He snorted and patted her back. “Dinna get carried away, Edith. Several hundred people are burrowing in their graves at this moment.”
“Mangy cur or no’, I’m right pleased ye were here,” Owen admitted as he returned to the room, his hand extended towards Lachlan, who shook it without hesitation.
Lachlan gave him a stern look. “Next time that cnap de todhar eich appears, ye will send for me as well as the lieutenant, aye? I dinna ken wha’ the law says, if he is permitted tae enter or no’, but it will be o’er my cold, dead corpse tha’ he gets wi’in ten feet of her.”
“Aye, sir,” Owen replied with a shocking amount of respect. “I ken yer meaning exactly.”
“Edith? Edith, what’s happened?” Amelia’s voice called from the stairs.
Lachlan looked down at Edith in surprise. “Now, who is that?”
Edith patted his chest with a sigh. “She’s my friend, and no, ye canna have her.”
“I didna ask.”
“Ye will ask. And the answer is no.”
Chapter Ten
This author has heard some debate as to whether or not a gentleman truly enjoys a ball. This is undoubtedly why gaming rooms became fashionable accessories of the host’s location. But this is no kindness to the ladies, as such an accessory removes potential partners from the ballroom. And why else would one attend a ball but to dance?
-The Spinster Chronicles, 20 August 1818
“Do you know how many years I have spent avoiding the Wintermere spring ball, Radcliffe? All of them. Every single year that I have been eligible to attend, I have avoided it. Why? Because Annabelle Wintermere is a desperate cat and wants me for her husband. I cannot believe I let you talk me into this. What was I thinking? And what is this abysmal theme they are attempting? It fails, whatever it is. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Graham glanced at Tyrone as the two of them proceeded into the ballroom, thankfully without having to endure an official introduction from a stuffy majordomo.
“You seem to be carrying on a conversation well enough on your own. I saw no need to intervene.” He returned his attention forward, scanning the guests already in attendance. “Besides, I cannot abide whining.”
Tyrone gave him a dark look. “Whining?”
“What else would you call incessant complaining? You had a choice about attending, and you chose to attend. There is nothing to complain about.”
“I beg your pardon; there is a great deal to complain about.”
Graham smiled to himself, shaking his head. “Then do us both a kindness and confine the complaints to your head.”
“That is hardly as satisfying,” Tyrone grunted. “Did you convince Francis to come?”
“Didn’t have to,” Graham informed him, frowning at the lack of familiar faces. “I believe his wife took care of that, though I don’t see either of them here yet.”
Tyrone smirked and swiped a drink from a stoic footman. “It’s early in the evening for them. Or for anyone important, for that matter.”
“You’re here.”
“As I said, too early for anyone important.” He flashed a quick grin, then looked about the room himself. “Gads, this will get stuffy, though. Already twelve couples on the floor and barely room enough to maneuver. The Wintermeres must be feeling particularly ambitious this year.”
Graham looked at his friend again, ignoring the scratch of his over-starched cravat. “How would you know? You just said you never attend. This might be normal for them.”
Tyrone’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away quickly. “I’ve heard. The Spinster Chronicles have detailed the event every year.”
“I’m sure that’s it.” Graham nodded sagely, trying not to smile. Despite Tyrone’s comments, his friend hadn’t been overly difficult to convince to attend tonight. He’d made more noise after the fact than he had before it, and he was perfectly free to leave whenever he chose.
He wouldn’t do so, however. Tyrone’s pattern was fairly well established. He would dance a few times, never with a lady he had a particular interest in, then take himself off to the gaming room for a few hours, only to return to the ballroom for a few more dances with ladies of whom he approved. Any and all young ladies wishing for the attentions of Tyrone Demaris in truth would watch for his return from the gaming room, hoping for a dance.
Those chosen prior to his departure thence were usually sensible enough not to care either way, which was likely why they were chosen.
Graham had no such elaborate plans dictating his behaviors at balls and assemblies. He did as he wished, and only as he wished, and rarely thought through his actions of the night prior to his arrival.
Only once had he acted differently from his wishes, and it had taken a stubborn Scottish beauty to change that for him.
On instinct, he looked around again, this time with more intensity. He was only here because the others had said they would attend, as Lady Edith and Miss Perry had been granted invitations and intended to come. He barely knew the Wintermeres, but he had been repeatedly assured that everyone who was anyone attended if invited, so attending had seemed the thing to do.
Every young lady he saw seemed to be dressed in her very finest, on her very best behavior, and every gentleman was far more attentive than he might have been at another ball in London. Graham couldn’t understand why, as it was the same sort of Society they engaged with at every other event, if not on a daily basis. What made this place and this event better than any other?
The Wintermeres were not nobility, though they had ties to it, and they had wealth, though not the most extensive fortune in London. Yet their ballroom was full to the brim, and more guests were entering every minute.
This was not the sort of event that Graham would enjoy. Too many people, too many expectations. He might spend his time in the gaming room tonight, as well.
After at least one dance, that is.
Just one.
If he could find her.
In this crowd, that might be more difficult than he had previously anticipated.
“I heard a little something about your Scottish beauty, you know.”
Graham jerked and looked at his friend with wide eyes. “What?”
Tyrone chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar, my friend, and you hide things even worse.” He looked over at him with a smile. “Your interest in Lady Edith Leveson isn’t exactly a secret.”
“I’m helping to protect her,” Graham reminded him, his pulse racing at an almost panicked pace. “She’s having significant difficulties; you know that.”
“All I said was an interest,” Tyrone said, holding up his hands in surrender, though his smile said a great deal more. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Graham scowled at the unspoken implication, and at his own reaction to it. That would tell far more than he would wish, if it hadn’t already done so.
“What have you learned, then?” he grumbled, wishing he had taken a drink earlier, as well.
Tyrone moved a step closer to him, sipping his beverage slowly. “A man was seen exiting her house the other day after having spent a considerable amount of time within.”
Graham rolled his eyes. “Sir Reginald calls on her at will, and Henshaw calls on a regular basis. That means nothing.”
“Would I have said anything if it was Henshaw or Sir Reginald?” Tyrone shot back. “This was no mere visit. The man entered before Sir Reginald visited, and was there after he left. I’ve been told he’s a rugged Highlander who comes with his very own kilt.”
Something sharp lanced through Graham’s chest, and his jaw tightened. There were several rumors surrounding Edith at any given time, and there was no guarantee that any could be believed. Why should this one be any more true than any of the others? Yet, if Tyrone was mentioning it, there had to be something in it.
“Who saw the man?” Graham asked in a low voice, fighting for ambivalence.
“Sir Reginald, of course.” Tyrone snorted softly. “H
e’s making it known that Lady Edith is entertaining a single man alone for an extended period of time. It wouldn’t be condoned if it weren’t for the fact that Lady Edith’s neighbor confirmed the arrival of a dashing kilted warrior.”
Graham felt his teeth grind together, and he only nodded. “She did say she was seeking protection. Perhaps she has found it.”
“So, you wouldn’t care if Lady Edith had taken a lover?”
“Why should I care?” Graham inquired in as mild a tone as he could manage. “She is an independent woman who should take her freedom as and where she may. She has so little of it elsewhere.”
Tyrone hummed under his breath. “Noble sentiment, I am sure. Does it change your intentions?”
Graham turned to face his friend more directly, giving him a hard look. “My intentions,” he ground out, “remain the same as they were before. To help Lady Edith find a way through her present troubles into something better. That is all I have been aiming for.”
“Is it, indeed?” Tyrone murmured. One side of his mouth curved in an almost bemused manner. “Intriguing sort of interest, but to each his own.”
“Dance with Lady Edith tonight,” Graham instructed as his attention moved to a corner of the room where a small group had gathered and was now dispersing into the ballroom. One face in particular caught his attention, and the sight of it sent a boulder dropping into the center of his chest.
Loveliness itself, Edith moved through the other guests with minimal difficulty, her complexion rosy, her smile bright. Her dark hair was curled and twisted into something elegant, ribbons and flowers entwining within the luxurious locks. The color of her dress wasn’t immediately obvious to him, but he didn’t care.
Seeing her was enough.
“Dance with her?” Tyrone echoed behind him, his voice somehow seeming far off. “Why?”
Graham felt his lip twitch in amusement. That was a stupid question; there was no doubt of it. Who wouldn’t want to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room, and the cleverest, the wittiest, the bravest…
“Just do it, will you?” Graham clapped his friend on the shoulder and moved away, his eyes on Edith still, his attention fixed. He’d promised himself he would look after her, had told the others that he was with them in their protection of her, had roped himself into a mission of sorts that he didn’t fully understand, but he was committed, nonetheless.
Who wouldn’t be, after the interactions he’d had with her?
Even Tyrone, the skeptic that he was, would have devoted himself to the cause.
Graham smiled as he watched Edith, seeing her with all the brightness he’d thought she was capable of and more, which she had worn so little in his previous encounters with her. This was as she should have been, mingling with others and full of life. She did not deserve the harshness her life had brought, nor to wear the reserved expression she so often had.
So, you wouldn’t care if Lady Edith had taken a lover?
Tyrone’s question echoed in Graham’s mind, and he felt his smile fade as his chest tightened at it.
He would care. He did care.
But it changed nothing. Not a thing.
A movement behind Edith distracted Graham momentarily, then with real interest as the cause of the movement revealed itself.
The weasel was approaching her, and she had no idea.
Graham moved at once, though the crowd had thickened considerably, and his pace was slow.
His eyes flew back to Edith, hissing to himself.
He wasn’t going to make it in time.
It seemed that Edith had learned a great deal about moving in Society, if tonight were any indication. Or perhaps it was that Amelia was so very in demand. At any rate, the pair of them had made so many calls and had made the acquaintance of several gentlemen, though most they had no interest in maintaining.
Edith had found two potential candidates for protection in the future, and both had vowed to come this evening. Mr. Copeland had five thousand a year, an estate in Yorkshire, and was quite a striking fellow. So tall and with the sort of face one would see on a Grecian statue, and the fine coloring to match. But one would never think that he was also remarkably intelligent, spoke eloquently, and acted almost as if he had no idea just how attractive he was. Additionally, according to Grace, he was one of the finest horsemen in England.
There was no way for Edith to be entirely certain if that should endear him to her or not, as she had also heard that an Englishman could not ride half so well as a Highlander.
The other gentleman of interest was a Mr. Tomkins, who was a bit older, nearly forty, but still possessed the looks and vigor of a younger man. He would age well, for he had very few lines, and what lines he did have were very well situated. He prided himself on being a great sportsman, but also bore a keen interest in the new industrial works, if one could believe it.
A man of fortune who wished to work? Unfathomable.
Neither of them had professed any serious intentions, but Edith would feel quite comfortable in encouraging either of them, should they wish to. Aubrey assured her that both were universally well respected and men of excellent character. What could she want more?
But as she had seen neither gentleman yet this evening, she was left to meander about the room in the hopes of finding another agreeable gentleman to converse with, if not dance with. Amelia had insisted that Edith put her best foot, and face, forward, dressing her in a silk gown of the palest pink and instructing Simms in a new style of hair. While Edith could not say either were particularly comfortable, as she seemed to be standing out a bit more, she could admit to feeling rather prettier than she usually did.
Whatever that meant.
The ball was very well attended, too well for her taste, as it was quite a crush. Her toes had been trampled three times already just in moving about the room and moving now was considerably awkward. She’d already enjoyed dances with Henshaw, Tony, and Cam, for something they called “a good impression”.
No doubt they meant to show the gathering what influence surrounded her, though how anyone could see anything in this ever-increasing mass of people was a mystery.
A pair of hands suddenly ran up the full length of her torso, settling just aside her chest. “Lady Edith, you have been avoiding me,” a chilling voice whispered at her ear.
Edith stiffened in Sir Reginald’s hold, gasping. She tried to flail, but he pinned her arms behind her back. To anyone seeing them, she might have been standing politely, and he simply a man standing behind her. Truly, it was the most innocuous sort of position. She saw no less than four others watching the dance who looked exactly the same.
The difference was that she was in danger, and they were not.
“I am pleased that your Scottish bull has abandoned you for the moment, for there was something I needed to tell you,” he whispered, his hands now toying along the buttons of her dress.
She tried to stomp his foot, but he twisted his leg with hers, effectively trapping her. And then he pulled her along, moving between people, so they were no longer in front to see the dancing, and thus were more hidden from view.
“Stop struggling,” he hissed, gripping her arms more tightly, smiling for the effect of those around them, though very few were paying attention. “I could compromise you so easily right here, in front of all of these people. And then your plans for finding a new husband would be quite ruined.”
Edith swallowed and obeyed, forcing her face to relax as much as she could.
“Better,” he purred, his hands gliding around to the front of her bodice. “Now, if you keep avoiding me, Edith, I will make things most unpleasant for you.”
“How’s that?” she asked, clenching her teeth. “They are already far from pleasant.”
“Tart lassie,” he said with a laugh, mocking her accent. “Have you forgotten that the house you live in belongs to me?”
She had not forgotten, could not forget, but refused to reply, lifting her chin.
“You agree to be at my disposal, entirely, in every way,” he murmured, one hand sliding up the front of her bodice and tracing up her neck, “and I will let you remain in the house. If you do not, I will take the house from you, and you will be cast out.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she replied, feeling her cheeks grow cold even as her heart began to race desperately.
She could not return to Scotland, not like that, and not without some assurance of being taken care of in some way. Lachlan was returned to her, but how could she rely on him for anything so early in their rekindled relationship? Her friends could take her in, but at what cost to their own lives and reputations?
“Try me,” Sir Reginald said, his hands wandering over her body and lingering where they ought not. “I have told you I want you, that I would be generous with you, and that your heritage will not deter me in this. It is your only option.”
“Hardly,” growled a deep voice that Edith had come to know well.
The pressure at her back vanished, as did the wandering hands, and suddenly Edith was flung forward into a pillar. She turned to find Lord Radcliffe setting Sir Reginald into the hands of Tony and Cam, both of whom looked positively murderous. They escorted Sir Reginald from the room immediately, and with such discretion that no one would have thought anything amiss by it.
Sir Reginald glared over his shoulder at her with such venom that Edith trembled from head to foot. She couldn’t even feel relief at her deliverance, knowing what such a look would mean for her. Before, she had only thought Sir Reginald would ruin her, which was bad enough, but now could see what a naïve thought that was. She had earned his hatred by spurning him, and there was no telling what he might do when in such a rage or in seeking vengeance.
Lord Radcliffe was back to her at once, and he took her shoulders in hand, giving her a very serious look.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his eyes hard.
Edith tried to nod, but her emotions were too close to the surface, and her trembling increased.
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