Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (6 page)

“Someone who wouldn't take mortal offense if you trod on his toes?”

“Something like that,” she mumbled. How had she got herself into this bind? He would either know she was in love with him or think her a silly twit scared to dance in public.

But Turner, bless his heart, was already saying, “I would be honored to dance a waltz with you.” He took the little pencil and signed his name to her dance card. “There. You are now promised to me for the first waltz.”

“Thank you. I shall look forward to it.”

“Good. So do I. Shall I put myself down for another? I can't think of anyone else here with whom I'd rather to be forced into conversation for the four or so minutes of the waltz.”

“I had no idea I was such a chore,” Miranda said, grimacing.

“Oh, you're not,” he assured her. “But everyone else is. Here you are, I'm putting myself down for the last waltz, too. You'll have to fend for yourself for the rest of them. It wouldn't do to dance with you more than twice.”

Heavens no, Miranda thought acerbically. Someone might think he hadn't been browbeaten into dancing with her. But she knew what was expected of her, so she smiled tightly and said, “No, of course not.”

“Very well, then,” Turner said, with the tone of finality men liked to use when they were ready to end a conversation, regardless of whether anyone else was. “I see young Hardy over there is coming this way to claim the
next dance. I'm going to get something to drink. I shall see you at the first waltz.”

And then he left her standing in the corner, murmuring his greetings to Mr. Hardy as he departed. Miranda bobbed a dutiful curtsy at her dance partner and then took his gloved hand and followed him onto the dance floor for a quadrille. She was not surprised when, after commenting on her gown and the weather, he asked after Olivia.

Miranda answered his questions as politely as she was able, trying not to encourage him overmuch. Judging from the crowd around her friend, Mr. Hardy's chances were slim indeed.

The dance was over with merciful speed, and Miranda quickly made her way over to Olivia.

“Oh, Miranda, dear,” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? I've been telling everyone about you.”

“You have not,” Miranda said, raising her brows disbelievingly.

“Indeed I have. Haven't I?” Olivia poked a gentleman in the side, and he immediately nodded. “Would I lie to you?”

Miranda bit back a smile. “If it suited your purposes.”

“Oh, stop. You're terrible. And where
have
you been?”

“I needed a breath of fresh air, so I escaped to a corner and had a glass of lemonade. Turner kept me company.”

“Oh, has he arrived, then? I shall have to save a dance for him.”

Miranda was doubtful. “I don't think you have any left to save.”

“That cannot be so.” Olivia looked down at her dance card. “Oh, dear. I shall have to cross one of these off.”

“Olivia, you can't do that.”

“Why ever not? Listen, Miranda, I must tell you—” She broke off suddenly, remembering the presence of her many admirers. She turned, smiling radiantly at them all.

Miranda would not have been surprised if they had dropped to the floor, one by one, like proverbial flies.

“Would any of you gentlemen mind fetching some lemonade?” Olivia asked sweetly. “I'm utterly parched.”

There was a rush of assurances, followed by a flurry of movement, and Miranda could only stare in awe as she watched them scuttle off in a pack. “They're like sheep,” she whispered.

“Well, yes,” Olivia agreed, “except for the ones who are more like goats.”

Miranda had about two seconds to attempt to decipher
that
before Olivia added, “Brilliant of me, wasn't it, to be rid of all of them at once. I tell you, I'm getting quite good at all this.”

Miranda nodded, not bothering to speak. Really, there was no use in forming a proper comeback, because when Olivia was telling a story—

“What I was going to say,” Olivia continued, unknowingly confirming Miranda's hypothesis, “is that really, most of them are dreadful bores.”

Miranda could not resist giving her friend a little jab. “One would certainly never be able to tell that from watching you in action.”

“Oh, I'm not saying I'm not enjoying myself.” Olivia
gave her a vaguely sardonic look. “I mean, really, I'm not going to cut off my nose to spite my mother.”

“To spite your mother,” Miranda repeated, trying to recall the origin of the original proverb. “Somewhere someone is surely rolling in his grave.”

Olivia cocked her head. “Shakespeare, do you think?”

“No.” Blast, now she wasn't going to be able to stop thinking about it. “It wasn't Shakespeare.”

“Machiavelli?”

Miranda mentally ran down her list of famous writers. “I don't think so.”

“Turner?”

“Who?”

“My
brother
.”

Miranda's head snapped up. “Turner?”

Olivia leaned a bit to the side, stretching her neck as she peered past Miranda. “He looks quite purposeful.”

Miranda looked down at her dance card. “It must be time for our waltz.”

Olivia tilted her head to the side in a ponderous sort of motion. “He looks handsome as well, doesn't he?”

Miranda blinked and tried not to sigh. Turner did look handsome. Almost unbearably so. And now that he was a widower, surely every unmarried lady—and all their mamas—would be after him like a shot.

“Do you think he'll marry again?” Olivia murmured.

“I—I don't know.” Miranda swallowed. “I would think he'd have to, wouldn't you?”

“Well, there is always Winston to provide an heir. And if you—euf!”

Miranda's elbow. In her ribs.

Turner arrived at their sides and bowed smartly.

“Lovely to see you, brother,” Olivia said with a wide smile. “I'd almost given up on your attendance.”

“Nonsense. Mother would have had me filleted.” His eyes narrowed (almost imperceptibly, but then again, Miranda tended to notice everything about him), and he asked, “Why'd Miranda jab you in the ribs?”

“I didn't!” Miranda protested. And then, when his stare turned quite dubious, she mumbled, “It was more of a tap.”

“Jab, tap, it has all the hallmarks of a conversation that's a damned sight more entertaining than any of the rest in this ballroom.”

“Turner!” Olivia protested.

Turner dismissed her with a flick of his head and turned to Miranda. “Do you think she objects to my language or my judgment of the attendees of your ball as idiots?”

“I think it was your language,” Miranda said mildly. “She said most of them were idiots, too.”

“That is not at all what I said,” Olivia put in. “I said they were bores.”

“Sheep,” Miranda confirmed.

“Goats,” Olivia added with a shrug.

Turner began to look alarmed. “Good God, do the two of you speak your own language?”

“No, we are being perfectly clear,” Olivia said, “but tell me, do you know who first said, ‘Do not cut off your nose to spite your face'?”

“I'm not certain I see the connection,” Turner murmured.

“It's not Shakespeare,” Miranda said.

Olivia shook her head. “Who else would it be?”

“Well,” Miranda said, “any one of thousands of notable writers of the English language.”

“Was this why you, er, tapped her in the ribs?” Turner inquired.

“Yes,” Miranda replied, seizing the opportunity. Unfortunately, Olivia beat her by one half second with “No.”

Turner looked from one to the other with an amused expression.

“It was about Winston,” Olivia said impatiently.

“Ah, Winston.” Turner looked about. “He's here, is he not?” Then he plucked Miranda's dance card from her fingers. “Why has he not claimed a dance or three? Aren't the two of you planning to make a match of it?”

Miranda gritted her teeth together and declined to answer. Which was a perfectly reasonable choice, as she knew that Olivia would not allow the opportunity to pass her by.

“Of course there is nothing official,” she was saying, “but
everyone
agrees that it would be a splendid match.”

“Everyone?” Turner asked softly, looking at Miranda.

“Who wouldn't?” Olivia replied with an impatient face.

The orchestra picked up their instruments, and the first strains of a waltz floated through the air.

“I believe this is my dance,” Turner said, and Miranda realized that his eyes had not left hers.

She trembled.

“Shall we?” he murmured, and he held out his arm.

She nodded, needing a moment to regain her voice. He did things to her, she realized. Strange, shivery things that
left her breathless. He need only to look at her—not in his usual, conversational way, but to really look at her, to let his eyes settle on hers, deeply blue and insightful, and she felt naked, her soul bared. And the worst of it all was—he had no idea. There she was, with her every emotion exposed, and Turner most probably saw nothing but the dull brown of her eyes.

She was his little sister's little friend, and in all likelihood, that was all she ever would be.

“You are leaving me here all alone, then?” Olivia said, not petulantly, but with a little sigh nonetheless.

“Have no fear,” Miranda assured her, “you shan't be alone for long. I think I see your flock returning with lemonade.”

Olivia made a face. “Have you ever noticed, Turner, that Miranda has quite the driest sense of humor?”

Miranda tilted her head to the side and suppressed a smile. “Why do I suspect that your tone was not precisely complimentary?”

Olivia gave her a dismissive little wave. “Off with you. Have a nice dance with Turner.”

Turner took Miranda's elbow and led her out onto the dance floor. “You do have a rather odd sense of humor, you know,” he murmured.

“Do I?”

“Yes, but it's what I like best about you, so please don't change.”

She tried not to feel absurdly pleased. “I shall contrive not to, my lord.”

He winced as he put his arms around her for the waltz.
“‘My lord,' is it now? Since when have you grown so proper?”

“It's all this time in London. Your mother has been beating etiquette into me.” She smiled sweetly. “Nigel.”

He scowled. “I believe I prefer ‘my lord.'”

“I prefer Turner.”

His hand tightened at her waist. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Miranda let out a little sigh as they lapsed into silence. As waltzes went, this one was fairly sedate. There were no breathless whirls, nothing that would leave her dizzy and spinning. And it gave her every opportunity to savor the moment, to relish the feel of her hand in his. She breathed in the scent of him, felt the heat from his body, and simply enjoyed.

It all felt so perfect…so perfectly right. It was almost impossible to imagine that he did not feel it, too.

But he didn't. She did not delude herself that she could wish his desire into being. When she looked up at him, he was glancing out at someone in the crowd, his gaze just a little bit clouded, as if he were working through a problem in his mind. It was not the look of a man in love. And neither was what followed, when he finally peered down at her and said, “You're not bad at the waltz, Miranda. In fact, you're really quite accomplished. I don't see why you were so nervous about it.”

His expression was kind. Brotherly.

It was heartbreaking.

“I haven't had much practice recently,” she improvised, since he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“Even with Winston?”

“Winston?” she echoed.

His eyes grew amused. “My younger brother, if you recall.”

“Right,” she said. “No. I mean, no, I haven't danced with Winston in years.”

“Really?”

She looked up at him quickly. There was something odd in his voice, almost—but not quite—a faint note of pleasure. Not jealousy, unfortunately—she didn't think he would care one way or another if she danced with his brother. But she had the strangest sensation that he was congratulating himself, as if he had predicted her answer correctly and was pleased by his astuteness.

Good heavens, she was thinking far too much. She was
over
thinking—Olivia was forever accusing her of it, and for once, Miranda had to concede that she was right.

“I don't often see Winston,” Miranda said, hoping that a conversation would stop her from obsessing about completely unanswerable questions—such as the true meaning of the word
really
.

“Oh?” Turner prompted, adding a touch of pressure to the small of her back as they turned to the right.

“He's usually at university. Even now he's not quite done with his term.”

“I expect you shall see a great deal more of him over the summer.”

“I expect so.” She cleared her throat. “Er, how long do you plan to stay?”

“In London?”

She nodded.

He paused, and they did a lovely little whirl to the left before he finally said, “I'm not certain. Not long, I think.”

“I see.”

“I'm supposed to be in mourning, anyway. Mother was aghast that I left off the armband.”

“I'm not,” she declared.

He smiled down at her, and this time it wasn't brotherly. It wasn't full of passion and desire, but at least it was something new. It was sly and conspiring and it made her feel a part of a team. “Why, Miss Cheever,” he murmured mischievously, “do I detect a hint of the rebel in you?”

Her chin rose a full inch. “I have never understood the necessity of donning black for someone with whom one is not acquainted, and I certainly don't see the logic in mourning a person one finds detestable.”