"A hideous circumstance," Miranda agreed.
"I'm tempted to accept one of her invitations out of sheer boredom."
"Oh, don't do that."
"You're not still holding a grudge for the ribbon incident at my eleventh birthday party, are you?"
Miranda held her thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart. "Just a small one."
"Goodness, let it go. After all, you landed Turner. And right beneath all of our noses." Olivia was still slightly miffed that her brother and her best friend had been courting without her knowledge. "Although I must say, it is perfectly beastly of him to run off to London and leave you here alone."
Miranda smiled tightly as she fingered the fabric of her skirt. "It's not so bad," she murmured.
"But your time is so near," Olivia protested. "He shouldn't have left you alone."
"He didn't," Miranda said firmly, trying to change the subject. "You're here, aren't you?"
"Yes, yes, and I would stay for the birthing if I could, but Mama says it isn't proper for an unmarried lady."
"I can't think of anything more proper," Miranda retorted. "It's not as if you're not going to be in this very same situation in a few years."
"I do require a husband first," Olivia reminded her.
"I don't foresee any problem with that. How many offers did you receive this year? Six?"
"Eight."
"So no complaining, then."
"I'm not, I just…Oh, never mind, she says I may remain at Rosedale. I'm just not allowed to remain with you."
"The drapes," Miranda reminded her.
"Yes, of course," Olivia said briskly, once again all business. "If we upholster in green, the drapes can be a contrasting color. Perhaps a secondary color from the upholstery fabric."
Miranda nodded and smiled when appropriate, but her mind was far away. London, to be exact. Her husband intruded on her thoughts every second of the day. She would be discussing a matter with the housekeeper when his smile would suddenly dance before her eyes. She couldn't finish the book she was reading because the sound of his laughter kept floating through her ears. And at night, when she was nearly asleep, the feather-light touch of his kiss teased her lips until she ached for his warm body next to hers.
"Miranda? Miranda!"
Miranda heard Olivia impatiently repeating her name. "What? Oh, I'm sorry, Livvy. My mind was miles away."
"I know. It rarely seems to reside at Rosedale these days."
Miranda faked a heartfelt sigh. "It's the baby, I imagine. It makes me maudlin." In another two months, she thought ruefully, she wasn't going to be able to blame her momentary lapses of reason on the baby, and then what would she do? She smiled blandly at Olivia. "What did you want to tell me?"
"I was merely going to say that if you don't like green, we might redo the room in a dusty rose color. You could call it the rose salon. Which would be so fitting for Rosedale."
"You don't think it would be too feminine?" Miranda asked. "Turner uses this room quite a bit, too."
"Hmmm. That is a problem."
Miranda didn't even realize that she was clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Funny how even the mention of his name could set her off. "On the other hand," she said, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "I've always liked dusty rose. Let's do it."
"Are you sure?" Now Olivia was doubtful. "Turner— "
"Hang Turner," Miranda cut in with just enough vehemence to make Olivia raise her eyebrows. "If he wanted a say in the decor, he shouldn't have gone off to London."
"You shouldn't get snappy," Olivia said placatingly. "I'm certain he misses you very much."
"Nonsense. He probably hasn't thought of me at all."
* * *
She was haunting him. Turner had thought, after four interminable days in a closed carriage, that he would be able to remove Miranda from his thoughts when he reached London and all its distractions.
But he was wrong.
Their last conversation played out in his mind, over and over and over again, but every time Turner attempted to change his lines, to pretend that he had said something else, that he had thought of something else to say, the whole thing disappeared. The memory dissolved and all he was left with was her eyes, big, and brown, and flat with pain.
It was an unfamiliar emotion, guilt. It burned, and it prickled, and it grabbed him by the throat. Anger had been much, much easier. Anger was clean. It was precise. And it was never about him.
It had been about Leticia. It had been about her many men. But it had never had to be about him.
But this— This was something else. And there was no way he could live like this. They could be happy again, couldn't they? He had certainly been happy before. She had been, too. She might complain about his failings, but he knew that she had been happy.
And she would be again, he vowed. Once Miranda accepted that he cared for her in every way he knew how, they could go back to the comfortable existence they'd carved out