But Leticia’s death, in addition to being tragic, had been particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just six weeks, however, as Leticia had not been a sister in blood.
They would be only a little bit late in their arrival for the season. It couldn’t be helped.
Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball positively terrified her. It wasn’t that she was shy, precisely, because she didn’t think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.
Can’t be helped
, she thought as she made her way down the stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company. Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly night. On the other hand—
Hmmm…what was that?
She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had a fire burning in Lord Rudland’s study. Miranda couldn’t imagine that anyone was still up and about—the Bevelstokes always retired early.
She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached the open door.
“Oh!”
Turner looked up from his father’s chair. “Miss Miranda,” he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy sprawl. “Quelle surprise.”
Turner wasn’t certain why he wasn’t surprised to see Miss Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father’s study. When he’d heard footsteps in the hall, he’d somehow known it had to be she. True, his family tended to sleep like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search of a snack or something to read.
But it had been more than the process of elimination that had led him to Miranda as the obvious choice. She was a watcher, that one, always there, always observing the scene with those owlish eyes of hers. He couldn’t remember when he’d first met her—probably before the chit had been out of leading strings. She was a fixture, really, somehow always there, even at times like these, when it ought to have been only family.
“I’ll go,” she said.
“No, don’t,” he replied, because…because why?
Because he felt like making mischief?
Because he’d had too much to drink?
Because he didn’t want to be alone?
“Stay,” he said, waving his arm expansively. Surely there had to be somewhere else to sit in here. “Have a drink.”
Her eyes widened.
“Didn’t think they could get any bigger,” he muttered.
“I can’t drink,” she said.
“Can’t you?”
“I shouldn’t,” she corrected, and he thought he saw her brows draw together. Good, he’d irritated her. It was good to know he could still provoke a woman, even one as unschooled as she.
“You’re here,” he said with a shrug. “You might as well have a brandy.”
For a moment she held still, and he could swear he could hear her brain whirring. Finally, she set her little book on a table near the door and stepped forward. “Just one,” she said.
He smiled. “Because you know your limit?”
Her eyes met his. “Because I don’t know my limit.”
“Such wisdom in one so young,” he murmured.
“I’m nineteen,” she said, not defiantly, just as statement of fact.
He lifted a brow. “As I said…”