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 overthinking- 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."

For a moment his face remained blank, and then he grinned. "Who were you forced to mourn?"

Her lips slid into a smile. "A cousin."

He leaned in a hair closer. "Has anyone ever told you it's unseemly to smile when discussing the death of a relation?"

"I'd never even met the man."

"Still…"

Miranda let out a ladylike snort. She knew that he was goading her, but she was having far too much fun to stop. "He lived his entire life in the Caribbean," she added. It wasn't strictly true, but it was mostly true.

"Bloodthirsty little wench, you are," he murmured.

She shrugged. Coming from Turner, it seemed a compliment.

"I do believe you shall be a welcome member of the family," he said. "Provided you can tolerate my younger brother for lengthy periods of time."

Miranda tried for a sincere smile. Marrying Winston was not her preferred method of becoming a member of the Bevelstoke family. And despite Olivia's urgings and machinations, Miranda did not think a match was forthcoming.

There were many excellent reasons to consider marrying Winston, but there was one compelling reason not to, and he was standing right in front of her.

If Miranda was going to marry someone she did not love, it was not going to be the brother of the man she did.

Or thought she did. She kept trying to convince herself that she didn't, that it had all been a schoolgirl crush, and that she would outgrow it- that she already had outgrown it, and just didn't realize it yet.

She was in the habit of thinking herself in love with him. That's all it was.

But then he would do something utterly loathsome, like smile, and all her hard work flew out the window, and she had to start anew.

One day it would stick. One day she would wake up and realize it had been two days of sensible Turnerless thought, and then it would be magically three and then four and-

"Miranda?"

She looked up. He was watching her with an expression of amusement, and it would have been patronizing except his eyes were crinkling at the corners…and for a moment he looked unburdened, and young, and maybe even content.

And she was still in love with him. At least for the rest of the evening, there would be no convincing herself otherwise. Come morning, she'd start again, but for tonight, she wasn't going to bother to try.

The music ended, and Turner let go of her hand, stepping back to execute an elegant bow. Miranda curtsied in turn, and then took his arm as he led her to the perimeter of the room.

"Where do you suppose we might find Olivia?" he murmured, craning his neck. "I suppose I'll have to boot one of the gentlemen off her card and dance with her."

"Goodness, don't make it sound such a chore," Miranda returned. "We're not so very dreadful."

He turned and looked at her with a touch of surprise. "I didn't say anything about you. Don't mind dancing with you in the least."

As compliments went, it was lukewarm at best, but Miranda still found a way to hold it next to her heart.

And that, she thought miserably, had to be proof that she'd sunk quite as low as she could go. Unrequited love, she was discovering, was much worse when one actually saw the object of one's desire. She'd spent nearly ten years daydreaming about Turner, waiting patiently for whatever news the Bevelstokes happened to drop at afternoon tea, and then trying to hide her bliss and joy (not to mention her terror at being found out) when he happened to visit once or twice per year.

She'd thought that nothing could be more pathetic, but as it happened, she was wrong. This was definitely worse. Before, she'd been a nonentity. Now she was a comfortable old shoe.

Gad.

She stole a glance at him. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't not looking at her, and he certainly wasn't avoiding looking at her. He simply wasn't looking at her.

She perturbed him not at all.

"There's Olivia," she said, sighing. Her friend was surrounded, as usual, by a ridiculously large assortment of gentlemen.

Turner regarded his sister with narrowed eyes. "It doesn't look as if any of them are misbehaving, does it? It's been a long day, and I'd rather not have to play the ferocious older brother tonight."

Miranda rose onto her toes for a closer look. "I think you're safe."

"Good." And then he realized that his head was tilted to the side, and he was watching his sister with a strangely detached eye. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm?"

He turned back to Miranda, who was still at his side, watching him with those ever curious brown eyes.

"Turner?" he heard her say, and he replied with another "Hmmm?"

"You look a bit queer."

No Are you quite all right? or Are you unwell? Just You look a bit queer.

It made him smile. It made him think how much he actually liked this girl, and how much he'd wronged her the day of Leticia's funeral. And it made him want to do something nice for her. He looked at his sister one last time, and then said, as he slowly turned back around, "If I were a young buck, which mind you I'm not…"

"Turner, you're not even thirty."

Her expression turned impatient- in a somewhat governessy way that he found oddly entertaining, and he gave her a lazy, one-shouldered shrug as he answered, "Yes, well, I feel older. Ancient these days, to tell the truth." Then he realized that she was staring at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat and said, "I was merely trying to say that if I were nosing around the crop of new debutantes, I don't believe Olivia would catch my eye."

Miranda's brows rose. "Well, she is your sister. Aside from the illegalities- "

Oh, for the love of- "I was attempting to compliment you," he interrupted.

"Oh." She cleared her throat. Blushed a little, although it was difficult to be sure in the dim light. "Well, in that case, please do go right ahead."

"Olivia is quite beautiful," he continued. "Even I, her older brother, can see that. But there is something lacking behind her eyes."

Which elicited an immediate gasp. "Turner, that is a terrible thing to say. You know as well as I do that Olivia is very intelligent. Far more so than most of the men who are swarming around her."

He watched her indulgently. She was such a loyal little thing. He had no doubt she'd take a bullet for Olivia if the need ever arose. It was a good thing she was here. Aside from whatever calming tendencies she had on his sister- and he rather suspected the entire Bevelstoke family owed her an enormous debt of gratitude for that- Miranda was, he was fairly certain, the only thing that was going to make his time in London bearable. God knew he hadn't wanted to come. The last thing he needed just then were women angling for position, attempting to fill Leticia's miserable little shoes. But with Miranda about, at least he was assured of some decent conversation.

"Of course Olivia is intelligent," he said in a placating voice. "Allow me to restate myself. I personally would not find her intriguing."

She pursed her lips, and the governess was back. "Well, that's your prerogative, I suppose."

He smiled and leaned in, just a hint. "I think I'd be far more likely to make my way to your side."

"Don't be silly," she mumbled.

"I'm not," he assured her. "But then again, I am older than most of those fools with my sister. Perhaps my tastes have mellowed. But the point is moot, I suppose, because I'm not a young buck, and I'm not nosing around this year's crop of debutantes."