Miranda.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Nothing. He obviously hadn't been thinking at all. At least not with his head.

He had kissed Miranda. Hell, he had practically mauled her. And it was difficult to imagine that there might exist anywhere in Britain a young woman less suitable for his attentions than Miss Miranda Cheever.

He was going to roast somewhere for this.

If he were a better man, he supposed, he would marry her. A young woman could lose her reputation for far less than this. But no one had seen, a little voice inside him insisted. No one knew but the two of them. And Miranda wouldn't say anything. She wasn't the sort.

And he wasn't a better man. Leticia had seen to that. She had killed whatever was good and kind inside him. But he still had his sense. And there was no way he was going to let himself anywhere near Miranda again. One mistake might be understandable.

Two would be his undoing.

And three…

Good God, he shouldn't even be thinking about three.

He needed distance, that was it. Distance. If he stayed away from Miranda, he couldn't be tempted, and she'd eventually forget about their illicit encounter and find herself some nice jolly fellow to wed. The image of her in another man's arms was unexpectedly distasteful, but Turner decided that was because it was early in the morning, and he was tired, and he'd kissed her only six or so hours earlier, and-

And there could be a hundred different reasons, none of them important enough to examine further.

In the meantime, he'd have to avoid her. Maybe he should leave town. Get away. He could go to the country. He hadn't really meant to remain in London very long, anyway.

He opened his eyes and groaned. Had he no self-control? Miranda was an inexperienced chit of twenty. She wasn't like Leticia, wise to all of her womanly skills, and willing to use them to her advantage.

Miranda would be tempting, but resistible. Turner was man enough to keep his head around her. All the same, he probably ought not to be living in the same house. And while he was making changes, perhaps it was time to inspect the women of the ton this year. There were many discreet young widows. He'd been far too long without female company.

If anything could help him forget one woman, it was another.


* * *

"Turner is moving out."

"What?" Miranda had been arranging flowers in a porcelain vase. It was only through agile hands and tremendous good luck that the precious antique did not go crashing to the ground.

"He's already gone," Olivia said with a shrug. "His valet is packing his things right now."

Miranda set the vase back on the table with achingly careful fingers. Slow, steady, breathe in, breathe out. And then finally, when she was certain she could speak without shaking, she asked, "Is he leaving town?"

"No, I don't believe so," Olivia said, settling down on the chaise with a yawn. "He'd not meant to remain in town this long, so he is taking an apartment."

He was taking an apartment? Miranda fought against the horrible, hollow feeling that was sinking in her chest. He was taking an apartment. Just to get away from her.

It would have been humiliating if it weren't so sad. Or maybe it was both.

"It's probably for the best," Olivia continued, oblivious to her friend's distress. "I know he says he will never marry again- "

"He said that?" Miranda froze. How was it possible she did not know this? She knew he'd said he wasn't looking for a wife, but surely he had not meant forever.

"Oh, yes," Olivia replied. "He said so the other day. He was quite adamant. I thought Mother would have a fit over it. As it was, she very nearly swooned."

"Your mother?" Miranda was having difficulty imagining it.

"Well, no, but if her nerves were less constitutional, surely she would have done."

Most of the time Miranda enjoyed her friend's meandering manner, but just now she wanted to throttle her.

"Anyway," Olivia said, sighing as she settled into a reclining position, "he said he will not marry, but I am quite certain he will reconsider. He must simply get past the grief." She paused, glancing over at Miranda with a wry expression. "Or the lack thereof."

Miranda smiled tightly. So tightly, in fact, that she was fairly certain it ought to be termed something else altogether.

"But despite what he says," Olivia continued, settling back down and closing her eyes, "he certainly will never find a bride whilst living here. Goodness, how could anyone court in the company of a mother, father, and two younger sisters?"

"Two?"

"Well, one, of course, but you might as well count as a second. He certainly cannot behave in any manner he might like to behave while you are in his presence."

Miranda did not know if she ought to laugh or cry.

"And even if he does not choose a bride anytime soon," Olivia added, "he ought to take a mistress. Surely that will help him forget Leticia."

Miranda did not see how she could possibly comment.

"And certainly he cannot do that while he is living here." Olivia opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. "So really, it is all for the best. Wouldn't you agree?"

Miranda nodded. Because she had to. Because she felt too stunned to cry.

19 June 1819

He has been gone a week now, and I am quite beyond myself.

If he had just left- that, I could have forgiven. But he has not come back!

He has not called upon me. He has not sent a letter. And although I hear whispers and gossip that he is out and about and being seen in society, he is certainly never seen by me. If I am in attendance at an event, then he is not. Once I thought I saw him from across a room, but I cannot be certain, as it was only his back as he made his departure.

I don't know what I may do about all of this. I cannot call upon him. It would be the height of impropriety. Lady Rudland has forbidden even Olivia from visiting him; he is at The Albany, and it is strictly gentlemen. No families or widows.

"What do you plan to wear to the Worthington ball tonight?" Olivia asked, splashing three sugars into her tea.

"Is that tonight?" Miranda's fingers tightened around her teacup. Turner had promised her he'd attend the Worthington ball and dance with her. Surely he wouldn't renege on a promise.

He would be there. And if he wasn't…

She would simply have to make sure he was.

"I'm wearing my green silk," Olivia said. "Unless you want to wear your green dress. You do look lovely in green."

"Do you think so?" Miranda straightened. Suddenly it was imperative that she look her absolute best.

"Mmm-hmm. But it wouldn't do for both of us to wear the same color, so you'll have to decide soon."

"What do you recommend?" Miranda wasn't hopeless when it came to fashion, but she would never have as good an eye as Olivia.

Olivia tilted her head to the side as she examined her friend. "With your coloring, I do wish you could wear something more vivid, but Mama says we are still too new. But maybe…" She jumped up, snatched a pale sage green pillow from a nearby chair, and held it up under Miranda's chin. "Hmmm."

"Are you planning to redecorate me?"

"Hold this," Olivia ordered, and she backed up several steps, letting out a ladylike "Euf!" when her foot caught on a table leg. "Yes, yes," she murmured, catching her balance with the arm of the sofa. "It's perfect."

Miranda looked down. And then up. "I'm to wear a pillow?"

"No, you will wear my green silk. It is precisely the same color. We shall have Annie take it in today."

"But what will you wear?"

"Oh, anything," Olivia said with a wave of her hand. "Something pink. The gentlemen always seem to go mad for pink. Makes me look like a confection, I'm told."

"You don't mind being a confection?" Because Miranda would hate it.

"I don't mind them thinking it," Olivia corrected. "It gives me the upper hand. There is often benefit in being underestimated. But you…" She shook her head. "You need something more subtle. Sophisticated."

Miranda picked up her tea for one last sip, then stood, smoothing out the soft muslin of her day frock. "I should go try it on now," she said. "To give Annie time to make the alterations."

And besides that, she had some correspondence to attend to.


* * *

Turner was discovering, as he tied his cravat with nimble fingers, that his talent for the invective was broader and deeper than he'd realized. He'd found a hundred things to malign since he'd received that blasted note from Miranda earlier that afternoon. But most of all, he was cursing himself, and whatever sodding sense of honor he still possessed.

Attending the Worthington ball was the height of folly- quite the most asinine thing he could possibly do. But he couldn't bloody well break a promise to the chit, even if it was for her own good.

Holy hell. This was not what he needed right now.

He looked back down at the note. He had promised to dance with her if she lacked partners, had he? Well, that shouldn't be a problem. He'd simply make sure she had more partners than she knew what to do with. She'd be the bloody belle of the ball.

He supposed that as long as he had to attend this deuced party, he ought to go ahead and examine the young widows. With any luck, Miranda would see exactly where he planned to devote his attentions, and she'd realize that she ought to look elsewhere.

He winced. He didn't like the thought of upsetting her. Hell, he liked the chit. He always had.