by Julia Quinn
Turner pondered his options. Really, there could be no good outcome.
"I'm a paying customer," Miranda continued hotly. "And I want to buy Le Morte d'Arthur!"
"I'll die before it reaches your hands, you ill-mannered trollop!"
Trollop? That was really too much for Miranda, a young lady whose sensibilities were usually more modest than one might have guessed from her current behavior. "You vile, vile man," she hissed. She raised her reticule again.
Trollop? Turner sighed. It was an insult he really couldn't overlook. Still, he couldn't let Miranda attack the poor man. He grabbed the reticule from her hand. She glared daggers at him for his interference. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a warning look.
He cleared his throat and turned to the bookseller. "Sir, I must insist that you apologize to the lady."
The bookseller crossed his arms defiantly.
Turner glanced at Miranda. Her arms were crossed in much the same manner. He looked back at the older man and said, a little more forcefully, "You will apologize to the lady."
"She is a menace," the bookseller said viciously.
"Why, you— " Miranda would have launched herself at him if Turner had not pulled her back with a quick grab to the back of her dress. The older man balled his fist and assumed a predatory stance that was quite at odds with his bookish appearance.
"You be quiet," Turner hissed at her, feeling the beginnings of fury uncurl in his chest.
The bookseller shot her a triumphant look.
"Oh, that was a mistake," Turner said. Good God, did the man have no common sense? Miranda jolted forward, which meant that Turner had to hold on to her dress even more firmly, which meant that the bookseller assumed even more of a smirk, which meant that the whole bloody farce was going to spiral into a full-blown hurricane if Turner did not settle the matter then and there.
He gave the bookseller his iciest, most aristocratic stare. "Apologize to the lady, or I will make you very sorry, indeed."
But the bookseller was clearly a raving idiot, because he did not accept the offer Turner had, in his estimation, so generously offered. Instead, he jutted his jaw belligerently and announced, "I have nothing for which to apologize. That woman came into my store…"
"Ah, hell," Turner muttered. There was no avoiding it now.
"…disturbed my customers, insulted me…"
Turner balled his hand into a fist and swung, clipping the bookseller neatly next to his nose.
"Oh my good Lord," Miranda breathed. "I think you broke his nose."
Turner shot her a scathing glance before looking down at the bookseller on the floor. "I don't think so. He isn't bleeding enough."
"Pity," Miranda muttered.
Turner grabbed her arm and hauled her up close to him. The bloodthirsty little wench was going to get herself killed. "Not another word until we get out of here."
Miranda's eyes widened, but she wisely shut her mouth and allowed him to pull her out of the store. As they passed by the window, however, she caught sight of Le Morte d'Arthur and burst out, "My book!"
That was it. Turner slammed to a halt. "I don't want to hear another word about your damned book, do you hear me?"
Her mouth fell open.
"Do you understand what just happened? I struck a man."
"But wouldn't you agree he needed striking?"
"Not half as much as you need throttling!"
She drew back, clearly affronted.
"Contrary to whatever it is that you think of me," he bit off, "I don't go about my days pondering when and where I might next be reduced to violence."
"But— "
"But nothing, Miranda. You insulted the man— "
"He insulted me!"
"I was handling the matter," he said between clenched teeth. "That's why you brought me here, to handle everything. Isn't that so?"
Miranda scowled and moved her chin in a sharp, reluctant nod.
"What the devil was the matter with you? What if that man had had less restraint? What if— "
"You thought he showed restraint?" she asked, dumb-founded.
"At least as much as you did!" He grabbed her shoulders and almost began to shake. "Good God, Miranda, you do realize that there are many men who would not blink an eye before striking a woman? Or worse," he added meaningfully.
He waited for her answer, but she was just staring at him, her eyes huge and unblinking. And he had the most unsettling feeling that she saw something that he did not.
Something in him.
And then she said, "I'm sorry, Turner."
"For what?" he asked less than graciously. "For making a scene in the middle of a quiet bookstore? For not keeping your mouth shut when you should have? For— "
"For upsetting you," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. It was not well done of me."
Her soft words cut cleanly through his anger, and he sighed. "Just don't do anything like that again, will you?"
"I promise."
"Good." He realized that he was still clutching her shoulders and loosened his grip. Then he realized that her shoulders felt quite nice. Surprised, he let go altogether.
She tilted her head to the side as a worried expression crossed her face. "At least I think I promise. I shall certainly try not to do anything to upset you like that."
Turner had a sudden vision of Miranda trying not to upset him. The vision upset him. "What has happened to you? We depend upon you to be levelheaded. Lord knows you've steered Olivia out of trouble more than once."
Her lips pressed together, and then she said, "Don't confuse levelheaded with meek, Turner. They're not the same thing at all. And I am certainly not meek."
She wasn't being defiant, he realized. She was simply stating fact— one that he suspected his family had overlooked for years. "Have no fear," he said wearily, "if ever I entertained the notion that you were meek, you have certainly disabused me of it this afternoon."
But God help him, she wasn't done. "If I see something that is so obviously wrong," she said earnestly, "I can hardly sit by and do nothing."
She was going to kill him. He was sure of it. "Just try to stay away from obvious mischief. Could you do that for me?"
"But I didn't think this was particularly mischievous. And I did— "
He held up his hand. "No more. Not another word on the topic. It'll take ten years off my life just talking about it." He took her arm and steered her toward home.
Dear God, what was wrong with him? His pulse was still racing, and she hadn't even been in any danger. Not really. He doubted the bookseller could have got a good punch in. And furthermore, why the devil was he so worried about Miranda? Of course he cared about her. She was like a little sister to him. But then he tried to imagine Olivia in her place. All he could feel was mild amusement.
Something was very wrong if Miranda could make him this furious.
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Chapter 6
"Winston will be here soon." Olivia sailed into the rose salon on that statement, bestowing upon Miranda her sunniest of smiles.
Miranda looked up from her book— a dog-eared and decidedly unglamorous copy of Le Morte d'Arthur she'd borrowed from Lord Rudland's library. "Really?" she murmured, even though she knew very well that Winston was expected that afternoon.
"Really?" Olivia mimicked. "Is that all you can say? Pardon, but I was under the impression you were in love with the boy, oh, excuse me— he's a man now, isn't he?"
Miranda returned to her reading. "I told you I'm not in love with him."
"Well, you should be," Olivia retorted. "And you would be, if you would deign to spend some time with him."
Miranda's eyes, which had been resolutely moving over the words on the page, slammed to a halt. She looked up. "I beg your pardon. Isn't he in Oxford?"
"Well, yes," Olivia said, waving off the comment as if the sixty miles' distance was of no consequence, "but he was here last week, and you barely spent any time with him."
&n
bsp; "That's not true," Miranda replied. "We rode in Hyde Park, went to Gunter's for ices, and even took a boat out into the Serpentine that one day it was actually warm."
Olivia plopped down in a nearby chair, crossing her arms. "It's not enough."
"You've gone mad," Miranda said. She gave her head a little shake and turned back to her book.
"I know that you will love him. You need only to spend enough time in his company."
Miranda pressed her lips together and kept her eyes firmly on her book. This was not a conversation that could go anywhere sensible.
"He will be here for only two days," Olivia mused. "We're going to need to work quickly."
Miranda flipped a page and said, "You do what you wish, Olivia, but I will not be party to your schemes." Then she looked up in alarm. "No, I've changed my mind. Don't do what you wish. If I leave matters up to you, I'll find myself drugged and on my way to Gretna Green before I know it."
"An intriguing thought."
"Livvy, no matchmaking. I want you to promise me."
Olivia's expression turned arch. "I won't make a promise I might not keep."
"Olivia."
"Oh, very well. But you cannot stop Winston if he has matchmaking in mind. And judging from his recent behavior, he very well might."
"Just so long as you don't interfere."
Olivia sniffed and tried to look affronted. "I am hurt that you would even think I would do such a thing."
"Oh, please." Miranda turned back to her book, but it was nearly impossible to focus on the plot when in her mind she was counting down…twenty, nineteen, eighteen…
Surely Olivia would not be able to remain silent for more than twenty seconds.
Seventeen…sixteen…
"Winston will make a lovely husband, don't you think?"
Four seconds. That was remarkable, even for Olivia.
"He's young, of course, but so are we."
Miranda studiously ignored her.
"Turner probably would have made a fine husband, as well, if Leticia hadn't gone and ruined him."
Miranda's head snapped up. "Don't you think that's an unkind remark?"
Olivia gave a little smile. "I knew you were listening to me."
"It's nearly impossible not to," Miranda muttered.
"I was merely saying that— " Olivia's chin rose, and her gaze moved to the doorway behind Miranda. "And here he is now. What a coincidence."
"Winston," Miranda said cheerfully, twisting in her seat so that she could peer over the edge of the sofa. Except it wasn't Winston.
"Sorry to disappoint," Turner said, one corner of his mouth twisting into a lazy and extremely slight smile.
"Sorry," Miranda mumbled, feeling rather unexpectedly foolish. "We were speaking of him."
"We were speaking of you, too," Olivia said. "More recently, in fact, which is why I remarked upon your entrance."
"Diabolical things, I hope."
"Oh, indeed," Olivia said.
Miranda managed a close-lipped smile as he took a seat across from her.
Olivia leaned forward and rested her chin coquettishly in her hand. "I was just telling Miranda that I thought you would make someone a terrible husband."
He looked amused as he sat back. "True enough."
"But I was about to say that with the proper training," Olivia continued, "you could be rehabilitated."
Turner stood. "I'm leaving."
"No, don't go!" Olivia called out with a laugh. "I am teasing, of course. You're quite beyond redemption. But Winston…Now, Winston is like a lump of clay."
"I shan't tell him you said that," Miranda murmured.
"Don't say you don't agree," Olivia said provocatively. "He hasn't had time to turn dreadful, the way most men do."
Turner watched his sister with undisguised amazement. "How is it possible that I am sitting here listening to you lecture on the management of men?"
Olivia opened her mouth to reply— something clever and cunning, to be sure— but just then the butler appeared in the doorway and saved them all. "Your mother requires your company, Lady Olivia."
"I shall be back," Olivia warned as she exited the room. "I am most eager to complete this conversation." And then, with a devilish smile and a wag of her fingers, she departed.
Turner stifled a groan— his sister was going to be the death of someone, just hopefully not him— and looked to Miranda. She was curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her, a large, dusty tome in her lap.
"Heavy reading?" he murmured.
She held up the book.
"Oh," he said, his lips twitching.
"Don't laugh," she warned.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Don't lie, either," she said, her mouth assuming that governess expression she seemed to do so well.
He leaned back with a chuckle. "Now that I cannot promise."
For a moment she just sat there, looking equal parts stern and serious, and then her face changed. Nothing dramatic, nothing to raise alarm, but enough so that it was clear that she'd been debating something in her mind. And that she'd reached a decision.
"What do you think of Winston?" she asked.
"My brother," he stated.
She held out her hand and flicked her wrist, as if to say— Who else?
"Well," he said, stalling because, really, what did she expect him to say? "He's my brother."
Her eyes glanced upward sarcastically. "Positively revelatory of you."
"What exactly is it you are asking me?"
"I want to know what you think of him," she insisted.
His heart slammed in his chest for no reason he could identify. "Are you asking me," he inquired carefully, "if I believe that Winston would make a good husband?"
She gave him that owlish stare of hers, and then she blinked, and— it was the strangest thing— it was almost as if she were clearing her head before she said, in quite the most conversational tone, "It does seem that everyone is trying to make a match of us."
"Everyone?"
"Well, Olivia."
"Hardly the person I'd turn to for romantic advice."
"So you don't think I should set my cap for Winston," she said, leaning forward.
Turner blinked. He knew Miranda, and he'd known her for years, which was why he was quite certain that she had not adjusted her position with the intention of showcasing her surprisingly lovely bosom. But rather distractingly, that had been the end result.
"Turner?" she murmured.
"He's too young," he blurted out.
"For me?"
"For anyone. Good God, he's barely twenty-one."
"Actually, he's still twenty."
"Exactly," he said uncomfortably, wishing very much there was some way to adjust his cravat without looking like a fool. It was starting to feel rather warm, and it was getting difficult to keep his attention focused on something other than Miranda without being obvious about it.
She sat back. Thank God.
And she said nothing.
Until finally he could not help himself. "Do you intend to pursue him, then?"
"Winston?" She appeared to be pondering it. "I don't know."
He snorted. "If you don't know, then clearly you should not."
She turned and looked him directly in the eye. "Is that what you think? That love should be obvious and clear?"
"Who said anything about love?" His voice was slightly unkind, which he regretted, but surely she understood that this was an untenable conversation.
"Hmmm."
He had the unpleasant sensation that she'd judged him, and he'd come up lacking. A conclusion that was reinforced when she returned her attention to the book in her lap.
And he sat there, like an idiot, really, just watching her read her book, trying to devise some sort of cunning remark.
She looked up, her face irritatingly placid. "Do you have plans for the afternoon?"
"None," he bit off, even though he had had every intention of takin
g his gelding out for a trot.
"Oh. Winston is expected soon."
"I'm aware."
"It's why we were talking about him," she explained, as if that mattered. "He is coming for my birthday."
"Yes, of course."
She leaned forward again, God help him. "You did remember?" she asked. "We are to have a family supper tomorrow evening."
"Of course I remembered," he muttered, even though he had not.
"Hmmm," she murmured, "thank you for your thoughts, anyway."
"My thoughts," he echoed. What the devil was she talking about now?
"About Winston. There is much to consider, and I did wish for your opinion."
"Well. Now you have it."
"Yes." She smiled. "I'm glad. It is because I have such great respect for you."
Somehow she was managing to make him feel like he was some kind of ancient relic. "You have great respect for me?" The words slipped distastefully off his tongue.
"Well, yes. Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Frankly, Miranda, most of the time I have no idea what you think," he snapped.
"I think about you."
His eyes flew to hers.
"And Winston, of course. And Olivia. As if one could live in the same house with her and not think about her." She snapped her book shut and stood. "I imagine I should go seek her out. She and your mother are at odds over some frocks Olivia wishes to order, and I promised to aid the cause."
He stood and escorted her to the door. "Olivia's or my mother's?"
"Why, your mother's, of course," Miranda said with a laugh. "I'm young, but I'm no fool."
And with that, she departed.
10 June 1819
Odd conversation with Turner this afternoon. It was not my intention to try to make him jealous, although I suppose it could have been interpreted that way, if anyone knew of my feelings for him, which of course they do not.
It was my intention, however, to inspire certain notions of guilt as pertains to
Le Morte d'Arthur. In this, I do not believe I succeeded. Later that afternoon, Turner returned from a ride in Hyde Park with his friend Lord Westholme, only to find Olivia loitering in the main hall.
"Shush," she said.
It was enough to pique anyone's interest, and so Turner immediately went to her side. "Why are we being quiet?" he asked, refusing to whisper.