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A SPINSTER’S LUCK
A Signet Regency Romance
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Signet edition / December 2002
InterMix eBook edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2002 by Rhonda Woodward.
Excerpt from A Hint of Scandal copyright © by Rhonda Woodward.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-57371-6
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Special Excerpt
About Author
Prologue
1806
Silence reigned throughout the cavernous darkness as the thin young girl slowly descended the great oak staircase. Again, sleep’s gentle touch eluded her, and she hoped a mug of milk might aid her to slumber. As she reached the first landing, she paused. Could someone be there? Tilting her head to the side she listened intently, trying to probe the dense blackness. Her breath expelled in her relief. The sinister noise was only the swish, click, swish, click of the massive pendulum clock a few feet away.
Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, she extended one hand searchingly before her. Vaguely, she recalled the kitchen being located down a long passage to her left. Cautiously, she proceeded, unnerved in the dark and eerily quiet house.
“Drake, my dear brother, you cannot be so heartless! Celia’s parents have been dead for just a week.” The girl froze upon hearing her name and the anger in the Duchess of Harbrooke’s usually gentle voice.
“Be reasonable, Imy; the chit is little more than a child,” came the irritated reply. Realizing the voices were coming from the library, Celia moved silently and tentatively toward the door that was slightly ajar. She recognized the deeper voice as belonging to her grace’s brother, the Duke of Severly.
“As you know, before he died, Philip gave me half guardianship over your sons,” he said. “I take this responsibility seriously, and I do not like the idea of a child having charge over my nephews.” The duke’s tone was emphatic. Celia’s breath suddenly felt trapped in her body. With trembling fingers she clutched the edge of a hall table to steady her legs.
“Celia is sixteen, Drake, which is not infantile. Her father was the vicar of Harford, and when my dear husband died, he and his wife were of great comfort to me. Celia is a good and intelligent girl. I like her, and so do the boys. Celia is an orphan now. Having her live with me and the boys is the best arrangement for us all.” The duchess’s voice sounded stubborn.
“Sixteen? I hesitate to give a child so much responsibility. Can you not find someone like our old nanny, Crawfie, to care for the boys? Someone more mature, more trustworthy?” His deep voice portrayed intolerance and impatience.
Terror filled Celia’s heart as she suppressed an anguished gasp with a clutched hand pressed to her mouth. They were going to send her away! Where could she go? Would she end up in a workhouse? Oh, Mama, Papa, why did you leave me? Celia restrained herself from crying out in her fear and loneliness.
Standing petrified, she listened to the argumentative tones, oblivious to the faint chill seeping into her skin from the cold stone floor.
“Drake, you know Crawfie is too old to take full charge of the boys, but she will still be here to help. Besides, I have no desire to be away and leave them under the supervision of someone else. Do you think I will go back into Society just because my year of mourning will soon be completed? No, I am very content to stay here at Harbrooke.”
“I can see that you are determined in this, Imy, but if I ever feel the girl is not doing a proper job of caring for Henry and Peter, I shall press the issue.”
“Everything will be fine; you will see. Let us not argue on this any longer,” Imogene said wearily.
“Of course, dear sister, get some rest. I shall stay and read a little longer.”
Celia heard her grace’s steps coming toward the door. With a quick turn, she lifted the skirt of her bed gown and fled back down the hall, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold stone. She did not slow her flight until reaching the sanctuary of her little room on the second floor.
“Why does he hate me?” Celia wondered aloud in anguish, clutching the bedpost as if someone were trying to wrenc
h her from it. “What have I done?” Tears rolled down her thin face. How the duke terrified her with his mean, hawklike face. At this moment she believed he could be the devil himself. Celia crawled into her feather bed and buried herself under the covers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed fervently that the duke would leave Harbrooke very soon and never return.
Chapter One
1816
A chilling wind pierced the air, but the day was bright and there was the sparkle of moisture from a recent rain on the expansive parkland surrounding Harbrooke Hall. This proved an irresistible lure to Drake, the fifth Duke of Severly, and his steed, Blackwind. The duke decided he was enjoying his visit to Harbrooke Hall, his sister’s residence in Kent. Or to be more accurate, it was the home that now belonged to his young nephew, Henry.
Harbrooke Hall brought to his mind many happy childhood associations. Indeed, this very stretch of field, leading to a wooded area to the east, reminded him of when he and Philip Harbrooke used to slay dragons and challenge highwaymen with stick swords. With a quick movement of his heels, he guided Blackwind across the field into the copse of wood, a nostalgic smile touching his handsome face.
Many years ago, before death and war had invaded his peaceful life, Drake and his family had often visited Harbrooke. One particular holiday—a lifetime ago, it seemed—stood out in his mind.
On an exceptionally fine spring day, he and his friend Philip had swaggered about the estate in their doeskin breeches and spurs. They had been drinking themselves silly and making absurd wagers with all the cockiness only young men on term break from Oxford could display.
Imogene had been just a slip of a thing, but already showing signs of great beauty. Philip, to Drake’s disgust, had been casting sheep eyes to the girl who would soon become his wife. During luncheon, to their mothers’ mutual horror, Philip challenged Drake to a steeplechase. Knowing the challenge was intended to impress Imy, Drake, willing to help his friend show off, had accepted with alacrity.
Drake would never forget that wild ride through the cool gloom of the evening, hearing the thudding of the horses’ hooves and feeling the wind whip his cheeks.
Philip, several yards ahead, had thundered into this very wood, hoping for a shortcut. Drake could still see his fair head and hear his whoops of excitement. Drake reined in his horse, cautious for not knowing the terrain as well as his friend. Philip’s horse fairly flew over the hill, leaving Drake well behind.
A moment later Drake heard a loud noise and Philip’s distressed cry. He shouted Philip’s name, terrified that his friend had broken his fool neck. As he crested the ridge, his horse stumbling in its haste, Drake came upon Philip up to his neck in a duck pond. Then Drake’s horse, not being fond of water, had pulled up abruptly, pitching its rider over his head. Drake had landed quite near Philip, sailing face-first into the shallow murkiness.
After righting himself, he brushed a lily pad from his shoulder. Drake gave Philip a disgusted look. “I am certain this is not the way in which you intended to impress my sister,” Drake said to his soaked and muddy friend.
Their fathers had roared with laughter, and even Imogene had hidden a few sniggers behind her hand when they had sloshed back to Harbrooke Hall. A pained smile now touched the duke’s face at the bittersweet memories. He mused at the ironic fact that all their wealth and address had not protected him or Imogene or even poor Philip from fate’s cruel stab.
Philip’s father had died only a short time after the duck pond incident. Philip passed only a few years later from a lung ailment, leaving Imogene a young widow with two small boys. Drake still missed Philip, especially on a day like this. With thoughts shifting to his parents, Drake experienced a faint yet nagging sense of guilt. He had been away on his grand tour, living in a rather disreputable manner, when his mother and father had been struck down by the pox. Now his family consisted only of his sister, Imogene, and her sons, Henry and Peter.
Not that life did not have its compensations. The duke was proud of his family seat in Derbyshire, a beautiful mansion in the Georgian fashion. Recently, he had gone to some expense in modernizing the huge place, even installing water closets in a number of the bedchambers and gas lighting in the staterooms. An invitation to Severly Park in the winter was a much-sought-after favor.
He tried to visit his sister and nephews two or three times a year, but his days were occupied with the running of his vast estates and other manly pursuits in which he so excelled. Though the duke would not admit it to anyone, it was a source of personal pride that he was becoming a respected speaker in the House of Lords. He also took care to ensure that no one could say that he had not added to the already immense family coffers. All in all, he was a man contented with his lot.
As the duke continued to gallop, he crested a knoll and decided to let Blackwind drink from a nearby pond so he could see how the terrain had changed in the last few years.
Upon hearing childish voices and splashing water, he pulled the horse to a slow walk. From a vantage point protected by an ancient oak tree and a dense thicket at the edge of the wood, the duke looked for the source of the voices. Soon he saw his nephews and their governess skipping stones on the recently thawed pond a little distance away.
“Is this a good stone, Celly?” Peter asked in his high little-boy voice.
The young woman bent to examine the stone.
“That should do very well, Peter,” she responded seriously.
Peter turned and threw the stone at the pond. It sank without skipping once. Henry, the older of his nephews, and already showing signs of being tall like his father and uncle, had a better understanding of it and threw his stone with more expertise.
“One … two … three!” the dark-haired Henry counted the skips excitedly.
“Why don’t my rocks skip?” Peter kicked a clod of dirt, dejected, as little brothers often are when an older brother can outdo them.
“Well, let’s see what we can do,” said the governess as she stooped to look for more rocks, lifting her skirts almost above her ankle to avoid the mud around the pond. “Ah, here is one. Now Peter, hold the stone so. Very good. Now hold your arm like this. Crook your elbow. That’s it. Hold it out sideways. When you throw, throw it sharply from the wrist, thusly.” She made the proper wrist movement to demonstrate.
With a deep breath Peter braced his sturdy legs, and, doing his best to follow instructions, he gave a flick of his wrist, forearm, and elbow.
“One … two …” Peter grinned with delight as Henry and the governess praised his effort.
The duke, sheltered by the trees, enjoyed watching his nephews’ youthful fun. He decided not to disturb them because he had noticed a tendency for them to become rather self-conscious in his presence. Bending down to pat his restive horse’s neck, Drake let his curious gaze drift to the governess. From this distance he judged her to be slim and fairly tall, with an elegant way of carrying herself. He noted her golden brown hair but could not recall any specific details of her face. In fact, he could recollect addressing the young woman only two or three times in the last ten years. He remembered fussing a bit when Imogene had engaged her, because the girl had been so young, but the boys had seemed to thrive, so he hadn’t given it much thought since then. His curiosity grew. His nephews were luckier than he had been, he thought with some chagrin. The duke’s own governess had been quite plump and would never have dreamed of skipping stones with him.
“Come, we must return to the hall now,” directed the governess.
The boys protested this loudly.
“You are both filthy,” Celia chided gently, “and if you are to get cleaned up before you have tea with your uncle, we must go now.”
“Please, just a little longer, Celly?” Peter pleaded.
Henry scrambled around the edge of the pond for a suitable rock. With a triumphant cry he held up a beautifully flat, round stone to his governess. “Here, Celly, you skip this one,” he encouraged.
“All right, but just
this last one,” she warned. Taking the stone from him, she crooked her elbow, and with an expert flick of the wrist she sent the stone skimming across the water.
“One … two … three … four … five … six!” the boys counted in unison, and Peter jumped about in excitement.
“That was the best ever,” said Henry. Both boys turned to their governess, awestruck, as little boys often are when they discover that someone is proficient at skipping stones. The governess dusted off her hands, shook her skirts, and picked up her reticule from a nearby rock.
“Let us go; we do not wish to be late,” she said calmly, and turned toward the house.
The duke watched the retreating figures for a few moments with a slightly bemused smile on his face before steering Blackwind back toward Harbrooke Hall. He had no desire to be late for tea.
On the third floor, in the cheery nursery that faced the back garden, Celia was trying to comb Peter’s hair. With his face contorted into a severe grimace, he was resisting her ministrations when Imogene, the Duchess of Harbrooke, swept into the room with the smell of lilacs surrounding her.
With her coffee-colored hair and hazel eyes, the duchess greatly resembled her brother, Drake, in countenance, though she appeared petite and almost fragile in her lavender tea gown compared to her brother’s large-boned masculinity.
“I can see you two are almost presentable,” Imogene observed with a smile, approaching her eldest son and straightening his lapel fondly.
“Mother, why doesn’t Celly have tea with us when Uncle Drake is here?” Henry queried. This subject had been on his mind of late, and Henry’s brow furrowed from concern. He felt Celly was one of the family, and it did not seem right to him that she did not come to any of the meals when Uncle Drake was visiting.
The duchess gave Celia a disconcerted look. She knew Celia felt uncomfortable around Drake and took measures to avoid him during his stays. But how could the boys be made to understand this?
As she gave a last flick of the brush to Peter’s hair, Celia flashed a helpless smile back to Imogene. The boys had been questioning Celia since returning from the pond, and she felt at a loss as to what to tell them.
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