more.
Miranda followed. “That doesn’t sound so awful as jokes go.”
“I paraphrased only. He didn’t imply actual marriage.”
“So circumspect, Mr. Turner.” Miranda spread her hands. “You forget: I have no sensibilities to offend. I was raised by actors.”
“Very well, then. He said I must be tumbling Lady Justice—‘It would account for the hours, and would explain why you’re cold as stone.’ I can’t hear the name now without calling to mind that ribald jest.”
He cast a glance at her. Just a simple glance, but it reminded Miranda of a time she’d slipped in winter and slammed her palms on the ice to break her fall. Maybe he was cold, but sometimes ice burned.
He was walking at a good clip. His route dipped behind buildings, around squares, avoiding the crowds nearer the water’s edge.
“You’re not cold,” Miranda offered. “You’re…controlled. Besides, if you’re a duke’s brother, why aren’t you Lord—um—Lord…” She trailed off. She didn’t know his Christian name. There was a book somewhere that listed it, doubtless. She’d never seen it.
Little droplets of rain began misting down. Beside her, he swept up his umbrella and pushed it open.
“You mean, why am I not called Lord Andrew or Lord John, like a proper duke’s son?”
She nodded.
“Simple. I’m not named John.” He spared her another glance. “You’d better walk closer. No point in your getting wet.”
She stepped toward him.
“No, all the way,” he said. “If you keep your distance, I’m liable to poke your eye out with the ribs.”
She stepped under his umbrella. No doubt it was her imagination, but it was warmer close to him. He smelled like clean, uncomplicated soap—just soap, no fussy perfumes or scents. The rain intensified, drumming into the fabric above.
“‘It’s efficient to feed the cats,’” she said, mimicking his gruff tone. “‘If you don’t share my umbrella, I might accidentally blind you.’ I believe you’re speaking English, Turner, but I’m not sure you’re doing a good job of it. It makes a girl wonder what you meant by, ‘Here, let me take you to gaol.’”
“I always mean precisely what I say, even if I don’t say precisely what I mean.”
She was trying to work that one out, when he continued.
“As for the other, I’m not a duke’s son, which is the normal method of acquiring a courtesy title. My brother is a duke, but he took the title from a distant relation. I am just Mr. Turner.”
They’d reached the Prince Street Bridge. He stopped at the edge of the water and rubbed his cheek.
From here, they could see the city’s docks spread out before them. The harbor was full these days. A slim three-masted ship had been hoisted in the dry docks, and a crew scraped barnacles from her hull.
Beside her, Lord Justice— Turner —took a deep breath, and stared ahead.
“Are you much interested in ships?” she asked.
“Your pardon?”
“I ask only because you’ve stopped to look. I took Robbie to the launch of the Great Britain last summer.” She frowned. “It’s still in dock. I don’t know why. It’s been months.”
He turned to where she was looking. “It won’t fit out the locks.” He started across the bridge, his pace even faster.
She jogged along beside him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the largest steamship ever built from iron. While she was being built, Bristol made some alterations to the locks that regulate the level of the Floating Harbour. Now the locks are too small—or the ship is too big—and she’s trapped until the company can convince the harbormaster to widen the locks. It’s an incredible waste.”
They reached the other side of the river.
“Do you know much about ships, then? It’s the only thing Robbie will talk about. I’ve tried to speak with him about them, but mostly, when I make an attempt, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘That’s not a ship you’re pointing to; it’s a boat.’”
“I know
Miranda followed. “That doesn’t sound so awful as jokes go.”
“I paraphrased only. He didn’t imply actual marriage.”
“So circumspect, Mr. Turner.” Miranda spread her hands. “You forget: I have no sensibilities to offend. I was raised by actors.”
“Very well, then. He said I must be tumbling Lady Justice—‘It would account for the hours, and would explain why you’re cold as stone.’ I can’t hear the name now without calling to mind that ribald jest.”
He cast a glance at her. Just a simple glance, but it reminded Miranda of a time she’d slipped in winter and slammed her palms on the ice to break her fall. Maybe he was cold, but sometimes ice burned.
He was walking at a good clip. His route dipped behind buildings, around squares, avoiding the crowds nearer the water’s edge.
“You’re not cold,” Miranda offered. “You’re…controlled. Besides, if you’re a duke’s brother, why aren’t you Lord—um—Lord…” She trailed off. She didn’t know his Christian name. There was a book somewhere that listed it, doubtless. She’d never seen it.
Little droplets of rain began misting down. Beside her, he swept up his umbrella and pushed it open.
“You mean, why am I not called Lord Andrew or Lord John, like a proper duke’s son?”
She nodded.
“Simple. I’m not named John.” He spared her another glance. “You’d better walk closer. No point in your getting wet.”
She stepped toward him.
“No, all the way,” he said. “If you keep your distance, I’m liable to poke your eye out with the ribs.”
She stepped under his umbrella. No doubt it was her imagination, but it was warmer close to him. He smelled like clean, uncomplicated soap—just soap, no fussy perfumes or scents. The rain intensified, drumming into the fabric above.
“‘It’s efficient to feed the cats,’” she said, mimicking his gruff tone. “‘If you don’t share my umbrella, I might accidentally blind you.’ I believe you’re speaking English, Turner, but I’m not sure you’re doing a good job of it. It makes a girl wonder what you meant by, ‘Here, let me take you to gaol.’”
“I always mean precisely what I say, even if I don’t say precisely what I mean.”
She was trying to work that one out, when he continued.
“As for the other, I’m not a duke’s son, which is the normal method of acquiring a courtesy title. My brother is a duke, but he took the title from a distant relation. I am just Mr. Turner.”
They’d reached the Prince Street Bridge. He stopped at the edge of the water and rubbed his cheek.
From here, they could see the city’s docks spread out before them. The harbor was full these days. A slim three-masted ship had been hoisted in the dry docks, and a crew scraped barnacles from her hull.
Beside her, Lord Justice— Turner —took a deep breath, and stared ahead.
“Are you much interested in ships?” she asked.
“Your pardon?”
“I ask only because you’ve stopped to look. I took Robbie to the launch of the Great Britain last summer.” She frowned. “It’s still in dock. I don’t know why. It’s been months.”
He turned to where she was looking. “It won’t fit out the locks.” He started across the bridge, his pace even faster.
She jogged along beside him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the largest steamship ever built from iron. While she was being built, Bristol made some alterations to the locks that regulate the level of the Floating Harbour. Now the locks are too small—or the ship is too big—and she’s trapped until the company can convince the harbormaster to widen the locks. It’s an incredible waste.”
They reached the other side of the river.
“Do you know much about ships, then? It’s the only thing Robbie will talk about. I’ve tried to speak with him about them, but mostly, when I make an attempt, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘That’s not a ship you’re pointing to; it’s a boat.’”
“I know
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