What a Spinster Wants - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,30

bit her full bottom lip, her fingers stilling. “I fear I am powerless. By law and by funds. I have no claim, no stake, and verra few options.”

“But you do have friends,” Ingram chimed in, his voice hard, his expression harder. “And I’ll be damned if anyone will treat a woman this way, closely connected with me or otherwise.”

“Amen,” Henshaw snarled. “Edith, why didn’t you tell me?”

Idiot, Graham hissed in his mind, skewering the man with a glare. Now was not the time for recriminations or guilt, especially with everything else the woman had to contend with. Surely, his pride would recover faster than her situation.

But Lady Edith was kinder than the man deserved and only smiled, though tears seemed to be hovering at the corners of her eyes. “How could I, Hensh? I can barely speak of it now. After all of this, I dinna trust easily, especially with this.”

No, she wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have. No one could.

And yet…

“Well, we can certainly do something about this,” Ingram insisted almost too strongly, thumping the couch he sat upon. “What if Edith moves into a home with someone else, eh?”

“Who do you know in the law, Hensh? We’ll need an expert.”

“We need a husband is what we need.”

“No, Charlotte,” Cam warned.

“Yes! Trust me; I know what I am saying.”

Graham watched Lady Edith for a moment while the others in the room began to throw ideas between each other as one might have done with a ball, discussing Lady Edith without involving Lady Edith or addressing her. She could be silent now, and she seemed relieved by the fact.

She settled into the couch further, peering at the tips of her fingers, though her eyes barely moved. Color slowly seeped back into her face, and her breathing grew more even. While the others talked around her, she sat quietly, taking it all in, offering nothing by way of opinion or idea.

They would all go on with their lives tonight, still trying to concoct ways to help her, while she would return to the darkness no different than when she had left it.

How did she trust anyone at all?

As if she had heard him, her eyes rose to his, a raw openness there, and he exhaled silently, meeting the surprising steadiness without looking away.

The thread between them seemed to expand, coiling around and around itself, weaving itself into a cord that tugged at his spine. He knew he could trust her, that had been a given fact almost from their first meeting, but she could trust him, which he wouldn’t have said as quickly. He was never invested enough to be particularly trusted one way or the other, not particularly caring for such a responsibility or effort. His integrity was never in question, nor would he ever be accused of not being trustworthy; he simply never took it on. But in this, with her, it was different. Everything was.

He was.

And she knew that.

Her lips curved in just a hint of a smile, and Graham felt himself nod quite decisively, if discreetly, in response. Those lips quirked further still, then the almost-smile faded altogether, the eyes lowering again.

What exactly Graham had agreed to, he couldn’t have put to words. He only knew he had.

Fully and freely.

Chapter Seven

One can always depend on the ladies to present creative solutions to problematic situations. While the gentlemen circle around blustering the point, the ladies will quietly and efficiently resolve matters in such a way that never entered into the mind of any man. Whether this solution ends for good or ill, this author will own, may not be so clearly predicted.

-The Spinster Chronicles, 24 September 1818

“You cannot be serious.”

“Of course, we’re serious. Why wouldn’t we be serious?”

“Charlotte,” Edith said, “you canna invite a young woman of high standing and good breeding to be my companion.”

Charlotte had the good sense to look a trifle startled at the accusation. “Who said she would be your companion?”

Edith raised a brow in lieu of sending steam spewing from her ears. “What else do you call a young woman who stays with an older woman purely for the sake of keeping her company?”

“A houseguest,” Elinor Sterling, formerly Elinor Asheley, answered without blinking an eyelash. “You needn’t make yourself sound so decrepit, Edith. You’re hardly headed for the grave.”

“Age is relative, and experience a better measure,” Edith shot back. “In that regard, lass, I am positively ancient by comparison to whomever you choose.”

Izzy Morton cleared her throat softly. “She would not be a paid