To her older sister Olivia—the Marchioness of Carey—it felt as if the two of them had slowly been proceeding toward the gallows, one leaden step at a time. “Buck up, Miranda,” Olivia murmured, pulling her younger sister closer into her side. “There is nothing to be done for it. You must face up to what you’ve done.” “Yes, I know I must,” Miranda said weakly. “But I do not understand why you cannot tell him for me.” Olivia sighed at that—Miranda knew very well why. Olivia had waited as long as she might before Miranda’s thickening waistline would draw attention, but she could wait no longer. If Olivia’s husband discovered her unmarried sister’s condition before Olivia told him, she and Miranda would both suffer for it. On that rain-soaked afternoon, Olivia thought it entirely possible that she dreaded telling his lordship even more than Miranda did. After what seemed a lifetime, they reached the polished oak doors to the study. As Olivia lifted her hand to rap, Miranda sagged against her.
