What a Spinster Wants - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,72

of Edith’s position, Janet was beyond all blame, given that someone had to see to the baby, but alas…” Miranda lifted her fan to murmur to Graham. “She swears it did not cost her much at all, though I do not believe her one bit. Such exquisite gowns as that one would have cost a fortune.”

“Well worth the expense, I should think,” Graham said to himself without thinking.

There was a soft laugh from beside him that ought to have given him cause for worry. “Very true, my boy, and I do believe she looks even prettier up close. Perhaps you should join the dance.”

He flicked his gaze to Miranda, knowing precisely what she was doing, then back at the dance. “Hmm,” he rumbled with some thought. “Perhaps I should.”

“You’re agreeing with me?” came the shocked response. Then, in a much flatter tone, “Why?”

Graham smiled again. “I make a point of agreeing with anyone who makes suggestions that benefit me. Don’t take it personally.”

“Never do, Radcliffe,” Miranda laughed, sauntering away. “Believe me, I never do.”

Despite the obvious proposal, Graham did not dance the next. Or the one following. Or even the one after that.

He watched, however, with great interest.

Edith’s enthusiasm did not change with a new partner and did not alter with the variation in dance. Her liveliness and contagious spirit seemed to invigorate the other couples and even the other guests in the room. It really was remarkable. She hadn’t said much by way of conversation in any of the other activities they’d had at this party, and based on his previous encounters with her where dancing had occurred, she hadn’t seemed particularly elated by the thing.

As far as he could tell, she had enjoyed it well enough, but nothing beyond.

This, however, was unfettered joy.

Yet there was nothing silly about it. There were plenty of young ladies in Society that were giddy in the dance, whirling about and flirting shamelessly, taking too much to drink, and behaving without thought. This was far from such a tasteless display.

This surpassed any other joy Graham had seen before in his life, and he was suddenly envious of it. Envious of the joy. Envious of the lightness. Envious of the laughter.

Envious of every damned partner.

He exhaled very slowly, the admission sinking its way down his throat with the warmth and weight of brandy. He wanted to be the one making Edith smile, laugh, dance with such lack of inhibition. He wanted to be the reason she looked thus.

He wouldn’t have a chance of that standing here against the bloody wall, however.

Idiot.

“I do believe the wall will stay there now. You may step away.”

Graham looked at his aunt almost coldly. “I’ll have you know I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Were you?” Eloise made a soft, noncommittal sound as she watched the last movement of the dance at hand. “And did you also think it time to stop being so unnervingly observant of one person in particular? I nearly had the magistrate summoned for her protection.”

“I have yet to find amusement in your statements,” Graham grunted, downing the last of his drink.

“It’s staring you in the face, Gray,” she assured him. “Right before your nose.”

He shook his head slowly. “Are you going to your rooms, Aunt?”

“Of course not, why would you say so?”

Now Graham looked at her in surprise. “You haven’t been to a ball in years.”

Eloise raised a brow, her lips quirking. “You haven’t had one.”

“Matthew did.”

She waved her hand, scowling. “Matthew had too much fuss at his. This is much more sensible.”

“Sensible?” He gestured to the pilasters, the plants, the sheer volume of candles. “Sensible?”

Eloise lifted a shoulder, smiling fully now. “Very sensible, Gray. As always.” She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps you ought to be a little less sensible. Just a thought.”

“Thank you for that wisdom,” Graham told her as the current dance finished. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do the most sensible thing I’ve done all evening.”

He strode away, unsteady heart pummeling his ribs as he neared Edith, smiling and laughing with Amelia, who was a picture herself, smiling more than Graham had seen her in their entire acquaintance.

Was that Edith’s influence? Or simply the dance?

“Lady Edith, Miss Perry,” Graham intoned, wincing at the formal, almost stiff manner he had adopted.

Both ladies turned to him, smiles still in place. They curtseyed in time with each other, and he belatedly bowed in response.

“Lovely evening, Lord Radcliffe,” Amelia told him with an earnestness that made him smile. “Truly, this is