What a Spinster Wants Page 2

  Grace and her husband also happened to be some of the most considerate and caring individuals Edith had ever known. She had passed the winter with them in Derbyshire after Christmas, which had been a lovely retreat from her cares, though the return to them afterwards had been all the more brutal for the respite.

  The Ingrams wouldn’t know that, though. All they knew was that Edith was attending this evening and that this Season would be different from the rest.

  She was through with hiding from Society now.

  She had to be.

  “Nothing too ornate, Simms,” Edith said with a sigh as she pulled her arms free of her drab gown, watching as her maid began to pull every outdated ensemble from the bureau. “Simple elegance.”

  Simms paused and gave her a bewildered look. “With my options, madam? I’ll be fortunate to manage elegant, though simple is easy enough.”

  Edith frowned at the plump woman who had become both friend and advisor over the years. “I meant my hair.”

  “I’m sure you did, madam.” Simms shook her head, pulling a familiar gown from the bureau.

  Edith froze at the sight of it, her throat clenching. The boulder in her stomach rolled from end to end, and she swallowed as she stepped out of her dress. “That one.”

  Simms looked at her with wide eyes. “Madam… I was only moving it. I wasn’t…”

  “That one,” Edith said again, more firmly. She cleared her throat and nodded. “It’s the finest I have, and only the finest will do tonight.”

  Her maid looked at the gown, faded from what it had once been, but still elegant in its cut and color. “It’s at least three years out of fashion, madam.”

  Edith blinked, her hands settling on her hips as she eyed it. “Will it be that noticeable?”

  Simms pursed her lips in thought. “I could pull some tufts in the sleeves, and if we tighten your stays, your form might give you more of the shape that is fashionable…” She tilted her head from side to side. “If I set your hair aright, madam, it might be passable.”

  “I will take elegantly passable,” Edith said with a wry smile. “If it can be done quickly. More permanent alterations will have to wait.”

  The pair of them got to work, and the tighter set of stays was uncomfortable enough that Edith’s nerves vanished in the face of them. The yellowed cream of the gown appeared almost intentional due to the pristine condition of the fabric, and the black dots scattered along it had lost none of their luster. Black lace overlay on the sleeves and bodice, draping elegantly down to tufts at the hem, added to the evening elegance that had attracted her to the gown in the first place.

  She hadn’t known it would be her wedding gown. Black in her wedding gown should have warned her off the affair.

  Not that she’d had any say in the matter.

  “There’s not time enough to do what I would wish to your hair, madam,” Simms sighed as Edith sat before the looking glass. “I daren’t even attempt curls…”

  “Just plait and pin what you can,” Edith insisted, smiling at her in the glass. “Plaits are always in fashion, no?”

  Simms chuckled and undid the massive length of Edith’s dark hair, her fingers flying through the tendrils as she worked it into a simple, sturdy, somehow still elegant updo. It would hardly be worth commenting on in any Society gossip sheets, nor would it get her any envious looks from other ladies, but it wouldn’t scandalize any, either.

  She would accept that gladly.

  “The pearl combs, madam?” Simms asked with a satisfied exhale as she stepped back from her work.

  Edith shook her head and rose quickly. “Not tonight. This will suffice.” She turned to take the gloves from Simms, wincing slightly as a muscle in her side clenched against the stays. “Just my cross, please.”

  The delicate gold necklace was fastened around her neck, and Edith felt the weight of it pressing against her chest, comforting rather than weighing her down. She’d had it since she was twelve, and it was one of the few things from home that did not make her sad to see.

  A knock at the door made Edith jump, and she turned, swallowing hard. “Crivvens. What am I about, Simms?”

  “Trying to make the best of the abysmal, madam.” Simms offered a sad smile. “Best be about it, lest you get cold feet.”

  Edith sighed and grabbed the cloak from her bed.

  “I’ve no time for cold anything. Not anymore.” She turned from the room and hurried down the stairs, nodding silently to Owen as she passed and receiving a silent nod in return.

  The carriage was tastefully elaborate, but she barely blinked at it as she took the footman’s hand and entered it, grinning at the others within.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  “Lady Edith,” Aubrey, Lord Ingram, greeted from one side of the carriage, inclining his head. He gestured to the seat opposite him with a warm smile. “I assumed you would wish to sit beside my wife for the duration of the ride.”

  “She is the fairer of the pair,” Edith pointed out as she settled in beside Grace, Lady Ingram, and took her hand.

  “No argument on my part.” Aubrey tapped the ceiling, and the carriage jolted forward, the lump in Edith’s throat mirroring it.

  “You’re both very amusing. Really.” Grace snorted softly and patted the hand she held. “Nervous, Edith?”

  Edith laughed through clenched teeth. “Is it obvious?”

  Aubrey hissed. “The grimace gives it away, just a touch…”

  That earned him a scolding look, which made him chuckle.

  “I was never properly out, you know,” Edith admitted. “Never been at ease with being on display, as it were, and tonight, I am displaying myself for all of London.”

  “If it is any consolation,” Grace said, her dark eyes darker in the shadows of the carriage, “the Martins don’t know all of London.”

  Edith laughed once. “I dinna ken if that helps me or no’. I have need of Society, yet I dinna wish to be among Society.”

  “Why the need, Edith?” Aubrey asked, his tone less teasing now. “You never have before.”

  “Aubrey…” Grace murmured with a shake of her head.

  Edith swallowed once. “It is simply time. Much as I hate to admit it.” She turned to Grace and changed the conversation to her recent article on the fading trend of fichus.

  Not that she cared all that much about fichus, or any other kind of fashion, but she would ramble about anything rather than divulge her reasons at this moment.

  Thankfully, the Martins did not live too far into the fashionable part of London. They had arrived and were being greeted by servants taking their cloaks before she could pretend to find one more interesting detail about something so minuscule.

  Aubrey offered an arm to Edith, Grace on his other side. “Everyone is being announced, Edith. Now or never.”

  Her pulse lurched, and she clenched her free hand into a fist as though it would steady her. “Never isna much of an option, my lord.”

  “I’ve told you how I feel about you calling me that,” he muttered with a slight nudge to her side that did more for her comfort than she could say.

  Edith managed a smile for him, then caught Grace looking her over with a small furrow between her fair brows.

  “Wrong?” she asked with a sigh, looking over herself.

  “No, no,” Grace replied hastily, reaching over to take her hand. “You look lovely. It’s just a bit… worn.”

  “I know,” Edith groaned, adjusting the skirt. “It was all I could think to wear, and I’m nervous enough as it is.”

  “It’s not noticeable,” Grace assured her with a smile. “I’m just overly observant.”

  “I’ll say,” Aubrey muttered good-naturedly, kissing Grace’s cheek quickly. “Edith, you look lovely, don’t let Grace make you anxious.”

  Edith smiled at him. “Thank you, Aubrey.”

  Grace grinned, even as she rapped her husband across the chest sharply. “No matter, Edith, you’re perfect. Next time, we�
��ll spruce you up a bit more, but for your first night, it’s perfect.”

  Edith bit the inside of her cheek as Aubrey escorted them in, as it was not the time to tell Grace that this was the very best this gown would ever get, or that this was the best gown she owned.

  “Lord and Lady Ingram,” the majordomo intoned formally. “Lady Edith Leveson.”

  Edith received several stares as her name was announced, and the whispers and titters she’d always feared started. Her cheeks flamed, and Aubrey kept his hold on her firm.

  “Easy, Edith,” he murmured so only she and Grace could hear as they smiled for all. “You were going to make a splash no matter what. Just smile through the opening; we’re making straight for the Sterlings.”

  She tucked her chin a bit in a discreet nod, and followed his directions, catching sight of a cluster of their friends, all of whom were watching with almost the same comical look of concern.

  When they reached the group, Edith exhaled slowly. Camden Vale chuckled and leaned closer to her. “Bravo, Edith, that was grand enough.”

  “I shook the entire time,” she muttered, taking the glass that he handed her.

  “Nobody noticed,” Charlotte Wright assured her with a smile, looking every inch the heiress that she was. “You’re the topic of quite a few conversations, you know.”

  “So I heard,” Edith replied, wincing a little.

  Georgie Sterling gave her a shrewd look. “What was that for, Edith?”

  Her husband was just as attentive, and suddenly, everyone in their group was looking at her expectantly.

  Edith pursed her lips a bit and exhaled again. “I’m a widow recently out of mourning with diminished circumstances. What do you think they are talking about?”

  Several of them winced at the thought, and Lieutenant Henshaw glowered. “Surely not, Lady Edith. Perhaps you misheard.”

  Edith gave him a look. “I misheard nothing, Henshaw, I can assure you.”

  He frowned slightly and huffed in exasperation. “I hate Society,” he muttered to the rest of them.

  Aubrey nodded once. “We’ll fix it, Edith.”

  Edith wanted to tell him that was impossible, even for Lord Ingram, but then the music started up, and he looked at his wife for a long moment. “Contrary to custom, my love, I’m not going to open with you.”

  Grace smiled easily. “I thought you might not.”

  To her astonishment, Aubrey turned back to Edith. “Lady Edith, if I might have the pleasure?”

  Her mouth dropped, and Camden plucked her drink from her hand, laughing softly. “What? After what I just told you people are saying? Sir, they will think that—”

  He took her hand in his and steered her from the group. “They most certainly will not. My tempting wife aside, I am a complete monk, and everybody knows it. And don’t ‘sir’ me, not after you’ve seen me in my nightshirt.”

  Edith bit back a laugh, the recent memory from their winter together diffusing her anxieties long enough to rid her of her refusal.

  They proceeded with the dance. Edith had forgotten how she enjoyed dancing. It had been so long since she had felt such pleasure in something so simple, or since she had allowed herself to do so.

  Since she had felt free to do so.

  Chapter Two

  There is a very short distance between opportunistic and desperate. Sometimes very short indeed.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 7 November 1815

  Graham Hastings, Lord Radcliffe, found balls tiresome.

  Not all the time, and certainly not in all circumstances, but as a general rule, he could be counted on to not particularly enjoy himself when forced to attend one. He wasn’t exceptionally sociable, nor was he especially skilled as a dancer. The combination of dancing and socializing, therefore, was one he tended to avoid, and would likely have completely shunned had he the power to do so.

  But responsibility, duty, and expectation kept him from his wishes more often than not, and so he would attend where he must with all due politeness, however he might long for the comforts of home and a good book.

  He was a sixty-year-old man in the body of one much younger, his brother had always teased.

  Matthew had been one of the few people in the world who had teased him, and the warmth with which he had done so had been merely an extension of his equally warm personality. It had been only fitting that his wife Penelope had been his perfect match, and that the pair of them had hosted some of the few parties that Graham had actually attended of his own free will. Everyone had adored Lord and Lady Radcliffe, and invitations to their events at Merrifield Park had been widely sought after.

  Unfortunate, then, that the new Lord Radcliffe was practically a hermit, and that Merrifield had not seen a party or event in two years.

  At least not an event of joy.

  Graham would have refused the title if there had been an individual of value able to take it up. His closest relations with the abilities already had titles or bore responsibilities enough to make the title too much of a burden to take on.

  He knew that for a fact; he’d checked.

  So here he stood, Lord Radcliffe in all his glory, or lack thereof, in the ballroom of Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who claimed to be old friends of the family, though he couldn’t remember seeing them more than twice in his life. He was growing used to people approaching him and claiming connections from the past, and he wondered what they truly intended by it. His fortune was impressive, but it was hardly the greatest in Society. He was a viscount, it was true, but there were higher-ranking titles in the room at any given moment.

  He was unmarried; that, he feared, was the card that trumped them all.

  His brother’s death had left Graham one of the most eligible men in England, a hefty price to pay for something he had never, and could never, want. To lose his only brother and gain so much seemed cruel.

  It was cruel.

  And being here, though hardly comparable to all that, was rather cruel, too.

  Trapped in conversation with someone whose name he couldn’t recollect, and didn’t care to, Graham focused on keeping his expression blank. He couldn’t manage attentive, so he would have to hope that blank could be mistaken for polite listening.

  A movement just beyond his conversational companion caught Graham’s eye, and his attention flicked to it with almost comical desperation.

  A woman in a cream gown covered with black overlay moved through the crowded room with determination, a furrow creasing the fair skin of her brow, accompanying lines etched at the edges of her presently thin lips. He recognized her from the entrance she’d made, and how the entire room had hushed and then begun to titter at the sight of her, but all he could remember was that she had entered with the Ingrams.

  Despite his respect for Lord Ingram and his wife, it seemed a crime not to recollect their guest simply because it was easier to remember them.

  She moved without care for her surroundings, which earned her some bumping and jostling, but she wasn’t put off by it. She didn’t speak to anyone, and every few paces, she would glance over her shoulder.

  Strange. Fleeing an assignation or simply avoiding dancing with an intolerable partner?

  Whichever it was, the beauty was doing the job admirably, and he hoped she managed to succeed in her efforts.

  “Then, I met the Prince of Wales,” the man before him continued to drone on, bringing Graham’s focus reluctantly back to him.

  “Before or after he became our King?” Graham queried with a tilt of his head.

  The question seemed to catch his companion off guard, and he looked at Graham with mild alarm.

  “It is, after all, only a few short months since King George III passed on,” Graham continued, unable to help himself. “His Majesty at present, lately the Prince of Wales, can be called such no longer. His heir, as you know, is the Duke of York, who has not taken up the heir presumptive title of Prince of Wales, so could not be referred to as such. So, I must say, there is some con
fusion as to the identity of the man you met, and the timing of when you met him.”

  “I…” The man frowned and lowered his eyes to the floor, and Graham had to hide a smile.

  Was this a case of a poor memory, or a story spun out of fiction instead of recollection? However boring the tale was, the outcome of this particular quandary was suddenly of great interest to him.

  There was a sudden but insistent tapping at Graham’s right shoulder then, eliciting a glower at having his current amusement interrupted. He glanced over his shoulder, raising one brow.

  The fleeing beauty stood there, hands wringing together, eyes wide as she stared at him, the startling green of them striking something in his chest like the dinner gong might have done.

  “I know it isna done, sir, and I know we are not acquainted, but if ye could please dance the next waltz with me, I should be most grateful.”

  Graham blinked, the rushed but musical Scottish brogue of the woman shifting his impression of her further in his mind. He ran over her words again, translating quickly before responding.

  “You… are asking me to waltz?”

  She nodded her dark head almost frantically. “Yes,” she replied at once, her tone matching every other sign of panic he’d seen. “Please.”

  What in the world was this? The rules of politeness at a ball couldn’t have changed all that much of late, and despite this woman’s obvious beauty and captivating speech, he wasn’t about to waltz on demand. Especially someone else’s demand.

  He snorted softly. “As you said, madam, it is not done, and I have no desire to refute that.” He began to turn back, but the sleeve of his coat was suddenly seized, which was a feat, as it was perfectly tailored for his frame.

  “Sir, I am no’ being forward,” the beauty insisted, clenching his sleeve with a tightness that he’d have been hard-pressed to break. “I am no’ attempting to trick or trap you—”

  “Madam, this is not personal,” he interrupted firmly. “I have no desire to waltz with anyone this evening.”