What a Spinster Wants

by Rebecca Connolly

  He took pity on her and ushered her to a small alcove just off the ballroom, hidden from view. He directed her to sit in the chair within, while he sank to his haunches before her and took her hands.

  “Edith, did he hurt you?” His voice was rough, but surprisingly gentle, particularly for such a large man who seemed to have equally rough manners.

  She shook her head, swallowing back her tears. “No, he did not hurt me.”

  Lord Radcliffe raised a disbelieving brow but said nothing.

  Edith sighed and tried to tug her hands free, but he held them fast. “He… he touched me,” she admitted, disgust and shame rising within her. “More boldly than he usually does. I tried to get away, but he trapped me, and I knew if I screamed, I would be ruined. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t—”

  “I know,” he overrode, squeezing her hands tightly. “I know, I saw you try. And I heard what he said to you, there is no need to relive it.”

  A tear broke free of her eyes, and she hated herself for it. Smiling despite it, she quipped, “There’s your third time, my lord. You’ve attained hero status.”

  His lips quirked, and he shook his head as he quickly wiped that tear away. “Are you always going to make light of your situation?” he asked.

  Edith shrugged one shoulder. “What else can I do? I must laugh, or I must cry, and I look a fright when I cry.”

  He grunted and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I doubt that”, but his expression softened into a sincere look. “I am sorry I could not get to you sooner.”

  “No.” Edith immediately shook her head. “You could not have known, sir. I didna even know he was here until he had me. The whole thing happened so quickly.”

  “Yes, but I saw,” he said, sliding his hands from hers and rising to his feet. “I saw him there, and I did not come as quickly as I ought.”

  “Are you… watching me, Lord Radcliffe?” Edith asked, her heart oddly fluttering at the thought.

  His eyes were suddenly so intense that breathing was difficult, her chest clenching. “You might say that I have developed an interest.”

  Edith had to swallow and clear her throat, then rose herself, though he was still very much taller than her. “Oh?” was the most brilliant reply she managed to make.

  Pathetic.

  He nodded once, then almost smiled again. “I’ve never been a hero in my life, and yours is the only opportunity I may have.”

  The tightness in Edith’s chest eased, and she smiled up at him, delighted that he would tease her. “Well, I verra much hope I shall not have to be always in distress simply to bolster your ego,” she replied, lifting a brow so he would know that she meant it in jest.

  He tilted his head for a moment. “We do always meet like this, don’t we?”

  Edith shrugged a little and ducked her chin, cheeks flaming. “You must think me a helpless creature indeed.”

  A gentle hand reached under her chin and tilted her face up to see a somber expression.

  And what a powerful look he had!

  Edith was speechless, breathless, and quite captivated, though he was not standing particularly close, and there was very little warmth in his eyes.

  “Do not presume to tell me what I think, Lady Edith,” he murmured, his fingers warmer than his expression. “My thoughts at present just might surprise the both of us. Understood?”

  She nodded, and he dropped his hand with a nod in return.

  “So, what do we do?” she asked, somehow finding her voice. “I think I may have angered him beyond anything just now, and he will find a way to get me alone, despite our efforts.”

  Lord Radcliffe made a low humming noise as he looked at her. “I have an idea, but I must discuss it with the others first.” He took her arm gently and peered out of the alcove, and then led her out and directly onto the dance floor.

  Edith looked up at him in surprise. “A dance, my lord?”

  “I do occasionally dance, Lady Edith,” he said with a shrug.

  She laughed outright. “You do not. I might have been trying to bathe a cat last time for all I tried to get you to.”

  He quirked a brow as he bowed to her. “Not bathing a cat now, are you?”

  No, indeed, she was not.

  It so happened that Lord Radcliffe was quite a good dancer, for all his apparent dislike of it.

  She would have to remember that.

  Chapter Eleven

  On occasion, one must take a stand, even if it is unfashionable. But only on occasion.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 27 March 1819

  It was an utterly ridiculous idea. Foolhardy, reckless, and very likely improper, considering the circumstances. But it was the only idea he had.

  And it wasn’t going away.

  Graham shook his head as he ambled rather aimlessly about Mayfair on this fine spring day, wishing he had a better suggestion for Henshaw and the rest. At this rate, he wouldn’t even be able to get the words out, let alone go into any great detail about it.

  Why in the world would anyone want to give up the Season and come to Merrifield for a lengthy stay? Who would want to venture thus when the host was the most boring man on the planet, especially compared to his predecessor? The thrill of such an invitation had vanished entirely with Matthew’s death, and there would be no entertainment to speak of.

  He could see it all now. Guests would wander the halls and the gardens with wistful nostalgia of what the place had once been and would never be again. All talk would be of the difference between the brothers, and what a disappointment it was to have this particular Lord Radcliffe rather than the other.

  Edith wouldn’t know the difference, but he would have to invite others in order to have Edith come, and she would hear what they had to say.

  The pretense of inviting anyone to Merrifield in order to invite Edith seemed utterly insane, but it would do. Merrifield could be a worthy retreat for her, and he could ensure the weasel never came near enough to be a bother.

  The others would have to consent, however, and Edith would have to wish to venture there.

  What if she hated the idea? Why did that matter?

  So many questions and very few answers. Graham’s least favorite combination.

  “Radcliffe!”

  Turning quickly, Graham fixed his usual polite smile on his face in anticipation of whoever had called to him. The smile eased into something less forced as he saw Francis, Lord Sterling, approaching with an elegant woman some years his senior on his arm, and, of all things, a large bloodhound on a lead before them.

  “Sterling. Good morning.” He bowed to them both, taking quick stock of the woman, ignoring the dog.

  While it was clear she was older than Francis, she could not be considered old in the truest sense. Still lovely, still attractive, and still full of life and energy. And, if the twinkle in her eye was any indication, some mischief.

  Francis bowed in return. “Radcliffe, this is Tony’s stepmother, Miranda, Mrs. Sterling. And that’s Rufus. He’s done for.” That earned the peer a sharp look from his companion.

  “He is not! And you could just call me your aunt.”

  “You always tell me not to,” Francis protested, eyes wide, but smiling wryly. “You say it’s unflattering.”

  Mrs. Sterling rolled her eyes without any delicacy and looked at Graham frankly. “How very ungallant he is, my lord. I don’t know what to make of him.”

  Graham almost grinned, surprising himself. “I believe that is a commonly held understanding, Mrs. Sterling, if Tyrone Demaris is to be believed.”

  “I always believe Tyrone, no matter what he says,” Mrs. Sterling admitted at once, lips curving.

  “Well, there’s your first mistake,” Francis muttered. “Miranda, this is Lord Radcliffe.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Sterling widened her eyes in exasperation. “How I managed to be coerced to walk out with you, of all people, Francis, I will never understand.”

  Francis looked up to t
he cloudless sky and seemed to be silently praying.

  Graham chuckled, strangely loving this dynamic between relations. “It is a fine day, Mrs. Sterling. I cannot blame you for wishing to partake in a walk, no matter whose arm you are on.”

  “Call me Miranda, my dear,” Mrs. Sterling told him at once, her smile turning almost matronly. “I know formalities and politeness mean well, but I prefer to tear down the barriers preventing me from forging true connections with my friends.”

  No doubt sensing this conversation would not be a passing one, Rufus groaned and flopped himself down to the ground, apparently comfortable enough to wait them out.

  “Radcliffe isn’t much for familiarity, Miranda,” Francis warned, eyeing Graham with a warning in his expression, though what precisely the warning was for remained less clear.

  Graham raised a brow at the statement. “Am I not? How interesting.”

  Miranda tossed her head back with a throaty laugh, then surveyed Graham through her crystal blue eyes. “Brava, Radcliffe. So droll, I approve.”

  He gave the woman a half-bow of acknowledgement. “Thank you, Miranda.”

  “Spare me,” Francis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “If only we could, my love,” Miranda quipped without sympathy. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Radcliffe, you recently inherited, yes?”

  Graham stiffened but did his best to hide it. “I did.”

  Miranda’s chin dipped just a touch. “Then, it was your brother before you.”

  A swallow trapped itself in Graham’s throat. “It was.”

  “I didn’t know him,” Miranda murmured, stepping closer and resting a hand on his arm, “but I knew his wife. Lovely woman. Very charming. Very popular.”

  “She was, yes.”

  There was nothing else to say. Penelope had been universally adored, and even Graham had thought her the best of all women. Had he been given a sister by birth, she could not have been so close in his affections as Penelope. In losing her, he had not simply lost his brother’s wife, but a sister as well.

  Twice the loss.

  But how to admit just how much their relationship had meant to him without it being taken as holding a passion for her? He hadn’t done, couldn’t have. He would freely admit she had been beautiful and enchanting, but their feelings for each other had always been safely platonic. She had been his brother’s perfect match but could not have been Graham’s.

  Who could fully comprehend that?

  “A terrible loss for you, I’m sure, to lose them both. You have my deepest sympathies.”

  Graham came back to the conversation at hand and saw understanding in Miranda’s countenance.

  “Thank you,” he told her, stunned by the sincerity in his words.

  “I am of the opinion,” Miranda continued in a much lighter tone, stepping back, “that family ties can be much closer, much more binding than we are generally willing to admit. Myself, I would be nearly as devastated if Mr. Johnston died as if his wife, my sister, did. But I understand that not all families are as fond of each other as mine.” She smiled as though she had been indulging her own feelings in her words, though Graham knew better.

  Somehow, this new acquaintance had seen beyond his reserve and into his heart within moments.

  He wasn’t sure if it was unnerving or consoling, but he liked Miranda better for it. That, he could freely admit to.

  Miranda suddenly cocked her head. “Correct me if I am wrong, but did they not have a child?”

  “Miranda…” Francis warned at once, sounding severe for the first time.

  “Hush, Francis,” she replied, holding up a hand to him. “I have a reason for prying. Radcliffe?”

  Graham hesitated. This was not universally known, though Matthew and Penelope hadn’t taken particular pains to hide the fact. Were they in full public, he would refuse to discuss it. As they had no other listeners, he exhaled shortly and gave a brief nod.

  “They did.”

  Miranda did not react to the revelation. “And the child is…?”

  “At Merrifield,” Graham told her, unwilling to give the specific details Miranda was undoubtedly looking for. “Under my guardianship.”

  “So, you have inherited the role of parent as well as a title.”

  That took him by surprise, and he shook his head. “Well, I…”

  Miranda frowned at him. “Call it what it is, my dear, the challenges are the same. Do you have help with the child?”

  “Of course,” he nearly stammered, the statement settling in uncomfortably. “A nanny, and my aunt…”

  Miranda’s gasp made him jump. “Don’t tell me Eloise is also at Merrifield!”

  His jaw dropped. “You know her?”

  “Adore her, my boy. Utterly adore.” Miranda laughed again and clasped her hands together. “That settles it. I must come to Merrifield. Invite me, won’t you? I’m sure you can find a reason soon enough, or else I can invent one.” She turned to Francis in her excitement. “You should see the estate, Francis. Utter perfection out there in Berkshire. Glorious landscape and gardens, and Merrifield itself is one of the loveliest houses ever constructed. I am quite in raptures over it.”

  Francis raised his brow. “So I gathered. You invited yourself to it, after all.”

  “Oh, tosh,” Miranda sputtered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Radcliffe will invite me, won’t you, Radcliffe?”

  “I…”

  “What a lovely way to reopen the place!” Miranda exclaimed, whirling as though she could see the estate beside them. “A house party, Radcliffe! It would be so inviting, and I know exactly who we could invite to keep things intimate yet polite, tasteful, and respectable.” She gestured wide at the imaginary house. “The ivy would be such a lovely color, and those wildflowers would be of such a shade…”

  Graham glanced at Miranda’s vision, not impressed with the reality of the row of plain townhomes standing there. “I don’t see it.”

  Francis snorted a loud laugh before coughing into his fist to cover it.

  Miranda scowled at Graham. “I said droll was approved, not cynicism.”

  “I knew I had crossed a line somewhere,” he relented before he could stop himself. “Not quite sure which time, though.”

  Francis shook harder with his laughter, making Graham smirk.

  “Ugh!” Miranda groaned, tossing her hands in the air. “Men!” She leveled a finger at Graham, and his smirk faded. “I am not giving up on this, Radcliffe. I know a very capable artist, and once I describe Merrifield to her, you will completely comprehend the vision I have.”

  “I’ve seen Merrifield in the spring, Miranda,” Graham assured her. “I simply don’t understand the need for others to.”

  “Don’t you?” Miranda asked, folding her arms to glare at him properly.

  Graham stared back, his mind spinning. He had just been considering an invitation to Merrifield, but he hadn’t spoken the idea aloud to anyone. Hadn’t been convinced he would do so. Or could do so.

  Now someone was demanding he follow through with the idea, unaware it was already a possibility?

  Perhaps he didn’t like Miranda Sterling all that well after all.

  Or perhaps she would prove herself to be accurate with tarot cards and fortune-telling. His guests would enjoy that.

  Slowly, Graham’s brows rose as he realized what he had thought.

  His guests.

  He made a face in reluctance. “I’ll consider it, Miranda. And if it comes to pass, you will, of course, be invited.”

  “So I should hope,” she told him without any gratitude. She did wink, however, and give him a smile. “Now, Francis, I think you may continue to escort me. I’m feeling rather satisfied. Rufus, come, my darling.” On cue, the dog rose from his prone position and went to the side of his mistress obediently.

  Francis offered his arm with a long-suffering sigh as he looked at Graham. “Now you’ve done it.”

  Graham shrugged. “Did I have a ch
oice?”

  “Not really,” Francis admitted as he and his aunt continued to walk, “and that, I fear, is the worst of it.” He tapped the brim of his hat with a smile, leaving Graham alone once more.

  Graham exhaled to himself and continued on his way as well, though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember his course or his reason.

  If any of that mattered in London.

  “Mistress…”

  Edith turned away from her enjoyable tea with Amelia, finally getting close to discovering the identity of her friend’s secret love, all warmth evaporating through the tips of her fingers. She knew that tone.

  “No…”

  Owen nodded tightly. “Afraid so, mistress.”

  “No what?” Amelia demanded looking between the two. “What is it?”

  “Sir Reginald,” Edith murmured, looking back at her friend with a mixture of regret, resignation, and, she would admit, fear.

  Owen cleared his throat. “He’s in a right state, mistress. Verra upset.”

  “Of course, he is.” Edith sighed, putting a hand to her brow. “Amelia, go upstairs, I won’t have you present for this. Owen, have a message sent to Hensh. At once, if you please. I’ll want him here quickly. Do we know where Lachlan is?”

  “Nae, mistress. He hasna left his London address for us yet.” Owen made a face, which echoed Edith’s sentiment.

  Lachlan had visited semi-regularly, but he hadn’t found a lasting residence to his liking. It seemed her brother was changed with regards to his actions towards her, but his nature was not so changed as to render his life vastly different.

  No matter.

  Edith shook her head. “We’ll deal with that later. For now, Hensh will do, and with Amelia hidden away…”

  “No.”

  Owen stepped into the room, his hands going to his hips. “Miss Perry…”

  Edith was on her feet and beside him in an instant. “Amelia, you must hide.”

  But Amelia shook her head very firmly, her jaw set. “No, to both of you. If Lachlan can take a stand despite his injuries against you, then I, your friend, can certainly do so. I may not be an imposing Scot, but I think my own will may surprise us all.”