Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever by Julia Quinn

lips, and the governess was back. “Well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose.”
    He smiled and leaned in, just a hint. “I think I’d be far more likely to make my way to your side.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” she mumbled.
    â€œI’m not,” he assured her. “But then again, I am older than most of those fools with my sister. Perhaps my tastes have mellowed. But the point is moot, I suppose, because I’m not a young buck, and I’m not nosing around this year’s crop of debutantes.”
    â€œAnd you’re not looking for a wife.” It was a statement, not a question.
    â€œGod , no,” he blurted out. “What on earth would I do with a wife?”
    2 J UNE 1819
    Lady Rudland announced at breakfast that last night’s ball was a smashing success. I could not help but smile over her choice of words—I do not think anyone refused her invitation, and I vow the room was as crowded as any I have ever experienced. I certainly felt smashed up against all sorts of perfect strangers. I do believe I must be a country girl at heart because I am not so certain that I wish to ever again be quite so intimate with my fellow man.
    I said so at breakfast, and Turner spit his coffee. Lady Rudland sent him a murderous glare, but I cannot imagine she is that enamored of her table linens.
    Turner intends to remain in town for only a week or two, he is staying with us at Rudland House, which is lovely and terrible, all at once.
    Lady Rudland reported that some crotchety old dowager (her words, not mine, and she would not reveal her identity in any case) said that I was acting Too Familiar with Turner and that people might get the Wrong Idea.
    She said that she told the c.o.d. (cod! how apt!) that Turner and I are practically brother and sister, and that it is only natural that I would rely upon him at my debut ball, and that there are no Wrong Ideas to be had.
    I am wondering if there is ever a Right Idea in London.

Chapter 5
    A week or so later, the sun was shining so brightly that Miranda and Olivia, missing their frequent sojourns in the country, decided to spend the morning exploring London. At Olivia’s insistence, they began in the shopping district.
    â€œI certainly don’t need another dress,” Miranda said as they strolled down the street, their maids a respectful distance behind them.
    â€œNeither do I, but it’s always great fun to look, and besides, we might find a trinket or such to buy with our pin money. Your birthday will be here before we know it. You should purchase yourself a treat.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    They wandered through dress shops, milliners, jewelers, and sweet shops before Miranda found what she hadn’t even known she’d been looking for.
    â€œLook at that, Olivia,” she breathed. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
    â€œIsn’t what magnificent?” Olivia replied, peering into the elegantly dressed window of the bookshop.
    â€œThat.” Miranda pointed her finger toward an exquisitely bound copy of Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. It looked rich and lovely, and Miranda wanted nothing more than to lean right through the window and inhale the air that wafted around it.
    For the first time in her life, she saw something that she simply had to have. Forget economy. Forget practicality. She sighed—a deep, soulful, needy breath, and said, “I think I finally understand what you mean about shoes.”
    â€œShoes?” Olivia echoed, looking down at her feet. “Shoes?”
    Miranda didn’t bother to explain further. She was too busy tilting her head so that she could peer at the gold leaf that edged the pages.
    â€œAnd we’ve read that already,” Olivia continued. “I believe it was two years ago—when Miss Lacey was hired on as our governess. Don’t you recall? She was all aghast that we hadn’t got to it yet.”
    â€œIt’s not