* * *

The next morning, Turner's head was throbbing, and his mind certainly was not any more disposed to deal with the matter at hand than it had been the night before. Of course, he still planned to marry Miranda- a gentleman did not compromise a wellborn lady without paying the consequences.

But he hated this feeling of being rushed. It didn't matter that this mess was entirely of his own making; he needed to feel that he had sorted everything out to his own satisfaction.

This was why, when he went down for breakfast, the letter from his friend Lord Harry Winthrop was such a welcome diversion. Harry was contemplating buying some property in Kent. Would Turner like to come down and take a look at it and offer his opinion?

Turner was out the door in under an hour. It was only for a few days. He would take care of Miranda when he got back.


* * *

Miranda didn't mind terribly that Turner had left the house party early. She would have done the same had she been able. Besides, she could think more clearly with him gone, and although there wasn't really much to debate- she had behaved in a manner contrary to every tenet of her up-bringing, and if she did not marry Turner, she would be forever disgraced- it was a bit of a relief to feel at least slightly in control of her emotions.

When they returned to London a few days later, Miranda fully expected Turner to show his face immediately. She didn't particularly want to trap him into marriage, but a gentleman was a gentleman and a lady was a lady, and when the two of them were put together, a wedding usually followed. He knew that. He'd said he would marry her.

And surely he would want to do it. She had been so deeply moved by their intimacy- he must have felt something, too. It could not have been one-sided, at least not completely.

She managed a casual tone when she asked Lady Rudland where he was, but his mother replied that she hadn't the slightest idea except that he had left town. Miranda's chest grew tight, and she murmured, "Oh," or "I see," or something like that before dashing up the stairs to her room, where she wept as quietly as she could.

But soon her optimistic side broke through, and she decided that perhaps he had been called away from town on emergency estate business. It was a long way up to Northumberland. He would certainly be gone at least a week.

A week came and went, and frustration built up next to the despair in Miranda's heart. She could not inquire as to his whereabouts- no one in the Bevelstoke family realized that the two were close- Miranda had always been considered Olivia's friend, not Turner's- and if she asked repeatedly where he was, it would look suspicious. And it went without saying that Miranda could have no logical reason to go to Turner's lodgings and inquire herself. That would ruin her reputation completely. At least now her disgrace was still a private matter.

When another week passed, however, she decided that she couldn't bear to remain in London any longer. She fabricated an illness for her father and told the Bevelstokes that she had to return to Cumberland immediately to care for him. They were all terribly concerned, and Miranda felt somewhat guilty when Lady Rudland insisted that she travel back in their coach with two outriders and a maid.

But it had to be done. She could not remain in London any longer. It hurt too much.

A few days later, she was home. Her father was perplexed. He didn't know very much about young women, but he'd been assured that they all wanted seasons in London. But he didn't mind; Miranda was certainly never a bother. Half the time he didn't even realize she was there. So he patted her on the hand and returned to his precious manuscripts.

As for Miranda, she almost convinced herself that she was happy to be back at home. She'd missed the green fields and clean air of the Lakes, the sedate pace of the village, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise attitude. Well, perhaps not that- with no commitments and nothing to do, she slept in until noon and stayed up late every night, scribbling furiously in her journal.

A letter arrived from Olivia only two days after Miranda did. Miranda smiled as she opened it- trust Olivia to be so impatient that she would send up a missive right away. Miranda's eyes flew over the letter for Turner's name before reading it, but there was no mention of him. Not quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved, she turned back to the beginning and began to read. London was dull without her, Olivia wrote. She hadn't realized how much she had enjoyed Miranda's wry observations of society until they were gone. When was she coming home? Was her father improved? If not, was he at least improving? (Thrice underlined, in typical Olivia fashion.) Miranda read those sentences with a pang in her conscience. Her father was downstairs in his study poring over his manuscripts without even the teeniest of sniffles.

With a sigh, Miranda shoved her conscience over to the side and folded Olivia's letter, placing it in her desk drawer. A lie wasn't always a sin, she decided. Surely she was justified in whatever she had to do to get away from London, where all she could do was sit and wait and hope that Turner would stop by.

Of course, all she did in the country was sit and think about him. One evening she forced herself to count how many times his name appeared in her journal entry, and to her supreme disgust, the total was thirty-seven.

Clearly, this trip to the country was not clearing her mind.

Then, after a week and a half, Olivia arrived on a surprise visit.

"Livvy, what are you doing here?" Miranda asked as she rushed into the parlor where her friend was waiting. "Is someone hurt? Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," Olivia returned breezily. "I've just come up to retrieve you. You are desperately needed in London."

Miranda's heart began to thump erratically. "By whom?"

"By me!" Olivia linked arms with her and led her into the sitting room. "Good heavens, I am an utter disaster without you."

"Your mother let you leave town in the middle of the season? I don't believe it."

"She practically shoved me out the door. I've been beastly since you left."

Miranda laughed despite herself. "Surely it hasn't been that bad."

"I do not jest. Mama always told me that you were a good influence, but I don't think she realized just how much until you left." Olivia flashed a guilty smile. "I can't seem to curb my tongue."

"You never could." Miranda smiled and led the way to a sofa. "Would you like some tea?"

Olivia nodded. "I don't understand why I get into so much trouble. Most of what I say isn't half as bad as what you say. You've the wickedest tongue in London."

Miranda pulled the bell cord for a maid. "I do not."

"Oh, yes, you do. You are the worst. And I know you know it. And you never get into trouble for any of it. It's terribly unfair."

"Yes, well, perhaps I don't say things quite as loudly as you do," Miranda replied, biting back a smile.

"You're right," Olivia sighed. "I know you're right, but it's still vastly annoying. You really do have a wicked sense of humor."

"Oh, come now, I'm not that bad."

Olivia let out a short laugh. "Oh, yes you are. Turner always says so, too, so I know it's not just me."

Miranda gulped down the quickly forming lump in her throat at the mention of his name. "Is he back in town, then?" she asked, oh-so-casually.

"No. I haven't seen him in ages. He's off in Kent somewhere with his friends."

Kent? One couldn't travel much farther from Cumberland and still remain in Britain, Miranda thought gloomily. "He's been gone quite some time."

"Yes, he has, hasn't he? But then again, he's off with Lord Harry Winthrop, and Harry has always been more than a little wild, if you know what I mean."

Miranda feared that she did.

"I'm sure they've just got carried away with wine, women, and the sort," Olivia continued. "There won't be any proper ladies in attendance, I'm sure."

The lump in Miranda's throat quickly reappeared. The thought of Turner with another woman was violently painful, especially now that she knew just how close a man and woman could be. She had made up all sorts of reasons for his absence- her days were filled with rationalizations and excuses on his behalf. It was, she thought bitterly, her only pastime.

But she had never thought that he was off with another woman. He knew how painful it was to be betrayed. How could he do the same to her?

He didn't want her. The truth stung and it slapped and it dug its nasty little nails right into her heart.

He didn't want her, and she still wanted him so badly, and it hurt. It was physical. She could feel it, squeezing and pinching, and thank heavens Olivia was examining her father's prized Grecian vase, because she did not think she could keep her agony off her face.

With some sort of grunted comment that wasn't meant to be understood, Miranda stood and quickly crossed to the window, pretending to look out over the horizon. "Well, he must be having a good time," she managed to get out.

"Turner?" she heard from behind her. "He must, or he wouldn't be staying so long. Mama is in a despair, or she would be, if she weren't so busy despairing over me. Now, do you mind if I stay here with you? Haverbreaks is so big and drafty when no one is home."

"Of course I don't mind." Miranda remained at the window for a few moments longer, until she thought that she could look at Olivia without bursting into tears. She had been so emotional lately. "It will be quite a treat for me. It's a bit lonely with only Father to keep me company."