What a Spinster Wants Page 6

  The whole thing was ridiculous.

  Why were they even here?

  “What miraculous act has brought my cousin to the theatre?” a feminine voice said near them.

  Graham felt himself smirking as Janet, Lady Sterling, crossed their path, her dark eyes flicking between the two men, her lips quirking in a smile.

  “Lady Sterling, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Pleasant is a matter of taste,” Tyrone muttered, grimacing in the presence of his lovely cousin. “Shouldn’t you be at home with the baby? Surely, it is too soon for you to reappear in Society.”

  Janet smiled pleasantly as though her cousin’s surly nature amused her. “I am feeling quite well, thank you, Tyrone.” She turned the smile up to Graham. “Good evening, Lord Radcliffe. Would you be so good as to explain the proper manners of a gentleman to my cousin? He seems confused on the subject.”

  Tyrone blustered beside him. “Janet, for pity’s sake. Where is your husband?”

  “Likely hiding from your thunderclouds, dear. They are really quite ugly this evening.”

  Graham bit back a snort of laughter at the bickering between the cousins, knowing full well that the Demaris family, extensive as it was, had some very strong bonds of affection. His own family was a small bunch, even all branches together, and their ties were not especially strong.

  The fact that he and Matthew had maintained their connection as well as they had was something of a family anomaly.

  And now that, too, was gone.

  “Won’t you join us in our box?” Lady Sterling offered with a faint gesture in the direction before them. “Francis isn’t thrilled to be here, so the three of you can keep each other company while I enjoy myself.”

  “Why should tonight be any different?” Tyrone offered a heavy sigh and extended his arm to his cousin. “Lead the way, cousin.”

  Janet looped her arm through his, lifting a brow. “So gallant. Really. Quite touching.”

  Graham fell into step behind the pair as they continued their dry bantering while maneuvering through the crowds mingling on the outskirts of the theatre seats. They made their way to the box, and Janet paused just prior to entering, her attention drawn to something just beyond their box.

  She hissed softly under her breath. “’Tisn’t right.”

  “What isn’t?” Tyrone asked, following her gaze.

  Graham followed as well and saw, to his surprise, the woman he had waltzed with the other night at the Martins’ ball. She was on the arm of Lieutenant Henshaw, a distant acquaintance of Graham’s, but known well enough by sight, and neither the lady nor the gentleman looked particularly at ease presently.

  “Henshaw’s companion?” Tyrone suggested, sounding surprised. “What about her? She’s lovely. Why should you disapprove?”

  Janet’s fan rapped her cousin’s hand sharply. “Ty, I don’t disapprove of her! She is just as lovely a person as she is a figure. That is Lady Edith Leveson, and she’s finally coming out into Society in earnest.”

  Graham stilled, his attention now rapt on the lady, who was lovelier than his hazy waltzing memory had attested. There was a pucker between her brows that should not be there, for it marred her otherwise fair face, and the hold she had on Henshaw was clutching. Out of sheer instinct, Graham looked around them for the weasel, yet saw no sign of him.

  Curious.

  “She doesn’t look particularly pleased about it,” Tyrone observed, losing his previously light air.

  “Do you see how the others stare?” Janet murmured quietly. “Look. Listen. She has somehow become an outcast without having been cast out. It’s despicable.”

  Once Graham’s attention had been called to it, the reaction from those in Lady Edith’s presence could not go unnoticed. Wide eyes and whispers followed her; blatant stares and shameless gaping were her fanfare. Yet somehow, she held her chin high, though the tension there was just as visible as her beauty.

  Tyrone grunted once. “What is her supposed crime, then?”

  Janet shook her head, her glower potent indeed. “Marrying the wrong man, may he rot in torment. The rest is all speculation, but it does quite enough. At least she isn’t without friends.”

  Graham nodded at her words, watching as Lady Edith and Lieutenant Henshaw were greeted by the Ingrams and the Vales, and Mr. Vale left no onlooker in any doubt how he felt about their behavior. Only then did he see any sign of weakness from Lady Edith. Her chin quivered, and her cheeks flushed, then she was escorted into their box by Lady Ingram and a clearly pregnant Mrs. Vale.

  The men stood outside the box for a moment, conversing quietly, and Graham felt his interest pique as Lord Sterling, Janet’s husband, joined that group, his expression as serious as the rest.

  “Not in the box, then, Janet,” Tyrone said unnecessarily, elbowing his cousin. “You were mistaken.”

  “I don’t track my husband as if on a hunt,” Janet protested. “Honestly, why should my being mistaken matter?”

  “Your being wrong on occasion always bears additional emphasis, I can assure you.”

  Janet rolled her eyes and turned to Graham. “May I go in on your arm, my lord? I am currently seeking a replacement cousin.”

  Graham felt himself chuckle almost reluctantly, laughter in public not being his usual habit. “If it would please you, my lady.”

  “It would please me to have the arm of my wife for a change,” Francis, Lord Sterling, announced as he reached them. He grinned easily at Tyrone and shook his hand, then turned to Graham and sobered only just. “Lord Radcliffe, good to see you.”

  Graham inclined his head in an almost bow. “I do believe the right to bear this arm lies with you, sir,” he said to Lord Sterling, holding out Janet’s hand.

  Lord Sterling took it, bowed, and brought the hand to his lips. “And what a right it is!”

  “Suffocating,” Tyrone groaned. “Please go in, I beg you.”

  Lord Sterling and his wife laughed, moving into the box. Tyrone gave Graham a longsuffering look before following them. Graham cast his eyes back towards the box where Lady Edith had vanished, his mind turning over what he had seen and heard.

  Would he be able to see her from where he was? The exact layout of the boxes in this theatre escaped him, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he was curious about seeing her. It was clear she had protection, if not interest, and despite his waltzing with her, apparently saving her somehow, he didn’t have any ties to involve him in whatever her situation was.

  Nor did he wish to be involved with something that created whispers and gossip.

  He shook his head and entered the box, pushing aside the curtains and moving to a vacant chair. He sat and crossed one leg over the other, his attention on the stage as the Sterlings and Tyrone chatted together.

  The hum of conversations surrounding him wafted in and out of Graham’s ears, almost lulling him to sleep with the sound, despite his not being the least bit fatigued. How would it affect his reputation if he actually did doze for the duration of the play? At least the first act, anyway. He could scoot his chair back into a corner of the box, out of sight, and have quite a nice rest of it. See what they made of the new Lord Radcliffe then!

  A crooked smirk inched its way across his lips, and he aimlessly scanned the theatre, looking without seeing. Then, the box next to his came into view, and with it, Lady Edith Leveson in plain sight.

  His eyes rested there, one hand situating itself at his mouth in a gesture of consideration, his attention fully in focus.

  She smiled at something one of her friends said, and something in the arch of Graham’s left foot twitched at the sight of it.

  So much for dozing.

  Chapter Five

  Not all theatrics are confined to a stage.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 16 August 1815

  Was anyone in the theatre actually watching the stage?

  Edith could feel every inch of her skin crawling as she sat in the box between Grace and Prue, her eyes fixe
d on the actors without seeing a single one of them. The whispers had been difficult to hear, but nothing she hadn’t heard before. The stares, however, were new.

  Well, new for London. She’d gotten plenty of stares in York.

  A familiar cold shiver ran up her spine as the memories of those stares flashed across her mind, and she suddenly felt small.

  If only she were small. If only she could hide from all of this and still accomplish her designs.

  How had she so completely underestimated Archie’s influence? Or the impact his death would have had on Society. If not Society, then at least her standing in it. A lesser-known widow of a man who moved in certain circles, however disreputable, and the rumors that would follow that widow.

  Define that widow.

  What had she been thinking? London had been the worst possible choice in location, the center of Society, why in the world had she come? Why had she chosen it? In theory, it was a place where one could get lost in plain sight, yet she had stayed in the ratty townhouse that belonged to Sir Archibald’s family. She had kept herself in the path of Sir Reginald and any other Leveson relation that might have come along to torment her.

  This was her fault.

  She could have truly hidden deep in the London darkness, were it not for her pride. She hadn’t thought that existed anymore. More the fool was she.

  Gòrach…

  Her father’s low, gravelly voice sounded in her mind, ricocheting off every surface, calling her foolish yet again. That had been his only response to her refusals to marry Archie.

  Foolish.

  And those foolish refusals had been flatly ignored. Her wishes had meant nothing, and her will had been crushed. There was no pride left in her from the day she’d first set foot in England, nor as she was dragged down the aisle of the church, nor as she watched her family abandon her to the care of her new husband.

  Archie’s death had been a beacon of hope. An opportunity for freedom. She hadn’t realized then that it would only lead to more shackles.

  Perhaps that was where her pride had snuck in. She couldn’t afford it anymore; it had to go.

  Edith exhaled slowly, praying they would soon reach intermission. She needed to walk, to stretch her legs, to clear her mind, to get out of sight of so many who were only speculating about her.

  Breathe, mo nighean. Breathe.

  On command, Edith inhaled a carefully controlled breath, finding with it the refreshment hearing her grandmother’s voice always brought her.

  “Are you all right, Edith?” Prue whispered softly beside her, placing one small hand over Edith’s tightly laced fingers in her lap.

  “Aye,” Edith replied on an almost controlled exhale. “I believe I will slip out for a wee moment, though.” She nodded and rose only so far as a crouch, slipping around her chair and between the gentlemen seated behind them.

  “Edith?”

  She waved Aubrey, Lord Ingram, back into his seat. “I shall only be a moment; stay as you are.”

  His expression told her how he felt about the suggestion, but she didn’t linger to see or hear any further response.

  Out in the corridor, Edith’s breath came faster and with more aggression. Her lungs squeezed and released with agonizing pain, and it was all she could do to attempt to control them.

  Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…

  Music from the stage wafted out into the corridor, and something about the strains, faint as they were, soothed her. The frantic pace of her mind settled, the air in her lungs entered and exited with more ease, and the pounding in her head began to recede. Walking became easier, and slowly, Edith continued to move, keeping her breathing as steady as she could and letting the music continue to calm her.

  Despite the comments and stares of people, the course before her was the right one. The only one, really. She alone had made the choices in her life, and there was no point in regretting them. She had done the best she could under horrific circumstances, and no one would judge her for that if they knew the truth of the situation.

  Which no one did.

  Edith sighed heavily and paused near a column, leaning her back against it as she thought back to Scotland, its beauty and majesty, its wildness and energy, and the perfect purity in every breath of air one took in. Scotland would always be home, even if she never set foot on her soil again.

  The thought sent a sharp pang into her heart, and a rare wash of tears began to form.

  “Ah, Lady Edith,” sneered a chilling voice at her ear, a hand settling on her hip.

  Edith sprang back, the column scraping the buttons of her gown as she slid along its surface. She glared up at Sir Reginald as he loomed over her, the hand once at her hip now gripping her skirts.

  “Don’t touch me,” she spat, eyes still burning.

  He grabbed at her arm, leering maliciously. “Come now, Lady Edith, be a good lass and greet your cousin properly.”

  Before Edith could tug free of his grasp, Sir Reginald yanked her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. Edith squirmed against the pressure, sealing her lips tightly together as she desperately tried to tug away. She shoved at his chest, nausea rising within her at the taste of him, but he only chuckled and pulled harder on her arm, sending jolts of pain shooting into her shoulder.

  He finally lifted his mouth away, licking his lips and exhaling with satisfaction.

  “You’ll make a scene, Edith,” he whispered with a cruel laugh. “And the intermission is upon us. You wouldn’t want to do that with so many witnesses, would you?”

  Edith clamped her lips together, swallowing the wash of bile there and whimpering at the pressure still pulsing in her shoulder. Tremors began to course through her as she still struggled against him.

  “Still,” he mused, his hold on her firm, “suggestion is more powerful for its subtlety. Therefore…” He released his grip on her skirt and reached up to tug at her hair, disheveling it with his fingers and tousling it quickly, her pins falling to the floor below. Then he grabbed at her sleeve, pulling the gown off one shoulder, ripping the fabric in the process.

  Edith immediately went to adjust her sleeve when Sir Reginald slapped her hard across the face, drawing a gasp from her. She immediately cradled her face with her free hand, turning away from him as much as possible, though his hold on her was still secure. She tasted blood, her cheek throbbing, and the shaking in her legs intensified.

  “There,” he said, running a cold finger along her jaw. “That should do.” He yanked on her arm again and leaned in for another kiss.

  Edith restrained a cry and stomped on his foot, jerking out of his hold as Sir Reginald hissed in pain. Backing away, Edith looked about her, unable to run, as it would draw attention to the guests who would be emerging from the theatre at any moment if the applause within the theatre was any indication.

  Sir Reginald chuckled and raked a lascivious look along the course of her body that renewed the nauseousness in her, shudders accompanying the sensation.

  “A delight as always, Lady Edith.” He bowed mockingly, and left her at last, still laughing.

  A dry sob escaped Edith, and she covered her mouth, whether to hide the cry or prevent the rising sick feeling, she couldn’t admit.

  Either. Both. Anything.

  The heat of shame flooded her cheeks, and she inhaled shakily through her nose before focusing on the attempt to adjust her gown however she could. A whispered curse escaped her quivering lips as she found the effort fruitless; the tear was too great, and the dress hung askew on her, just as Sir Reginald had wanted. She bent to the floor to retrieve her hairpins, casting her eyes about for any stray ones.

  The chatter of people met her ears as the intermission began, and Edith jerked up to a straightened position, creeping closer to the column, hoping to remain unobserved. She had not stopped particularly close to the main part of the theatre, but any hope she had of truly restoring her hair would require a looking glass, and she would have to venture further into the people
in attendance to see to that. Her only hope was to wait for intermission to end and restore herself to rights then. Or attempt to manage something far less refined as she was, and she was already poorly refined in the eyes of Society.

  Her eyes flooded with tears of anger and shame, a few crawling down her still burning cheek. She reached back to twist a long, mangled tendril of her dark hair back into the rest, pinning it in the hopes it would look respectable, at least.

  Respectable.

  As if she could ever be considered respectable now.

  She longed to tell everyone and anyone what a horrid man Sir Reginald was, how he had wronged her, how terribly he was abusing her. But in her present situation, and in Society, she could not do so without ruining herself and all hopes of her future in the process. She might be ruined in many respects now, but there was a shred of dignity still, somehow, and the hope of a better future. Without that, she would have been ruined indeed.

  “Come with me,” a deep voice murmured near her.

  Edith jerked away again, one hand rising to strike, fearing he was another man like Sir Reginald. But to her surprise, it was Lord Radcliffe, looking even more massive than she recalled from their waltz. Faintly, it occurred to her to wonder what had possessed her to dance with such an imposing man.

  His dark eyes took in her cheek, and his strong jaw tightened. He took her arm in a surprisingly gentle hold and tilted his head. “Come.”

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. “How did you know—?”

  “I saw you leave the box,” Lord Radcliffe murmured, “and then I caught sight of your weasel friend just now. He looked too smug; I didn’t like it. And from the looks of things, my instincts were correct.” He shook his head and peered around the column. “If we go now, I can take you back to your friends with hardly anyone seeing you.”

  “Hardly,” Edith murmured, reaching back to try fixing another lock of hair, “but I will be seen.”

  The pressure at her elbow increased with a firm comfort. “Just stay close to me, all right? No one will notice you.”