Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever by Julia Quinn Page B

that I possess ample funds. And if you would only allow me to inspect Le Morte d’Arthur , I might be persuaded to part with them.”
    He crossed his arms. “I don’t sell books to women.”
    And really, that was too much. “I beg your pardon.”
    â€œLeave,” he spat, “or I will have you forcibly removed.”
    â€œThat would be a mistake, sir,” Miranda countered sharply. “Do you know who we are?” It was not her habit to pull rank, but she was not averse to doing so if the occasion warranted.
    The bookseller was unimpressed. “I am certain I do not care.”
    â€œMiranda,” Olivia pleaded, looking acutely uncomfortable.
    â€œI am Miss Miranda Cheever, daughter of Sir Rupert Cheever, and this,” Miranda said with a flourish, “is Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, daughter of the Earl of Rudland. I suggest you reconsider your policy.”
    He met her haughty glare with one of his own. “I don’t care if you’re bloody Princess Charlotte. Get out of my shop.”
    Miranda narrowed her eyes before she moved to leave.It was bad enough that he’d insulted her. But to impugn the memory of the princess—it was beyond the pale. “You have not heard the end of this, sir.”
    â€œOut!”
    She took Olivia’s arm and left the premises in a huff, giving the door a good slam just to be contrary. “Can you believe him?” she said once they were safely outside. “That was appalling. It was criminal. It was—”
    â€œA gentlemen’s bookshop,” Olivia cut in, looking at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a spare head.
    â€œAnd?”
    Olivia stiffened at her nearly belligerent tone. “There are gentlemen’s bookshops, and there are ladies’ bookshops. It’s the way of things.”
    Miranda’s fists curled into tight little balls. “It’s a bloody stupid way, if you ask me.”
    â€œMiranda!” Olivia audibly gasped. “What did you just say?”
    Miranda had the grace to blush at her foul language. “Do you see how upset he made me? Have you ever known me to curse aloud before?”
    â€œNo, and I’m not sure I want to know how much cursing you’re doing in your mind.”
    â€œIt’s asinine,” Miranda fumed. “Absolutely asinine. He had something I wanted to buy, and I had the money to pay for it. It should have been a simple matter.”
    Olivia glanced down the road. “Why don’t we just go to the ladies’ bookshop?”
    â€œThere is nothing I would rather do under normal circumstances. I certainly would prefer not to patronize thatdreadful man’s store. But I doubt they will have the same copy of Le Morte d’Arthur , Livvy. I’m certain it’s a singular item. And worse —” Miranda’s voice rose as the injustice of it all sank in more firmly. “And worse—”
    â€œIt gets worse?”
    Miranda shot her an irritated look but nonetheless replied, “Yes. It does. The worst of it is, even if there were two copies, which I’m quite certain there are not, the ladies’ bookshop probably would not carry one, anyway, because no one would think that a lady would wish for such a book!”
    â€œThey wouldn’t?”
    â€œNo. It’s probably full of Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels.”
    â€œI like Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels,” Olivia said, sounding vaguely affronted.
    â€œSo do I,” Miranda assured her, “but I enjoy other literature as well. And I certainly do not think it is the place of that man”—she jabbed an angry finger toward the bookshop window—“to decide what I may or may not read.”
    Olivia stared at her for a moment, then politely asked, “Are you quite done?”
    Miranda smoothed her skirts and sniffed. “Quite.”
    Olivia’s back was to the bookshop, and she sent a rueful glance over her