A bit of a whimper escaped her as she looked back over her shoulder, and Graham took the opportunity to attempt to shake her loose, but it was fruitless. She returned her attention to Graham and took a half step closer to him, the vibrancy of her eyes that much more stirring for being closer.
“I have no plans, sir,” she told him, her voice tight, “and I have no designs on you or any man here. I hate to force you into something you clearly have no wish to do. But no one has claimed this dance, which was no’ an issue until this moment, and I absolutely must dance with someone right now, and you were the closest man. I am out of time, so please will you haud yer wheesht an’ take this waltz with me?”
Graham looked at her for a moment, searching the earnestness and tension in her fair face, his irritability fading despite his reluctance to do what she asked. Then, his eyes moved off her to a motion over her shoulder.
A thin, angular man in overdone finery was coming towards them, his eyes fixed on the back of the woman before Graham, and the expression on his face resembled one Graham had once seen on a weasel. The various pieces of the story fell into place without any context for verification, and he stiffened. His brow creased, and his eyes were back to the beauty, his decision made.
Exhaling softly, he covered her hand on his sleeve and turned towards the dance floor as the strains of the next waltz struck up.
“My dance, I believe,” he announced, his tone somehow back to that of his normal one.
He heard the whoosh of her exhale as they moved and found himself leaning closer. “I take it you just told me to stop talking?”
“More or less,” she forced out, seeming almost to stammer with it. “And less politely.”
“I figured as much.”
Her hand trembled in his hold, and he heard a noise resembling that of a sob coming from her, one of her gloved hands going to her throat.
“Steady,” he murmured as he took her waist in hand, leading her into the first motions of the dance. “Nobody is that emotional to dance with me.”
“Then this will be a first,” she managed, forcing a smile. “You must accept that you are my hero tonight.”
He grimaced as he turned her, his movements feeling easier than he remembered a waltz being. Perhaps not thinking about the waltz made it easier to dance the waltz.
“I am no hero, madam.”
His partner glanced over his shoulder, then shivered and shook her head. “Yes,” she said softly, “you are.”
For agreeing to waltz with her? Hardly. He’d seen her pursuer, but what could he have been but an interminable annoyance on the dance floor, as he’d previously suspected her to be fleeing from? He gave her a strange look, then turned the pair of them so he could see where she had been looking.
The weasel was standing there, glaring at them both, a sneer fixed on his face, something superior and threatening in his stance and gaze.
Graham glared back, feeling the desire to pull the woman in his arms closer to him purely out of instinct.
“I don’t like him,” he informed her after a moment.
She looked up at him so quickly her head nearly hit his chin.
“You know him?” she whispered hoarsely.
“No,” he said with a shrug, “but he looks too much like a weasel for my taste. And he forced me to waltz.”
The woman bit her lip, a half-laugh escaping. “Which is worse, sir? The weasel or the waltz?”
Graham looked back down at her, noticing for the first time the intoxicating scent of lavender and pine rising from her, as if sprung into being from her fair skin. Her lips were no longer pulled tight, as when he had first seen her, but relaxed and full, somehow flushed from the recent pressure of her teeth upon them. The hint of a smile she was giving him now, the first he had seen her bear, created an unspeakable sensation in the back of his knees that raced into the base of his spine.
Waltzing had never done that for him before.
“I really cannot decide,” he admitted, surprising himself with the answer.
Perhaps not the words themselves, as the weasel was undoubtedly the more evil of the two, but given his distaste for any kind of dancing and the unsettling nature of his reaction to it, he found himself unable to be entirely the gentleman in his response at the moment.
His partner grimaced. “I do apologize for that.”
“You don’t make the waltz an evil, madam,” he assured her as gently as a man could gruffly do. “As I said before, it is not personal.”
She nodded once, somehow managing the weakest of smiles. “As I said, if I had another alternative, I would have chosen it.” Her eyes glanced over his shoulder once more, then darted to the buttons of his waistcoat, her hold on his hand clenching painfully.
There could be only one thing that rendered a woman bold enough to demand a dance with him into a trembling leaf, and that was fear. In this case, it could only be fear of the weasel. What hold did he have over her that enabled him to do this to her? He couldn’t bear it. Somehow, he couldn’t.
“As fine as my waistcoat is, madam,” he said, attempting at the teasing that had come so easily to his brother, “my eyes are up here.”
“Give me a moment, please,” she whispered weakly, color fading from her cheeks, the trembling in her frame growing worse.
He sighed and dropped the hand he held, moving his hand to her back. “Come,” he urged roughly, applying just enough pressure to urge her on, leading her from the floor.
“Where are we going?” she asked, resisting a little.
Graham took her hand in his, worried that the hand at her back wouldn’t be enough to steady her. “You are suddenly unwell, and I am being gentlemanly and escorting you away,” he said simply, once again keeping his tone and expression polite. “Put a hand to your head, sway a little, and tell me where to deposit you, if you would be so kind.”
She did as he suggested and looked around, then indicated a group in a corner.
He could have laughed but thought it would be inappropriate in this moment. Still, there was something to be said for the irony of the situation.
Her friends happened to be some of the few members of Society he could tolerate.
Captain and Mrs. Sterling, Mr. and Mrs. Vale, Lord and Lady Ingram, and Miss Charlotte Wright all watched the pair of them approach warily, concern in each of their faces. They were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Morton, whom Graham knew by sight, though not especially intimately himself. Still, the gathering was one he could approve of, and if the looks forming on the faces of the gentlemen there were any indication, he need not have further concern for her safety.
He released her as they reached the group and bowed to them as a whole before turning to face her as she took the hand of Lady Ingram. “I am sorry our waltz was cut short, madam,” he murmured, though he was not especially sorry to be done with dancing, beautiful though she was. “I hope you are feeling yourself soon.”
He bowed once more, then turned and moved through the crowd with ease, which seemed unfair, given the trouble his mysterious dance partner had endured during her flight from danger.
Graham’s step faltered slightly as he realized with a jolt of guilt that he had not learned her name during the course of their dance together. He could blame the abruptness of their first meeting, and her unconventional method of finding dance partners, but the truth of the matter was that he’d had plenty of time to ask her name during the waltz and had failed to do so.
There wasn’t much he could do about that now unless he wanted to ask around, but he wasn’t one for gossip. There was enough undoubtedly said about him in certain circles that he did not want to know about, and if word got around that Lord Radcliffe was asking about a certain young woman, it would only harm them both. There would be no guarantee that the information he got would be accurate anyway. He did not have any close friends in Society, so there wasn’t a chance he could trust anything he got by way of answer.
He could ask the Ingrams, he supposed,
but he would not wish to raise questions or concerns on their part, either.
It was a bit of a mess, the politeness of Society. If he were more like Mr. Vale, he might have just come right out and asked, and to hell with the consequences of it. But Graham was not Mr. Vale, and he could not be. He was not carefree, nor was he able to do anything on a whim. Carefully organized, carefully constructed; that was what his life had been, and what he needed it to be again. The unknown had never been comfortable for him, and that had not changed with time or experience.
But what did any of this have to do with the identity of the woman he had danced with? What harm could there be in discovering her name? Why should anyone make something out of nothing?
Dancing with a woman without being introduced to her was not polite. Dancing with a woman whom he had not asked to dance was not polite. Making commentary on aspects of her life when he knew nothing about it was not polite. Inquiring about a woman’s life without knowing her identity after dancing with her and learning more about her personal life would not be polite.
That would bring about comment.
And what of the weasel? Would Graham’s intervention, or the questions he would hypothetically raise, bring more trouble where he was concerned?
Now situated against a wall across the room, Graham turned and took the opportunity to look back towards his dance partner, still facing her friends, her back to him.
The expressions on the faces of the group were unreadable, aside from the fact that none of them seemed particularly pleased.
What was she telling them about him? What did they know?
Why did he care?
He frowned to himself as he considered that question. Why did he care? He knew nothing about the woman except who she associated with, and that she had the weasel in her life in some capacity. Also, that she was Scottish, and her brogue was more pronounced when she was flustered.
A rather charming quirk of personality, though the circumstances surrounding it could hardly be less so.
He watched as she wiped at her face, as she leaned into Mr. Vale when he put an arm around her, and as she eventually made her way back out to the dance floor on the arm of Captain Sterling. She wasn’t quite smiling, but it was close enough, he supposed.
Graham looked around the room, hoping to catch sight of the weasel to see if there was a similar reaction to the dance at present as there had been when Graham had danced with her.
Yet he could see no one particularly fixated on Captain Sterling and his partner. There were no scrawny men in overdone finery lurking at the edges of the onlookers, and there was nothing resembling a frown on the face of anyone present.
Had he left after the disappointment he had faced? Would he now make life more difficult for her?
“Radcliffe.”
Graham blinked and looked up, surprised to see Lord Ingram there, his easy smile belying the tension evident in his frame. “Ingram.”
Ingram gestured to the wall beside Graham. “May I?”
“Of course,” he replied, though Ingram had already taken up position there and leaned against the wall with a show of casualness.
He said nothing, which made Graham more curious. The pair of them had never been close, though they moved in the same circles, and Graham would have been hard-pressed to call them friends. No one knowing Graham came to his side just for the sake of it.
No one.
“What can I do for you, Ingram?”
Lord Ingram exhaled a laugh and gave him a sidelong look. “I wondered how long it would take you to break the silence.”
“Much as I respect you, sir,” Graham said with forced ease, “we have never been close enough to keep company without words. Silence does not disturb me; only the reasoning behind it.”
“Fair enough.” Ingram indicated the dance now. “You see Captain Sterling there?”
Graham nodded, a slight smile forming as satisfaction hit him. “I do. Fine dancer, I must say.”
Ingram snorted softly. “I’m sure he will appreciate the compliment, though I cannot vouch for his abilities myself. Now, look at the woman he is dancing with.”
Oh, well, if Lord Ingram insisted.
He must say, looking at her now was far more enjoyable. She seemed more at ease, no doubt enjoying her freedom from the weasel. She was brighter, though he suspected there was still some lingering hesitancy there. What could that be? What kept her from enjoying herself here?
Why in the world did he care? And why did he keep coming back to that question?
“I see her,” he grunted. “What of it?”
“You danced with her.”
Graham scowled. “What of it?”
“You don’t dance. Why?”
“Why don’t I dance?”
Ingram practically growled beside him. “Why did you dance with her, when you do not dance?”
The question was an interesting one, considering Ingram’s apparently close relationship with the woman. Surely, she ought to have given him some idea, if there was a question. Had he not seen the danger that Graham had seen? Did he not know about the weasel?
And if that were indeed the case, why should Graham be the one to betray secrets that were not his own?
“That, I’m afraid,” Graham informed him with a sigh, “is between the lady and me.”
“I don’t accept that answer.”
Graham slid him a wry look. “It is not my concern what you accept. That is the answer.”
Ingram’s frown deepened. “I have a significant interest in the well-being of that lady, Radcliffe.”
“Congratulations,” Graham replied without concern. “Is your wife aware?”
The jab was ignored, though Ingram’s right hand formed a fist at his side. “My wife and I are both friends with the lady. I consider us family.”
“That should make it easier to inquire of the lady as to what occurred during our dance.” Graham smiled as politely as his temperament would allow at present, given the suspicion in Ingram’s voice and the inquiry into his intentions.
He never took that sort of thing well.
“I want to know your reasons for the dance,” Ingram demanded, apparently unwilling to let this go.
Graham straightened and turned to face him, grateful, for once, that his height was above the average. “The lady knows my reasons, Ingram, and if you do not know hers, you do not need to know mine. Good evening.” He bowed and turned away, striding for the doors of the ballroom, having had quite enough of dancing and Society for one night.
Chapter Three
A circle of friends is both a wondrous and dangerous thing. There are no secrets from one’s true friends. Sooner or later, all secrets come to light under their influence, and heaven help you when they do.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 28 October 1816
The frequent gatherings of the Spinsters had never been something Edith had felt any apprehension about attending. Even in the early days, when she hadn’t attended regularly, it hadn’t been due to fear or reluctance, only her natural reserve and general mistrust of anyone and everyone. And attempting to hide herself from Sir Reginald’s reach. Hiding in London was easier than one thought, as Edith knew full well. She’d been in London for three months before Lieutenant Henshaw, or the Spinsters, had known about her.
She bit her lip now, looking around her drawing room for a minute before starting her walk to Charlotte’s home for the meeting, though there was very little structure to resemble an actual meeting in them.
“Mistress?” Owen called from the door.
Edith sighed and nodded, though Owen couldn’t see her. “I ken, I’ll be late if I dinna leave now.”
“Nay, mistress. Ye’ve a visitor.”
Owen’s voice was closer now, and Edith turned to the entrance of the room, eyes wide, heart skipping several beats in sudden fear. “I’ve a what? Now?”
“You would prefer another time, perhaps?” a familiar voice asked in amusement from the corridor.
Edith swayed with overwhelming relief, one hand flailing for the back of the sofa near her as she attempted a swallow twice before succeeding.
Not Sir Reginald, then.
Anyone else, she could receive gladly, and the owner of that particular voice was always welcome.
The tall soldier appeared in the drawing room doorway with a rueful smile, dressed as any other gentleman in London would have been, and taking no notice of the state of her rooms.
He was very kind like that.
“Henshaw,” Edith greeted with a quick bob of a curtsey. “I canna tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“Really?” Henshaw grunted a laugh. “Seems to me you would rather I go so you can get on with matters most mischievous.”
Edith put her hands on her hips. “Now, how did you know the Spinsters were meeting today?”
That earned her a genuine laugh, and Henshaw pushed into the room, coming over to bow before her and kiss her hand.
“How are you, Edith?”
“Well enough.” She gestured to a nearby chair with a smile, and Henshaw moved to sit there.
“I’m not sure I like that,” he told her with a frown as she also sat. “Well enough is not exactly glowing.”
Edith shrugged a shoulder. “I rarely glow, as ye well ken. I’ve been worse, and I’ve been better.”
Henshaw stared at her, the frown remaining. “Edith, what’s going on?”
The somber note in his tone told her he knew more than he was letting on; the only question was how much did he know, and how much was he speculating?
She exhaled slowly and folded her hands in her lap. “Ye ken Archie’s will didna leave me much to live on.”
Henshaw nodded brusquely. “I do. Much as I have tried to argue that point, the solicitors have that locked at every bolt.”
“Yer efforts have been most generous.”
She smiled with real warmth at this goodhearted giant of a man that had taken her under his wing from the moment he had met her in London. He took such care of her, and she knew full well that had led to a great deal of speculation where the pair of them were concerned, yet he had never uttered a word of complaint about it.
What a Spinster Wants Page 3