“Mother, I think he might be hungry.”
Violet assumed an arch expression. “He’ll let us know.”
“But—”
“I know a thing or two about babies, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.” Violet grinned down at John. “They adore their grandmamas, for example.”
He gurgled and cooed, and then—she was positive—he smiled.
“Come with me, little one,” she whispered, “I have so much to tell you.”
And behind her, Francesca turned to Michael and said, “Do you think we’ll get him back for the duration of the visit?”
He shook his head, then added, “It’ll give us more time to see about getting the little fellow a sister.”
“Michael!”
“Listen to the man,” Violet called, not bothering to turn around.
“Good heavens,” Francesca muttered.
But she did listen.
And she did enjoy.
And nine months later, she said good morning to Janet Helen Stirling.
Who looked exactly like her father.
Excerpt from
The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever
Prologue
At the age of ten, Miss Miranda Cheever showed no signs of Great Beauty. Her hair was brown—lamentably—as were her eyes; and her legs, which were uncommonly long, refused to learn anything that could be remotely called grace. Her mother often remarked that she positively loped around the house.
Unfortunately for Miranda, the society into which she was born placed great stock on female appearance. And although she was only ten, she knew that in this regard she was considered inferior to most of the other little girls who lived nearby. Children have a way of finding these things out, usually from other children.
Just such an unpleasant incident occurred at the eleventh birthday party of Lady Olivia and the Honorable Winston Bevelstoke, twin children of the Earl and Countess of Rudland. Miranda’s home was quite close to Haverbreaks, the Rudlands’ ancestral home near Ambleside, in the Lake District of Cumberland, and she had always shared lessons with Olivia and Winston when they were in residence. They had become quite an inseparable threesome and rarely bothered to play with the other children in the area, most of whom lived nearly an hour’s ride away.
But a dozen or so times a year, and especially on birthdays, all the children of the local nobility and gentry gathered together. It was for this reason that Lady Rudland let out a most unladylike groan; eighteen urchins were gleefully tramping mud through her sitting room after the twins’ party in the garden was disrupted by rain.
“You’ve mud on your cheek, Livvy,” Miranda said, reaching out to wipe it away.
Olivia let out a dramatically weary sigh. “I’d best go to the washroom, then. I shouldn’t want Mama to see me thus. She quite abhors dirt, and I quite abhor listening to her tell me how much she abhors it.”
“I don’t see how she will have time to object to a little mud on your face when she’s got it all over the carpet.” Miranda glanced over at William Evans, who let out a war cry and cannonballed onto the sofa. She pursed her lips; otherwise, she’d smile. “And the furniture.”
“All the same, I had best go do something about it.”
She slipped out of the room, leaving Miranda near the doorway. Miranda watched the commotion for a minute or so, quite content to be in her usual spot as an observer, until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone approaching.
“What did you bring Olivia for her birthday, Miranda?”
Miranda turned to see Fiona Bennet standing before her, prettily dressed in a white frock with a pink sash. “A book,” she replied. “Olivia likes to read. What did you bring?”
Fiona held up a gail