The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

“I suppose that’s what makes something art. What can send one person into raptures may fail to move another even the tiniest bit.”

“Holy bloody hell!” His hand shot up to his eye, and he touched his burning skin in disbelief. “Who the hell taught you to throw a punch?”

She smiled smugly. “MacDownes.”

He was wild. He was mad. That could be the only explanation, but he could not seem to get enough of her.

It was love, and it was the love of a woman for a man. The young girl who’d thought him a white knight was gone. She was a woman now. She knew his flaws and she saw his shortcomings, and still she loved him.

Her lips pressed together, and then she said, “Don’t confuse levelheaded with meek, Turner. They’re not the same thing at all. And I am certainly not meek.”

She looked so serene, so innocent, but her eyes…they were sharp.

It wasn’t that she was shy, precisely, because she didn’t think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.

“And have you ever said you loved me?” she shot back.

Why did people persist in seeing Miranda as the gangly girl she’d once been? She might not fit the society’s current standards of beauty, as did Olivia, but she had something far deeper and more interesting.

I always knew.” The words slipped out before she could judge the wisdom of speaking them, and then she decided she didn’t care.