“Lord and Lady Ingram,” the majordomo intoned formally. “Lady Edith Leveson.”
Edith received several stares as her name was announced, and the whispers and titters she’d always feared started. Her cheeks flamed, and Aubrey kept his hold on her firm.
“Easy, Edith,” he murmured so only she and Grace could hear as they smiled for all. “You were going to make a splash no matter what. Just smile through the opening; we’re making straight for the Sterlings.”
She tucked her chin a bit in a discreet nod, and followed his directions, catching sight of a cluster of their friends, all of whom were watching with almost the same comical look of concern.
When they reached the group, Edith exhaled slowly. Camden Vale chuckled and leaned closer to her. “Bravo, Edith, that was grand enough.”
“I shook the entire time,” she muttered, taking the glass that he handed her.
“Nobody noticed,” Charlotte Wright assured her with a smile, looking every inch the heiress that she was. “You’re the topic of quite a few conversations, you know.”
“So I heard,” Edith replied, wincing a little.
Georgie Sterling gave her a shrewd look. “What was that for, Edith?”
Her husband was just as attentive, and suddenly, everyone in their group was looking at her expectantly.
Edith pursed her lips a bit and exhaled again. “I’m a widow recently out of mourning with diminished circumstances. What do you think they are talking about?”
Several of them winced at the thought, and Lieutenant Henshaw glowered. “Surely not, Lady Edith. Perhaps you misheard.”
Edith gave him a look. “I misheard nothing, Henshaw, I can assure you.”
He frowned slightly and huffed in exasperation. “I hate Society,” he muttered to the rest of them.
Aubrey nodded once. “We’ll fix it, Edith.”
Edith wanted to tell him that was impossible, even for Lord Ingram, but then the music started up, and he looked at his wife for a long moment. “Contrary to custom, my love, I’m not going to open with you.”
Grace smiled easily. “I thought you might not.”
To her astonishment, Aubrey turned back to Edith. “Lady Edith, if I might have the pleasure?”
Her mouth dropped, and Camden plucked her drink from her hand, laughing softly. “What? After what I just told you people are saying? Sir, they will think that—”
He took her hand in his and steered her from the group. “They most certainly will not. My tempting wife aside, I am a complete monk, and everybody knows it. And don’t ‘sir’ me, not after you’ve seen me in my nightshirt.”
Edith bit back a laugh, the recent memory from their winter together diffusing her anxieties long enough to rid her of her refusal.
They proceeded with the dance. Edith had forgotten how she enjoyed dancing. It had been so long since she had felt such pleasure in something so simple, or since she had allowed herself to do so.
Since she had felt free to do so.
Chapter Two
There is a very short distance between opportunistic and desperate. Sometimes very short indeed.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 7 November 1815
Graham Hastings, Lord Radcliffe, found balls tiresome.
Not all the time, and certainly not in all circumstances, but as a general rule, he could be counted on to not particularly enjoy himself when forced to attend one. He wasn’t exceptionally sociable, nor was he especially skilled as a dancer. The combination of dancing and socializing, therefore, was one he tended to avoid, and would likely have completely shunned had he the power to do so.
But responsibility, duty, and expectation kept him from his wishes more often than not, and so he would attend where he must with all due politeness, however he might long for the comforts of home and a good book.
He was a sixty-year-old man in the body of one much younger, his brother had always teased.
Matthew had been one of the few people in the world who had teased him, and the warmth with which he had done so had been merely an extension of his equally warm personality. It had been only fitting that his wife Penelope had been his perfect match, and that the pair of them had hosted some of the few parties that Graham had actually attended of his own free will. Everyone had adored Lord and Lady Radcliffe, and invitations to their events at Merrifield Park had been widely sought after.
Unfortunate, then, that the new Lord Radcliffe was practically a hermit, and that Merrifield had not seen a party or event in two years.
At least not an event of joy.
Graham would have refused the title if there had been an individual of value able to take it up. His closest relations with the abilities already had titles or bore responsibilities enough to make the title too much of a burden to take on.
He knew that for a fact; he’d checked.
So here he stood, Lord Radcliffe in all his glory, or lack thereof, in the ballroom of Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who claimed to be old friends of the family, though he couldn’t remember seeing them more than twice in his life. He was growing used to people approaching him and claiming connections from the past, and he wondered what they truly intended by it. His fortune was impressive, but it was hardly the greatest in Society. He was a viscount, it was true, but there were higher-ranking titles in the room at any given moment.
He was unmarried; that, he feared, was the card that trumped them all.
His brother’s death had left Graham one of the most eligible men in England, a hefty price to pay for something he had never, and could never, want. To lose his only brother and gain so much seemed cruel.
It was cruel.
And being here, though hardly comparable to all that, was rather cruel, too.
Trapped in conversation with someone whose name he couldn’t recollect, and didn’t care to, Graham focused on keeping his expression blank. He couldn’t manage attentive, so he would have to hope that blank could be mistaken for polite listening.
A movement just beyond his conversational companion caught Graham’s eye, and his attention flicked to it with almost comical desperation.
A woman in a cream gown covered with black overlay moved through the crowded room with determination, a furrow creasing the fair skin of her brow, accompanying lines etched at the edges of her presently thin lips. He recognized her from the entrance she’d made, and how the entire room had hushed and then begun to titter at the sight of her, but all he could remember was that she had entered with the Ingrams.
Despite his respect for Lord Ingram and his wife, it seemed a crime not to recollect their guest simply because it was easier to remember them.
She moved without care for her surroundings, which earned her some bumping and jostling, but she wasn’t put off by it. She didn’t speak to anyone, and every few paces, she would glance over her shoulder.
Strange. Fleeing an assignation or simply avoiding dancing with an intolerable partner?
Whichever it was, the beauty was doing the job admirably, and he hoped she managed to succeed in her efforts.
“Then, I met the Prince of Wales,” the man before him continued to drone on, bringing Graham’s focus reluctantly back to him.
“Before or after he became our King?” Graham queried with a tilt of his head.