What a Spinster Wants - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,49
and there would be no entertainment to speak of.
He could see it all now. Guests would wander the halls and the gardens with wistful nostalgia of what the place had once been and would never be again. All talk would be of the difference between the brothers, and what a disappointment it was to have this particular Lord Radcliffe rather than the other.
Edith wouldn’t know the difference, but he would have to invite others in order to have Edith come, and she would hear what they had to say.
The pretense of inviting anyone to Merrifield in order to invite Edith seemed utterly insane, but it would do. Merrifield could be a worthy retreat for her, and he could ensure the weasel never came near enough to be a bother.
The others would have to consent, however, and Edith would have to wish to venture there.
What if she hated the idea? Why did that matter?
So many questions and very few answers. Graham’s least favorite combination.
“Radcliffe!”
Turning quickly, Graham fixed his usual polite smile on his face in anticipation of whoever had called to him. The smile eased into something less forced as he saw Francis, Lord Sterling, approaching with an elegant woman some years his senior on his arm, and, of all things, a large bloodhound on a lead before them.
“Sterling. Good morning.” He bowed to them both, taking quick stock of the woman, ignoring the dog.
While it was clear she was older than Francis, she could not be considered old in the truest sense. Still lovely, still attractive, and still full of life and energy. And, if the twinkle in her eye was any indication, some mischief.
Francis bowed in return. “Radcliffe, this is Tony’s stepmother, Miranda, Mrs. Sterling. And that’s Rufus. He’s done for.” That earned the peer a sharp look from his companion.
“He is not! And you could just call me your aunt.”
“You always tell me not to,” Francis protested, eyes wide, but smiling wryly. “You say it’s unflattering.”
Mrs. Sterling rolled her eyes without any delicacy and looked at Graham frankly. “How very ungallant he is, my lord. I don’t know what to make of him.”
Graham almost grinned, surprising himself. “I believe that is a commonly held understanding, Mrs. Sterling, if Tyrone Demaris is to be believed.”
“I always believe Tyrone, no matter what he says,” Mrs. Sterling admitted at once, lips curving.
“Well, there’s your first mistake,” Francis muttered. “Miranda, this is Lord Radcliffe.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Sterling widened her eyes in exasperation. “How I managed to be coerced to walk out with you, of all people, Francis, I will never understand.”
Francis looked up to the cloudless sky and seemed to be silently praying.
Graham chuckled, strangely loving this dynamic between relations. “It is a fine day, Mrs. Sterling. I cannot blame you for wishing to partake in a walk, no matter whose arm you are on.”
“Call me Miranda, my dear,” Mrs. Sterling told him at once, her smile turning almost matronly. “I know formalities and politeness mean well, but I prefer to tear down the barriers preventing me from forging true connections with my friends.”
No doubt sensing this conversation would not be a passing one, Rufus groaned and flopped himself down to the ground, apparently comfortable enough to wait them out.
“Radcliffe isn’t much for familiarity, Miranda,” Francis warned, eyeing Graham with a warning in his expression, though what precisely the warning was for remained less clear.
Graham raised a brow at the statement. “Am I not? How interesting.”
Miranda tossed her head back with a throaty laugh, then surveyed Graham through her crystal blue eyes. “Brava, Radcliffe. So droll, I approve.”
He gave the woman a half-bow of acknowledgement. “Thank you, Miranda.”
“Spare me,” Francis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“If only we could, my love,” Miranda quipped without sympathy. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Radcliffe, you recently inherited, yes?”
Graham stiffened but did his best to hide it. “I did.”
Miranda’s chin dipped just a touch. “Then, it was your brother before you.”
A swallow trapped itself in Graham’s throat. “It was.”
“I didn’t know him,” Miranda murmured, stepping closer and resting a hand on his arm, “but I knew his wife. Lovely woman. Very charming. Very popular.”
“She was, yes.”
There was nothing else to say. Penelope had been universally adored, and even Graham had thought her the best of all women. Had he been given a sister by birth, she could not have been so close in his affections as Penelope. In losing her, he had not simply lost his brother’s wife, but a sister as well.