"And you're not looking for a wife." It was a statement, not a question.

"God, no," he blurted out. "What on earth would I do with a wife?"

2 June 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.

"I certainly don't need another dress," Miranda said as they strolled down the street, their maids a respectful distance behind them.

"Neither 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."

"Perhaps."

They wandered through dress shops, milliners, jewelers, and sweet shops before Miranda found what she hadn't even known she'd been looking for.

"Look at that, Olivia," she breathed. "Isn't it magnificent?"

"Isn't what magnificent?" Olivia replied, peering into the elegantly dressed window of the bookshop.

"That." 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."

"Shoes?" 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.

"And 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."

"It's not about reading it," Miranda said, pressing even closer to the glass. "Is it not the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

Olivia regarded her friend with a doubtful expression. "Er…no."

Miranda shook her head slightly and looked up at Olivia. "I suppose that's what makes something art. What can send one person into raptures may fail to move another even the tiniest bit."

"Miranda, that's a book."

"That book," Miranda decided firmly, "is a piece of art."

"It looks rather old."

"I know." Miranda sighed happily.

"Are you going to buy it?"

"If I have enough money."

"I would think you must. You haven't spent your pin money in years. You always put it in that porcelain vase Turner sent you for your birthday five years ago."

"Six."

Olivia blinked. "Six what?"

"It was six years ago."

"Five years ago, six years ago- what is the difference?" Olivia burst out, looking rather exasperated by Miranda's exactitude. "The point is, you have quite a bit of money tucked away, and if you truly want that book, you should buy it to celebrate your twentieth birthday. You never buy anything for yourself."

Miranda turned back to the temptation in the window. The book had been set on a pedestal and opened to a page in the middle. A brightly colored illustration depicted Arthur and Guinevere. "It's going to be expensive," she said ruefully.

Olivia gave her a little shove and said, "You'll never know if you don't go in and ask."

"You're right. I'll do it!" Miranda flashed her a smile that hovered somewhere between excitement and nervousness and headed into the store. The cozy bookshop was decorated in rich, masculine tones, with overstuffed leather chairs strategically placed for those who might want to sit and leaf through a volume.

"I don't see the proprietor," Olivia whispered in Miranda's ear.

"Right there." Miranda gestured with her head toward a thin, balding man about the age of their parents. "See, he's helping that man find a book. I'll just wait until he is available. I don't wish to be a bother."

The two ladies waited patiently for a few minutes while the bookseller was busy. Every so often, he shot them a scowling glance, which quite perplexed Miranda, as both she and Olivia were finely dressed and obviously able to afford most of his merchandise. Finally, he finished up his task and bustled toward them.

"I was wondering, sir- " Miranda began.

"This is a gentlemen's bookshop," he said in a hostile voice.

"Oh." Miranda drew back, rather put off by his attitude. But she desperately wanted the Malory book, so she swallowed her pride, smiled sweetly, and continued. "I apologize. I did not realize. But I was hoping I- "

"I said this is a gentlemen's shop." His beady little eyes narrowed. "Kindly depart."

Kindly? She stared at him, her lips parting with astonishment. Kindly? With that sort of tone?

"Let's go, Miranda," Olivia said, taking hold of her sleeve. "We should go."

Miranda clenched her teeth and did not budge. "I would like to purchase a book."

"I'm sure you would," the bookseller said snidely. "And the ladies' bookshop is only a quarter of a mile away."

"The ladies' bookshop doesn't have what I want."

He smirked. "Then I'm sure you shouldn't be reading it."

"I don't believe it is your place to make that judgment, sir," Miranda said coldly.

"Miranda," Olivia whispered, wide-eyed.

"Just one moment," she replied, never taking her eyes off the repulsive little man. "Sir, I can assure you 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."

"Leave," he spat, "or I will have you forcibly removed."

"That 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."

"Miranda," Olivia pleaded, looking acutely uncomfortable.

"I 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."

"Out!"

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- "

"A gentlemen's bookshop," Olivia cut in, looking at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a spare head.

"And?"

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."

"Miranda!" 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?"

"No, and I'm not sure I want to know how much cursing you're doing in your mind."

"It'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?"

"There is nothing I would rather do under normal circumstances. I certainly would prefer not to patronize that dreadful 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- "

"It 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!"