He gave his head a shake. He wasn't going to upset her. Not much, anyway. And besides, he would make it up to her.

Belle of the ball, he reminded himself as he stepped into his carriage and steeled himself for what was certain to be a most trying evening.

Belle. Of. The. Ball.


* * *

Olivia spotted Turner the moment he entered. "Oh, look," she said, nudging Miranda with her elbow. "My brother is here."

"He is?" Miranda replied breathlessly.

"Mmm-hmm." Olivia straightened, her brows coming together. "I haven't seen him for ages, now that I think on it. Have you?"

Miranda shook her head absently as she craned her neck, trying to spot Turner.

"He's over there speaking with Duncan Abbott," Olivia informed her. "I wonder what they're talking about. Mr. Abbott is quite political."

"Is he?"

"Oh, yes. I should love to have a discussion with him, but he probably wouldn't care to discuss politics with a woman. Annoying, that."

Miranda was about to nod her agreement when Olivia furrowed her brow again and said in an irritated voice, "Now he's talking to Lord Westholme."

"Olivia, the man is allowed to speak with whomever he likes," Miranda said, but inside, she, too, was growing irritated that Turner was not making his way over to them.

"I know, but he ought to come and greet us first. We're family."

"Well, you are, at least."

"Don't be silly. You're family, too, Miranda." Olivia's mouth opened in an outraged little O. "Will you look at that? He's gone in quite the opposite direction."

"Who is that man he's talking to? I don't recognize him."

"The Duke of Ashbourne. Devilishly handsome fellow, don't you think? I think he's been abroad. Having a holiday with his wife. They're quite devoted to one another, I understand."

Miranda thought it a positive sign to hear that at least one ton marriage was happy. Still, Turner certainly wasn't about to ask for her hand if he couldn't be bothered to walk across a ballroom to say hello. She frowned.

"Excuse me, Lady Olivia. I believe this is my dance."

Olivia and Miranda looked up. A handsome young man whose name neither could recall was standing before them.

"Of course," Olivia said quickly. "How silly of me to have forgotten."

"I believe I will get a glass of lemonade," Miranda said with a smile. She knew that Olivia always felt awkward when she went off for a dance and left Miranda alone.

"Are you certain?"

"Go. Go."

Olivia floated out onto the dance floor, and Miranda started to make her way to a footman who was pouring lemonade. As usual, she had been claimed for only about half of the dances. And where was Turner, she might ask, after he had promised to dance with her if she lacked partners?

Horrid, horrid man.

Somehow, it felt good to malign him in her mind, even if she didn't quite believe it.

Miranda had made it about halfway to the lemonade when she felt a firm masculine hand on her elbow. Turner? She whirled around, but was disappointed to find a gentleman she did not know but whose face looked vaguely familiar.

"Miss Cheever?"

Miranda nodded.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

"Why yes, of course, but I do not believe we have been introduced."

"Oh, forgive me, please. I am Westholme."

Lord Westholme? Wasn't he the gentleman Turner had been talking to just a few moments earlier? Miranda smiled at him, but her mind was frowning. She had never been a great believer in coincidences.

Lord Westholme proved to be an excellent dancer, and the pair whirled effortlessly around the floor. When the music drew to a close, he bowed elegantly and escorted her to the perimeter of the room.

"Thank you for a lovely dance, Lord Westholme," Miranda said graciously.

"It is I who should thank you, Miss Cheever. I hope that we may repeat this pleasure soon."

Miranda noticed that Lord Westholme had managed to deposit her as far away from the lemonade as possible. It had been a white lie when she told Olivia she was thirsty, but now she was really quite parched. With a sigh, she realized that she would have to wiggle her way back through the crowd. She had not taken two steps toward the refreshments when another elegant, eminently eligible young man stepped in front of her. She recognized this one immediately. It was Mr. Abbott, the politically minded gentlemen with whom Turner had also been conversing.

Within seconds, Miranda was back on the dance floor and growing very irritated, indeed.

Not that she could fault her partners. If Turner had found it necessary to bribe men into dancing with her, at least he'd chosen handsome, well-mannered ones. Nevertheless, when Mr. Abbott led her from the dance floor, and she saw the Duke of Ashbourne making his way toward her, Miranda beat a hasty retreat.

Did he think she had no pride? Did he think she would appreciate his cajoling his friends into asking her to dance? It was humiliating. And even worse was the implication that he was getting those men to dance with her because he couldn't be bothered to do so himself. Tears pricked her eyes, and Miranda, terrified that she would spill them in the ballroom in full view of the ton, darted out into a deserted corridor.

She leaned back against a wall and took great big gulps of air. His rejection didn't just sting. It stabbed. It shot bullets. And its aim was accurate to a degree.

This was not like all those years when he had viewed her as a child. Then at least she could be consoled by telling herself that he did not know what he was missing. But now he did. Now he knew exactly what he was missing, and he didn't care a bit.

Miranda could not remain in the hallway all night, but she was not ready to return to the party, so she made her way out to the garden. It was a small patch of green, but well proportioned and tastefully laid out. Miranda sat down on a stone bench in the corner of the garden that faced back toward the house. Large glass doors opened onto the ballroom, and for several minutes she watched the lords and ladies twirling to the music. She sniffled and pulled off one of her gloves so she could wipe her nose with her hand. "My kingdom for a handkerchief," she said with a sigh.

Maybe she could feign illness and go home.

She tested out a little cough. Maybe she really was ill. Really, there was no sense in her staying the rest of the ball. The aim was to be pretty and sociable and engaging, wasn't it? There was no way she was going to manage any of that this evening.

And then she saw a flash of gold.

Gold-touched hair, to be more precise.

It was Turner. Of course. How could it not be he, when she was sitting off by herself, pathetic and alone? He was walking through the French doors that led to the garden.

And there was a woman on his arm.

A strange lump rolled about in her throat, and Miranda did not know whether to laugh or cry. Would she be spared no humiliation? Breath catching in her throat, she scooted down to the edge of the bench where she would be more hidden by shadows.

Who was that? She'd seen her before. Lady Something-or-other. A widow, she'd heard, and very, very wealthy and independent. She didn't look like a widow. Truth be told, she didn't look much older than Miranda.

Murmuring an insincere apology to no one in particular, Miranda strained her ears to hear their conversation. But the wind was carrying their words in the opposite direction, so she heard only the barest of snatches. Finally, after what sounded like "I'm not certain," from the lady's lips, Turner leaned down and kissed her.

Miranda's heart shattered.

The lady murmured something she could not hear and returned to the ballroom. Turner remained in the garden, his hands on his hips, staring enigmatically up at the moon.

Go away, Miranda wanted to scream. Go! She was trapped there until he left, and all she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed. And possibly never get out. But that did not appear to be an option just then, so she scooted farther along the bench, trying to cloak herself with even more shadows.

Turner's head moved sharply in her direction. Blast! He'd heard her. He squinted his eyes and took a couple of steps in her direction. Then he shut his eyes and slowly shook his head.

"Damn it, Miranda," he said with a sigh. "Please tell me that isn't you."


* * *

And here the evening had been going so well. He had managed to avoid Miranda completely, he had finally got himself introduced to the lovely Widow Bidwell- only twenty-five years young- and the champagne wasn't even that bad, either.

But no, the gods were clearly not inclined to grant him any favors. There she was. Miranda. Sitting on a bench, watching him. Presumably watching him kiss the widow.

Good Lord.

"Damn it, Miranda," he said with a sigh. "Please tell me that isn't you."

"It isn't me."

She was trying to sound proud, but her voice held a hollow edge that pierced him. He closed his eyes for a moment because, damn it, she wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to have these sorts of complications in his life. Why couldn't anything ever be simple and easy?

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She shrugged a little. "I wanted some fresh air."

He took a few more steps toward her until he was as deeply embedded in the shadows as she was. "Were you spying on me?"

"You must have a very high opinion of yourself."

"Were you?" he demanded.

"No, of course not," she retorted, her chin drawing back with anger. "I don't stoop to spying. You ought to inspect your gardens more carefully the next time you plan a tryst."