularly inclined to disagree at that moment, but she nonetheless said, "She could hardly have known what she was doing when she paired us together."
"You could have refused the switch," he said pointedly.
"Oh? And on what grounds?" Miranda demanded testily. He didn't have to be quite so upset that they had ended up as partners. "How would you suggest I explain to her that we ought not spend the afternoon together?"
Turner didn't answer because, she presumed, he had no answer. He merely turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Miranda watched him for a moment, and then, when it became apparent that he had no intention of waiting for her, she let out a little huff and scurried along after him. "Turner, will you slow down!"
He stopped short, the exaggerated motions of his body clearly displaying his impatience with her.
When she reached his side, his face held a bored, annoyed expression. "Yes?" he drawled.
She did her best to maintain her temper. "Could we at least try to be civil to one another?"
"I'm not angry with you, Miranda."
"Well, you certainly do a good imitation of it."
"I'm frustrated," he said, in a way that she was fairly certain was meant to shock her. And then he grumbled, "In more ways than you could possibly imagine."
Miranda could imagine and often did, and she blushed. "Open the envelope, will you?" she muttered.
He handed it to her, and she tore it open. "'Find your next clue 'neath a miniature sun,'" she read.
She glanced over at him. He wasn't even looking at her. He wasn't particularly not looking at her, he was just staring off and up into nothingness, looking as if he'd rather be somewhere else.
"The orangery," she declared, almost at the point at which she did not care if he was going to participate or not. "I've always thought that oranges were like tiny pieces of the sun."
He nodded brusquely and gestured with his arm for her to lead. But there was something rather impolite and condescending about his movements, and she felt an overwhelming urge to grind her teeth together and growl as she stalked forward.
Without a word, she marched out of the house toward the orangery. He really couldn't wait to get this deuced treasure hunt over with, could he? Well, she'd be only too happy to oblige him. She was rather clever; these clues shouldn't be too difficult to decipher. They could be back in their respective rooms in an hour.
Sure enough, they found a pile of envelopes underneath an orange tree. Wordlessly, Turner reached down for one and then handed it to her.
With equal silence, Miranda tore the envelope open. She read the clue and then handed it to Turner.
The Romans could help you find the next clue.
If he was irritated by her silent treatment, he did not show it. He merely folded up the slip of paper and looked at her with an expression of bored expectation. "It's underneath an arch," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "The Romans were the first to use them in architecture. There are several in the garden."
Sure enough, ten minutes later they had retrieved another envelope.
"Do you know how many clues we must get through before we're done?" Turner asked.
It was his first sentence since they'd begun, and it concerned when he might be rid of her
. Miranda gritted her teeth at the insult, shook her head, and opened the envelope. She had to remain poised. If she let him make even one chink in her facade, she'd fall completely to pieces. Schooling her features into impassivity, she unfolded the slip of paper and read, "'You'll need to hunt for the next clue.'"
"Something to do with hunting, I imagine," Turner said.
She lifted her brows. "You've decided to participate?"
"Don't be petty, Miranda."
She let out an irritated exhale and decided to ignore him. "There is a small hunting lodge to the east. It will take us approximately fifteen minutes to walk there."
"And how did you discover this lodge?"
"I've been walking quite a bit."
"Whenever I'm in the house, I imagine."
Miranda saw no reason to deny his statement.
Turner squinted toward the horizon. "Do you think Lady Chester would send us so far from the main house?"
"I've been right up to now," Miranda retorted.
"So you have," he said with a bored shrug. "Lead on."
They had trudged through the woods for about ten minutes when Turner cast a dubious eye at the darkening sky. "Looks like rain," he said laconically.
Miranda looked up. He was right. "What do you want to do?"
"Right this minute?"
"No, next week. Of course right this minute, you dolt."
"A dolt?" He smiled, his white teeth nearly blinding her. "You wound me."
Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?"
"Was I?" he murmured, and she was mortified.
"Oh, Miranda," he continued with a patronizing sigh, "maybe I like to be nice to you."
"Maybe you don't."
"Maybe I do," he said pointedly. "And maybe you sometimes just make it difficult."
"Maybe," she said with equal arrogance, "it's going to rain, and we ought to get going."
A clap of thunder drowned out her last word. "Maybe you're right," Turner replied, grimacing at the sky. "Are we closer to the lodge or the house?"
"The lodge."
"Then let's hurry. I have no wish to get caught in an electrical storm in the middle of the woods."
Miranda could not disagree with him, despite her concerns for propriety, so she started walking faster toward the hunting lodge. But they had hardly gone ten yards when the first raindrops fell. Another ten yards and it was a torrential downpour.
Turner grabbed her hand and began to run, pulling her along the path. Miranda stumbled along behind him, wondering if it was any use to run, as they were already soaked to the skin.
A few minutes later they found themselves in front of the two-room hunting lodge. Turner took hold of the door-knob and turned it, but the door did not budge. "Bloody hell," he muttered.
"Is it locked?" Miranda asked through clattering teeth.
He nodded curtly.
"What are we going to do?"
He answered her by slamming his shoulder into the door.
Miranda bit her lip. That had to hurt. She tried a window. Locked.
Turner shoved the door again.
Miranda slipped around to the side of the house and tried another window. With a little effort it slid up. At the same moment, she heard Turner come tumbling through the doorway. She briefly considered crawling through the window anyway, but then decided to do the magnanimous thing and lowered it. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to break down the door. The least she could do was let him believe himself her knight in shining armor.
"Miranda!"
She came running back around front. "I'm right here." She hurried into the house and shut the door behind her.
"What the devil were you doing out there?"
"Being a far kinder person than you could imagine," she muttered, now wishing she'd gone through the window.
"Eh?"
"Just looking around," she said. "Did you damage the door?"
"Not very much. The deadbolt is broken, though."
She winced. "Did you hurt your shoulder?"
"It's fine." He peeled off his sodden coat and hung it on a peg on the wall. "Take off your…" He motioned to her light pelisse. "…whatever it is you call that."
Miranda hugged her arms to herself and shook her head.
He gave her an impatient look. "It's a bit late for missish modesty."
"Someone could come in at any moment."
"I doubt it," he said. "I imagine they're all safe and warm in Lord Chester's study, gazing upon all of the heads he's got mounted on the wall."
Miranda tried to ignore the lump that had just sprouted in her throat. She'd forgotten what an avid hunter Lord Chester was. She quickly scanned the room. Turner was correct. Not a white envelope in sight. No one was likely to stumble across them anytime soon, and from the looks of it outside, the rain had no intention of letting up.
"Please tell me you're not one of those ladies who chooses modesty over health."
"No, of course not." Miranda shrugged off her pelisse and hung it on the peg next to his. "Do you know how to build a fire?" she asked.
"Provided we've dry wood."
"Oh, but there must be some here. It's a hunting lodge, after all." She looked up at Turner with hopeful eyes. "Don't most men like to be warm while they hunt?"
"After they hunt," he corrected absently as he looked around for wood. "And most men, Lord Chester included, I imagine, are sufficiently lazy that the short trip back to the main house is far more preferable than putting in the effort to build a fire here."
"Oh." Miranda stood still for a moment, watching him as he moved about the room. Then she said, "I'm going to go into the other room to see if there are any dry clothes we can use."
"Good idea." Turner watched her back as she disappeared from sight. The rain had plastered her shirt to her body, and he could see the warm, pink tones of her skin through the wet material. His loins, which had been unbelievably cold from the soaking, grew hot and heavy with remarkable speed. He cursed and then stubbed his toe as he lifted the lid off a wooden chest to look for wood.
Dear God, what had he done to deserve this? If he had been handed a pen and paper and ordered to compose the perfect torture, he would never have come up with this. And he had a very active imagination.
"I found some wood in here!"
Turner followed the sound of Miranda's voice into the next room.
"It's over there." She pointed to a pile of logs near a fireplace. "I reckon Lord Chester prefers to use this fireplace when he's here."
Turner eyed the large bed with its soft quilts and fluffy pillows. He had a fairly good idea why Lord Chester preferred this room, and it did not involve the somewhat portly Lady Chester. He immediately put a log in the fireplace.
"Don't you think we ought to use the one in the other room?" Miranda asked. She, too, had seen the large bed.
"This one has obviously seen more use. It is dangerous to use a dirty chimney. It could be clogged."
Miranda nodded slowly, and he could tell that she was trying very hard not to look uncomfortable. She continued to look for dry clothing while Turner attended to the fire, but all she found were some scratchy-looking old blankets. Turner watched as she draped one over her shoulders.
"Cashmere?" he drawled.
Her eyes widened. She hadn't, he realized, been aware that he had been looking at her. He smiled, or really, it was more of a baring of his teeth. Maybe she was uncomfortable, but damn it, so was he. Did she think this was easy for him? She'd said she loved him, for God's sake. Why the devil had she gone and done that? Did she know nothing about men? Could it be possible that she didn't understand that that was the one thing guaranteed to terrify him?
He didn't want to be entrusted with her heart. He didn't want the responsibility. He'd been married. He'd had his own heart crushed, stomped upon, and tossed in a flaming rubbish heap. The last thing he wanted was custody of someone else's, especially Miranda's.
"Use the quilt on the
bed," he said with a shrug. It had to be more comfortable than what she'd found.
But she shook her head. "I don't want to muss it. I don't want anyone to know we were here."
"Mmm, yes," he said unkindly, "I'd have to marry you then, wouldn't I?"
She looked so stricken that he muttered an apology. Good Lord, he was turning into someone he didn't particularly like. He didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted to—
Hell, he didn't know what he wanted. He couldn't even think more than ten minutes into the future, just then, couldn't focus on anything beyond keeping his hands to himself.
He busied himself with the fire, letting out a satisfied grunt when a tiny orange flame finally curled around a log. "Easy now," he murmured, carefully setting a smaller stick near the flame. "There we are, there we are…and— yes!"
"Turner?"
"Got the fire burning," he mumbled, feeling a trifle foolish for his excitement. He stood and turned. She was still clutching the threadbare blanket around her shoulders.
"A fine lot of good that'll do you once it's soaked from your shirt," he commented.
"I don't have much choice, do I?"
"That's up to you, I suppose. As for me, I'm drying off." His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt.
"Maybe I should go to the other room," she whispered.
Turner noted that she didn't move an inch. He shrugged, and then he shrugged his shirt off entirely.
"I should go," she whispered again.
"Then go," he said. But his lips curved.
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it. "I— " She broke off, a look of horror crossing her features.
"You what?"
"I should go." And this time she did, leaving the room with alacrity.
Turner shook his head as she left. Women. Did anyone understand them? First she said she loved him. Then she said she wanted to seduce him. Then she avoided him for two days. Now she looked terrified.
He shook his head again, this time faster, his hair spraying water across the room. Wrapping one of the blankets around his shoulders, he stood in front of the fire and dried himself off. His legs felt damned uncomfortable, though. He shot a sidelong look at the door. Miranda had shut it behind her when she left, and given her present state of maidenly embarrassment, he doubted she'd enter without knocking.