Spinster Ever After

by Rebecca Connolly

  Hugh frowned and looked at his brother for a moment. “Does it bother you that I am a gentleman without occupation?”

  “No,” came the droll reply. “But you have an estate that produces well. Tyrone here…”

  “Tyrone has a valet who won’t help us,” Tyrone announced, changing the subject to Michael and downing his new glass of Madeira. “Which leaves us with few options.”

  “Wait a moment!”

  They all paused at the voice, looking around at each other in dismay.

  “Who invited her?” Michael asked darkly, willing to murder any man here for what he was about to be subjected to.

  But each man had innocent expressions, which left only an individual not present.

  Alice.

  Michael glared at the Sterling brothers. “Alice has a cruel sense of humor.”

  “I’ve been saying that for years,” Hugh insisted.

  The last of the steps outside the room stopped, and the door opened to reveal the resplendent Miranda Sterling, silvery blue bonnet in one hand, her gloves in the other. Also in her hand was a lead attached to the drooping form of her beloved hound, Rufus.

  “Dear, dear, dear,” Miranda said as she looked Michael over. “How is it that we never noticed this before? What a dreadful mess.”

  “Ah, such vision,” the valet praised, rising from his chair and offering it grandly to Miranda, who took it at once, Rufus sitting calmly beside her.

  Michael scowled at them both, which was apparently exactly what the valet needed.

  “Ooh,” he said with some interest, considering Michael as if from a new angle. “Now there is a look I can dress. The brooding gentleman of wealth and consequence is every fair maiden’s wish.”

  Tyrone exhaled a loud groan. “No, Stone, Michael isn’t going to be the new Mr. Darcy, thank you.”

  “Why not?” Stone asked. “Real men never live up to the fictional ones; all of the maids say so.”

  The men in the room looked around at each other, and Tyrone stared at his valet in amused surprise. “Do they? And who are they saying this to?”

  Stone’s face became a mask. “I’m sure I do not know, sir. I only hear things.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Tyrone nodded at Miranda and gestured to Michael. “Well?”

  Miranda pursed her lips, her fingers absently scratching at the back of Rufus’s head. “It would be all very well if this was the country, and I understand that Mr. Sandford has spent a deal of time at his country estate of late. Is that not so?”

  “It is,” Michael conceded, unsure where Miranda wished to take this line of questioning.

  She nodded knowingly. “Such a lovely place, Crestor Grove. You must be so very proud to be master of it.”

  Michael blinked, knowing full well that Miranda Sterling had never set foot on the property of Crestor Grove in her entire life. “I am, yes. It’s done very well since my father’s death, despite my failings.”

  “Such devotion to the family estate and your heritage,” Miranda simpered, almost seeming to tear up. “Such tireless efforts to improve life for your mother, your sisters, and your sweet brother Peter. You can hardly think about yourself with all of that weighing on you, can you?”

  What in the world was she talking about? Michael had certainly been dedicating much of his energy to improving the estate, but it was not as though his father had left it in ruins. They had been well set up in his death, and his sisters had dowries that were secure. Peter would need a profession one day, but so did most younger sons in England.

  And Michael could think of himself because he not only had an intelligent and capable estate agent, but a mother who could run the place better than any man he’d ever met, including his father. Michael was barely needed at Crestor Grove, though he was supposed to be lord and master of it.

  Before Michael could answer, Miranda looked at Stone with damp eyes. “Such a worthy gentleman deserves the very best, wouldn’t you agree, Stone?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Stone agreed without hesitation.

  “He could hardly be expected to maintain London fashions while so dedicated to matters in the country, could he?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “We cannot allow him to be pitied and dismissed by Society simply because matters of even greater import than his apparel have consumed his mind, can we?”

  “No, my lady.”

  Miranda placed a hand to her chest, beaming up at Stone. “I knew you would agree, Stone. I knew that you were a man of great principle as well as vision and talent.”

  Stone blushed like a young girl receiving her first flirtation. “Well, my lady…”

  “Now,” Miranda said with a much firmer voice, somehow losing none of her flattery despite the change in tone, “I would ask that you pull the best things from Mr. Demaris’ collection and try them on Mr. Sandford. They are of close enough size to give us a fair assessment. Hugh, you will take copious notes of everything Stone and I suggest and hand it over at the end of this gathering. At which time, Michael dear, you and I will be going to Bond Street to have you perfectly fitted and tailored before your next appearance anywhere.”

  “Miranda,” Lord Sterling protested.

  “Really, Miranda,” Hugh tried.

  “I daresay, Miranda,” Tyrone blustered.

  Michael said nothing, and only stared at Miranda while Stone gleefully obeyed her command.

  Miranda raised a brow at him. “Well, Michael?”

  “I cannot agree to this,” he told her, not caring that the others would hear. “I have stable finances, Mrs. Sterling, but to waste them on this frippery…”

  “Personal grooming is not a waste,” Miranda overrode with some insistence. “Nor is it frippery. And it does not matter what your finances are, this is my gift to you.”

  “What?” every gentleman in the room cried in near unison.

  She looked around at them all calmly, as though she were merely surveying houseplants. “Hmm. Jealousy mingled with disbelief over here, while this one only has shock. That confirms my decision if nothing else does.” She winked at Michael and gestured for him to remove his coat. “Don’t argue with me, dear, it will only make things worse. And while I adore the family I have married into, kindly call me Miranda. Neither Georgie nor Elinor would enjoy being confused for me, though I daresay we all appear of an age.”

  Lord Sterling coughed a laugh that he smothered with further attempts at coughing, which only resulted in choking sounds.

  Miranda sniffed once. “Francis, my love, do kindly remember who keeps your mother-in-law from descending upon you more than once a quarter.”

  Hugh cackled mercilessly from his perch and snapped his book shut. “For that alone, Miranda, I will take notes on anything and everything you wish.”

  Tyrone poured a glass of Madeira and handed it to Miranda. “I’m not sure if I should be defending Aunt Hetty or applauding the dart, Miranda, so I’ll only offer you a drink.”

  She inclined her head regally. “Very wise, Tyrone. Would you mind terribly if I ask your cook for a dish of water for poor Rufus? And perhaps some sandwiches for myself? The charity gala meeting went on so dreadfully long, and no one thought about luncheon at all.”

  “What charity gala?” Lord Sterling asked, now fully recovered. “Why don’t I know of this?”

  “Your wife does, my lamb, and she has assured the committee of your donation.” She waved a hand. “That is all you need to know. Janet will inform you where and when your presence is required. Tyrone, dear…”

  “Yes, Miranda, of course.” Tyrone plucked up her hand and kissed it fondly, scratched Rufus’s ear, then stepped from the room to do her bidding.

  Michael continued to watch Miranda, wondering what in the world had possessed her to take an interest in him like this, let alone to be so generous. A word from Alice Sterling could not have had this much influence, and it was clear that the Sterling brothers had done nothing to bring this on. Charlotte did not know his
plans, even if her mother had shared what he had told her.

  So why all this? What prompted the action?

  What did she mean by it?

  As though she could read his thoughts, Miranda smiled at him in a manner he could only call maternal. “Don’t dwell on it overly much, dear. I never had any children myself. And though I adore my stepsons wildly, they were really almost grown when I married their father. They were away at school most of the time, though we had the most glorious fun when they returned. So now, I like to take an interest in worthy parties when I can, and, despite what people think, it can be just as much fun to prepare fashion for a man as it is for a woman.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” he murmured. “Even so… Why me, Miranda?”

  Her smile turned from matronly to mischievous in an instant. “Because I have a very good feeling about what may transpire in all this, and I am determined to pay good money to see it.”

  Chapter Ten

  One can be particularly fortunate or particularly unfortunate in their dinner companions when attending such gatherings. The chances are the same, and it may shape the whole course of the meal.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 26 February 1817

  “The Bonds have an interesting interpretation of a small dinner.”

  “Shh! Charles, they will hear you.”

  Charles looked at Charlotte in wry surprise. “When have you ever cared about what the Bonds think? They are quite good, but hardly the brightest London has to offer.”

  Charlotte scowled at her brother as they moved into the large drawing room to await the announcement of dinner. “I cannot afford to be particularly stingy about the company I keep at the present, Charles. The Bonds are of sufficiently high station and have excellent connections. If I wish to find a husband among the upper class, I must attend dinners with people like the Bonds.”

  “Fine,” Charles grumbled, no doubt doing his best not to scowl as he gritted his teeth in a show of a smile. “But do not expect me to carry much by way of conversation at the table. I shall be fortunate to use even the smallest portion of my brain.”

  “That’s normally all one can expect of you anyway,” Charlotte replied as she slid her hand from his arm, batting her lashes playfully. She turned and nodded indulgently at Mrs. Bond’s aunt, Lady Hetty Redgrave, who had long been a friend to the Spinsters, though presently looked as though she had been asked to swallow billiard balls.

  Society dinners had never been Lady Hetty’s favorite pastime, though it was rather less clear what exactly was her favorite pastime. She was more inclined to find disfavor with something rather than to find favor in anything.

  “Please don’t make me go over there,” Charles begged beside her. “She’ll make a game out of insulting me.”

  “I adore that game,” Charlotte shot back. “And you needn’t stay by my side all night. In fact, I beg you not to. There are plenty of ladies and gentlemen about. Go and socialize.”

  Charles glared at her darkly. “The only reason there are plenty of gentlemen is because Mary Bond was jilted, and they are desperate for a quick resolution. They only invited ladies to even out the numbers.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and walked away, shaking her head. It wasn’t often that her brother accompanied her to events, usually preferring to arrive on his own time and to pretend as though they hardly knew each other, but the rare occasions when they were together reminded her why the occasions were not commonplace. They truly were better apart than together.

  The fact that both of them had made it to adulthood was extraordinary.

  She continued to smile politely at everyone, walking around as though she were only taking a turn about the room. It was almost aimless, but in truth, she was surveying the gentlemen present. Those that were engaged in conversation, those that were standing alone, and those that, like her, seemed to be examining the guests. The game was an intriguing one, and Charlotte was an expert. She had yet to be outplayed, and she refused to let tonight be a first.

  The tall and dashing form of Mr. Riley stood not far from her, and a natural pause in his conversation brought his gaze to her. A shock of sorts raced from the pit of her stomach down the back of both legs, a strange sort of lightning that curled her toes despite never raising them.

  Goodness, that was a fun sensation.

  Would it have been too much trouble to ask Mr. Riley to look away, then look back at her and see if it happened again? Better yet, what if he smiled?

  A composed, possibly habitually stoic man like Mr. Riley would likely need encouragement. But what could she do when they had barely been introduced?

  Charlotte paused a step, kept her eyes on him, and lifted a corner of her mouth in a lopsided, bemused smile. History had told her such a smile was one of her best, so why not offer it now?

  Mr. Riley saw, and his lips quirked as though he, too, would smile. Yet it never fully formed.

  Curiously stubborn fellow.

  “Supper is served,” Mrs. Bond announced to the gathering. “Shall we go in?”

  Charlotte looked away from Mr. Riley, wondering if they would have a formal procession or not. She would be expected to have a gentleman on her arm, and without calling her brother to her side, she would have few comfortable options. Not that her comfort was of utmost importance, but it should have been noted all the same.

  Thankfully, it seemed that they would only have the guests enter in an orderly fashion, which would solve a great many problems.

  Charlotte moved in the direction of the dining room with the rest, smiling politely at those streaming in alongside her. She knew most of them well enough for passing conversation, though hardly well enough to intentionally seek it out. She could only pray that whomever she was seated next to at dinner would be entertaining enough to enjoy the meal with, and that they would also be wise enough to allow her to eat. It was a dreadful thing to be seated next to someone who did not understand that the primary purpose of a meal was to consume it.

  The dining room was simply decorated, though the walls bore some lovely family portraits. If the meal became interminable, Charlotte could always imagine herself striking up a conversation with one of the portrait inhabitants. It could be more entertaining than anything at the table, at any rate.

  There was some general murmuring as guests tried to find the place card with their name on it, and a great deal of laughter as each was discovered. Playful waves were sent up and down the table as people began to be seated. Charlotte laughed when she saw her brother being seated next to Mary Bond, who really was a lovely girl, but with her recent disappointment, would be looking for a quick match with excellent connections.

  There would be no denying that Charles would fill that position quite nicely, should he be so inclined.

  “Ah, Miss Wright, I think you will enjoy the seating arrangement.”

  Charlotte smiled at Mrs. Bond, who happened to be tottering nearby on the way to her seat. “Shall I? How so?”

  Mrs. Bond giggled, the cap on her head bouncing against her mountainous curls of red, her plump cheeks stretching with the laughter. “Why, because I have sat you beside our dear Mr. Sandford, of course. I know how thick the two of you have been since childhood, and I simply could not help myself.”

  Charlotte looked past the woman at Michael, who stared at Charlotte without much hint of his feelings on the subject. Whatever he was feeling, it was clear joy was not involved. Yet there was no resentment either, as far as she could tell. Then again, Michael had always been quite good about controlling his emotions and never leaving anything on display long enough for observation. The blankness of his expression could simply be due to hunger, after all.

  Many a man had been mistaken for angry when it was only hunger he felt.

  “Perfect, Mrs. Bond,” Charlotte praised with another bright smile. “I may be the most comfortable of your guests this entire dinner.”

  Mrs. Bond tittered and put a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I do hope so, dear.�
�� With a quick pat, the hostess moved to her seat at the head of the table, and Charlotte went to her own chair.

  Michael rose from the table to pull it out for her, then saw her quickly settled before taking his own seat.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte murmured when he did so.

  “Of course.”

  Nothing else.

  Charlotte looked down at her plate, then glanced at the person to her left.

  Russell Collier, second son of Lord Wittam. Congenial enough, though rather dense. The family fortune was stable for now, though would likely fall sharply when the eldest son inherited. Mr. Russell Collier was in need of a profession and was completely waffling about deciding on one.

  Absolutely not worth improving relations with. The fact that he had been invited at all showed a shocking lack of foresight by the Bonds.

  Shameful.

  “Don’t say it.”

  Charlotte glanced at Michael to her right, who cautiously sipped his water without looking at her. “Say what?”

  He shook his head very slightly. “You know very well what. I saw that, and I know you. Don’t say it.”

  A helpless laugh started to well within her chest, and she forced it to remain contained there, biting her lip to ensure it as much as possible. “But you agree.”

  “It doesn’t matter who agrees,” he insisted. “Do not say it.”

  “Say you agree, and I won’t.”

  The corner of Michael’s mouth ticked ominously. “Very well, I agree.”

  Charlotte reached for her water and took a small sip. “What do you agree with?”

  Michael grumbled under his breath before admitting, “Mr. Collier is not the ideal candidate for the Bonds to be considering for their daughter.”

  “For shame,” Charlotte scolded in a playful hiss. “To say such things while we sit here. Michael, I am astonished.”