By Julia Quinn
2 March 1810 . . . this present day, I fell in love.
on the age of ten, Miranda Cheever confirmed no symptoms of significant good looks. or even at ten, Miranda discovered to just accept the expectancies society held for her—until the afternoon while Nigel Bevelstoke, the good-looking and rushing Viscount Turner, solemnly kissed her hand and promised her that at some point she could develop into herself, that at some point she will be as appealing as she already was once shrewdpermanent. or even at ten, Miranda knew she would like him without end.
however the years that have been as merciless to Turner as they have been sort to Miranda. She is as fascinating because the viscount boldly estimated on that memorable day—while he's a lonely, sour guy, beaten through a devastating loss. yet Miranda hasn't ever forgotten the reality she set down on paper all these years earlier—and she is going to no longer let the affection that's her future to slide flippantly via her palms . . .