She didn't look at him once. He knew. He was watching.

And so finally, since he could not tolerate another hour of this silence, nor could he bring himself to ponder what, exactly, this silence meant, he spoke.

"I do not mean to insult, Miranda," he said quietly, "but I know when something is a bad idea. And dallying with you is an extremely bad idea."

She didn't turn, but he heard her say, "Why?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "What are you thinking, Miranda? Don't you give a damn for your reputation? If word gets out about us, you'll be ruined."

"Or you'll have to marry me," she said in a low, mocking voice.

"Which I have no intention of doing. You know that." He swore under his breath. Dear God, that had come out wrong. "I don't want to marry anyone," he explained. "You know that, as well."

"What I know," she shot back, her eyes flashing with un-concealed fury, "is that- " And then she stopped, clamping her mouth shut and crossing her arms.

"What?" he demanded.

She turned back to the window. "You wouldn't understand." And then: "Nor would you listen."

Her contemptuous tone was like nails under his skin. "Oh, please. Petulance does not suit you."

She whirled around. "And how should I act? Tell me, what am I supposed to feel?"

His lip curled. "Grateful?"

"Grateful?"

He sat back, his entire body a study of insolence. "I could have seduced you, you know. Easily. But I didn't."

She gasped and drew back, and when she spoke, her voice was low and lethal. "You're hateful, Turner."

"I'm just telling you the truth. And do you know why I didn't do more? Why I didn't peel your nightgown from your body and lay you down and take you right there on the sofa?"

Her eyes widened and her breath grew audible, and he knew he was being crude and crass and, yes, hateful, but he could not stop himself, could not stop the bluntness, because, damn it, she had to understand. She had to understand who he really was, and what he was capable of, and what he was not.

And this- this. Her. He had managed to do the honorable thing for her, and she wasn't even grateful?

"I'll tell you," he practically hissed. "I stopped out of respect for you. And I'll tell you something- " He stopped, swore, and she looked at him in question, daringly, provokingly, as if to say- You don't even know what you mean to say.

But that was the problem. He did know, and he had been about to tell her how much he had wanted her. How if they had been anywhere but his parents' home, he was not certain he would have stopped.

He was not certain he could have stopped.

But she did not need to know that. She should not know it. That sort of power over him, he did not need.

"Can you believe it," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I did not want to ruin your future."

"Leave my future to me," she replied angrily. "I know what I'm doing."

He snorted disdainfully. "You're twenty years old. You think you know everything."

She glared at him.

"When I was twenty, I thought I knew everything." he said with a shrug.

Her eyes turned sad. "So did I," she said softly.

Turner tried to ignore the unpleasant knot of guilt twisting about in his belly. He wasn't even sure why he felt guilty, and in fact the whole thing was ridiculous. He shouldn't be made to feel guilty for not taking her innocence, and all he could think to say was, "You'll thank me for this someday."

She looked at him in disbelief. "You sound like your mother."

"You're getting surly."

"Can you blame me? You're treating me like a child, when you know very well I'm a woman."

The knot of guilt grew tentacles.

"I can make my own decisions," she said defiantly.

"Obviously not." He leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Or you wouldn't have let me push down your dress last week and kiss your breasts."

She blushed with the deep crimson of shame, and her voice shook with accusation as she said, "Don't try to say that this is my fault."

He closed his eyes and raked both hands through his hair, aware that he had just said something very, very stupid. "Of course it's not your fault, Miranda. Please forget I said that."

"Just like you want me to forget you kissed me." Her voice was devoid of emotion.

"Yes." He looked over at her and saw a kind of deadness in her eyes, something he had never before seen on her face. "Oh, God, Miranda, don't look like that."

"Don't do this, do do that," she burst out. "Forget this, don't forget that. Make up your mind, Turner. I don't know what you want. And I don't think you do, either."

"I'm nine years older than you," he said in an awful voice. "Don't talk down to me."

"So sorry, Your Highness."

"Don't do this, Miranda."

And her face, which had been so closed and bitter, suddenly exploded with emotion. "Stop telling me what to do! Did it ever occur to you that I wanted you to kiss me? That I wanted you to want me? And you do, you know. I'm not so naive that you can convince me you don't."

Turner could only stare at her, whispering, "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do!" Her eyes flashed, and her hands curled into shaking fists, and he had a terrible, awful premonition that this was it, this was the moment. Everything depended on this moment, and he knew, without even a thought to what she would say, and what he would say in return, that it would not end well.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," she said. "I want you."

His body tightened, and his heart thundered in his chest. But he could not allow this to continue. "Miranda, you only think you want me," he said quickly. "You have never kissed anyone else, and- "

"Don't patronize me." Her eyes locked with his, and they were hot with desire. "I know what I want, and I want you."

He took a ragged breath. He deserved to be sainted for what he was about to say. "No, you don't. It's an infatuation."

"Damn you!" she exploded. "Are you blind? Are you deaf, dumb, and blind? It's not an infatuation, you idiot! I love you!"

Oh, my God.

"I've always loved you! Since I first met you nine years ago. I've loved you all along, every minute."

"Oh, my God."

"And don't try to tell me that it's a childhood crush because it's not. It may have been at one point, but it's not any longer."

He said nothing. He just sat there like an imbecile and stared at her.

"I just- I know my own heart, and I love you, Turner. And if you have even the tiniest shred of decency, you'll say something, because I've said everything I possibly can, and I can't bear the silence, and- oh, for heaven's sake! Will you at least blink?"

He couldn't even manage that.

Chapter 10

Two days later, Turner still seemed to be in something of a daze.

Miranda hadn't tried to speak with him, hadn't even approached him, but every now and then, she would catch him looking at her with an unfathomable expression. She knew that she had unsettled him because he didn't even have the presence of mind to look away when their eyes met. He'd just stare at her for a few moments longer, then blink and turn away.

Miranda kept hoping that just one time he'd nod.

Still, for most of the weekend they managed to never be in the same place at the same time. If Turner went riding, Miranda explored the orangery. If Miranda took a walk in the gardens, Turner played cards.

Very civilized. Very adult.

And, Miranda thought more than once, very heartbreaking.

They did not see each other even at meals. Lady Chester prided herself on her matchmaking abilities, and because it was unfathomable that Turner and Miranda might become romantically involved, she did not seat them near each other. Turner was always surrounded by a gaggle of pretty young things, and Miranda more often than not was relegated to keeping company with graying widowers. She supposed Lady Chester did not hold much stock in her ability to snare an eligible husband. Olivia, by contrast, was always seated with three extremely handsome and wealthy men, one to her left, one to her right, and one across the table.

Miranda learned quite a bit about home remedies for gout.

Lady Chester had, however, left the pairings for one of her planned events to chance, and that was her annual treasure hunt. The guests were to search in teams of two. And since the aim of all the guests was to get married or embark upon an affair (depending, of course, on one's current marital status), each team would be made up of one male and one female. Lady Chester had written out her guests' names on slips of paper and then put all the ladies in one bag and the gentlemen in the other.

She was presently dipping her hand into one of these bags. Miranda felt sick to her stomach.

"Sir Anthony Waldove and…" Lady Chester thrust her hand into the other bag. "Lady Rudland."

Miranda exhaled, not realizing until then that she had been holding her breath. She would do anything to be paired up with Turner- and anything to avoid it.

"Poor Mama," Olivia whispered in her ear. "Sir Anthony Waldove is really quite dim. She will have to do all the work."

Miranda put her finger to her lips. "I can't hear."

"Mr. William Fitzhugh and…Miss Charlotte Glad-dish."

"With whom do you wish to be paired?" Olivia asked.

Miranda shrugged. If she was not assigned to Turner, it didn't really matter.

"Lord Turner and…"

Miranda's heart stopped beating.

"…Lady Olivia Bevelstoke. Isn't that sweet? We have been doing this for five years, and this is our first brother-sister team."