"I beg your pardon."

His voice was sharp, and she probably should have taken it as a warning, but she could not seem to step out of the ditch she was rapidly digging 'round herself. "Well, you both have blue eyes and blond hair, although I suppose his is a bit lighter. And you stand in a similar manner, although- "

"That's enough, Miranda."

"Oh, but- "

"I said, that's enough."

She silenced at his caustic tone, then muttered, "There is no need to take offense."

"You've had too much to drink."

"Don't be silly. I'm not the least bit drunk. I'm sure you've drunk ten times as much as I have."

He regarded her with a deceptively lazy stare. "That's not quite true, but as you said earlier, I have a great deal more experience than you do."

"I did say that, didn't I? I think I was right. I don't think you're the least bit drunk."

He inclined his head and said softly, "Not drunk. Just a trifle reckless."

"Reckless, are you?" she murmured, testing the word on her tongue. "What an interesting description. I think I am reckless, too."

"You certainly must be, or you would have gone right back upstairs when you saw me."

"And I wouldn't have compared you to Winston."

His eyes glinted steely blue. "You certainly would not have done that."

"You don't mind, do you?"

There was a long, dead silence, and for a moment Miranda thought she'd gone too far. How could she have been so foolish, so conceited to think that he might want her? Why on earth would he care if she compared him to his younger brother? She was nothing more than a child to him, the homely little girl he'd befriended because he'd felt sorry for her. She should never have dreamed that he might one day come to care for her.

"Forgive me," she muttered, jerking to her feet. "I over-step." And then, because it was still there, she drained the rest of her brandy and rushed toward the door.

"Aaaah!"

"What the devil?" Turner shot to his feet.

"I forgot about the glass," she whimpered. "The broken glass."

"Oh, Christ, Miranda, don't cry." He walked swiftly across the room and for the second time that evening scooped her into his arms.

"I'm so stupid. So bloody stupid," she said with a sniffle. The tears were more for her lost dignity than for pain, and for that reason they were harder to stop.

"Don't curse. I've never heard you curse before. I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap," he teased, carrying her back to the sofa.

His gentle tone affected her more than stern words ever could, and she took a few great gulps of air, trying to control the sobs that were hovering somewhere at the back of her throat.

He set her gently back down on the sofa. "Let me see that foot now, all right?"

She shook her head. "I can take care of it."

"Don't be silly. You're shaking like a leaf." He walked over to the liquor cabinet and picked up the candle she'd left there earlier.

She watched him as he crossed back to her and set the candle down on an end table. "Here now, we've got a bit of light. Let me see your foot."

Reluctantly, she let him pick up her foot and place it in his lap. "I'm so stupid."

"Will you stop saying that? You're the least stupid female I know."

"Thank you. I- Ouch!"

"Sit still and stop twisting around."

"I want to see what you're doing."

"Well, unless you're a contortionist, you can't, so you'll have to trust me."

"Are you almost done?"

"Almost." He pinched his finger around another shard of glass and pulled.

She stiffened in pain.

"I've only one or two left."

"What if you don't get them all out?"

"I will."

"What if you don't?"

"Good God, woman, have I ever told you that you're persistent?"

She almost smiled. "Yes."

And he almost smiled back. "If I miss one, it'll probably just work its way out in a few days. Splinters usually do."

"Wouldn't it be nice if life were as simple as a splinter?" she said sadly.

He looked up. "Working its way out in a few days?"

She nodded.

He held her gaze for another moment, and then turned back to his work, plucking one last shard of glass from her skin. "There you are. You'll be as good as new in no time."

But he made no move to take her foot off his lap.

"I'm sorry I was so clumsy."

"Don't be. It was an accident."

Was it her imagination or was he whispering? And his eyes looked so tender. Miranda twisted herself around so that she was sitting up next to him. "Turner?"

"Don't say anything," he said hoarsely.

"But I- "

"Please!"

Miranda didn't understand the urgency in his voice, didn't recognize the desire lacing his words. She only knew that he was close, and she could feel him, and she could smell him…and she wanted to taste him. "Turner, I- "

"No more," he said raggedly, and he pulled her up next to him, her breasts flattening against his firmly muscled chest. His eyes were gleaming fiercely, and she suddenly realized- suddenly knew- that nothing was going to stop the slow descent of his lips onto hers.

And then he was kissing her, his lips hot and hungry against her mouth. His desire was fierce, raw, and consuming. He wanted her. She could not believe it, could barely even summon the presence of mind to think it, but she knew it.

He wanted her.

It made her bold. It made her womanly. It brought forth some kind of secret knowledge that had been buried within her, since before she was born perhaps, and she kissed him back, her lips moving with artless wonder, her tongue darting out to taste the hot salt of his skin.

Turner's hands pressed into her back, imprisoning her against him, and then they could no longer remain upright, and they sank into the cushions, Turner covering Miranda's body with his own.

He was wild. He was mad. That could be the only explanation, but he could not seem to get enough of her. His hands roamed everywhere, testing, touching, squeezing, and all he could think- when he could think at all- was that he wanted her. He wanted her in every possible way. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to worship her.

He wanted to lose himself within her.

He whispered her name, moaned it against her skin. And when she whispered his in return, he felt his hands move to the tiny buttons at the neck of her nightgown. Each fastening seemed to melt away beneath his fingertips until she was undone, and all that was left was for him to slide the fabric along her skin. He could feel the swell of her breasts beneath the gown, but he wanted more. He wanted the heat of her, the smell, the taste.

His lips moved down her throat, following the elegant curve to her collarbone, right where the edge of her nightgown met her skin. He nudged it down, tasting one new inch of her, exploring the soft, salty sweetness, and shuddering with pleasure when the flat planes of her chest gave way to the gentle swell of her breast.

Dear God, he wanted her.

He cupped her through her clothing, pressing her up, raising her closer to his mouth. She groaned, and it was all he could do to hold himself back, to force his desire to move slowly. His mouth moved closer, edging toward the ultimate prize, even as his hand slipped under the hemline of her nightgown, sliding up the silky skin of her calf.

Then his hand reached her thigh, and she very nearly screamed.

"Shhh," he crooned, silencing her with a kiss. "You'll wake up the neighbors. You'll wake up my…"

Parents.

It was like a bucket of cold water being dumped over him.

"Oh, my God."

"What, Turner?" Her breath was coming in ragged gasps.

"Oh, my God. Miranda." He said her name with all the shock that was flooding his mind. It was as if he'd been asleep, in a dream, and he'd been woken and-

"Turner, I- "

"Quiet," he whispered harshly, and he rolled himself off her with such force that he landed on the carpet beside her. "Oh, dear God," he said. And then again, because it bore repeating.

"Oh. Dear. God."

"Turner?"

"Get up. You have to get up."

"But- "

He looked down at her, which was a big mistake. Her nightgown was still gathered near her hips, and her legs- good God, who would have thought they'd be quite so lovely and long- and he just wanted to-

No.

He shuddered with the force of his own refusal.

"Now, Miranda," he ground out.

"But I don- "

He yanked her to her feet. He didn't particularly wish to take her hand; frankly, he did not trust himself to touch her, however unromantic the grasp. But he had to get her moving. He had to get her out of there.

"Go," he ordered. "For love of God, if you have any sense, go."

But she was just standing there, staring at him in shock, and her hair was mussed, and her lips were swollen, and he wanted her.

Dear Lord, he still wanted her.

"This will not happen again," he said, his voice tight.

She said nothing. He watched her face warily. Please, please don't let her cry.

He held himself ferociously still. If he moved, he might touch her. He wouldn't be able to help himself. "You'd better go upstairs," he said in a low voice.

She nodded jerkily and fled the room.

Turner stared at the doorway. Holy bloody hell. What was he going to do?

12 June 1819

I am without words. Utterly.

Chapter 8

Turner woke up the next morning with a blistering headache that had nothing to do with alcohol.

He wished it had been the brandy. Brandy would have been a hell of a lot simpler than this.