On his part, if Severly had not seen her behave in such a lively fashion with the boys and his sister, he would now be questioning her verbal capabilities.
After a few more fruitless attempts at furthering the conversation, they fell silent for a time. The only sound was their shoes crunching along the path. The duke wondered, with some exasperation, what to say next. And Celia prayed that he would walk faster.
“I am sure Imogene has told you that my friend, Major Rotham, will be arriving tomorrow?” Severly tried again.
“Yes, your grace.”
“We were in France and Spain together during the war. He took a lead ball in the leg and now walks with a bit of a limp. But for all that, no one rides to the hounds better than David.”
“He is very fortunate.”
“The last time I saw David was at his hunting box in Norfolk, over a year ago. Do you ever hunt or ride, Miss Langston?”
“No, your grace.”
“I see … er … well, I particularly wished to speak to you about Major Rotham’s visit. I would be most appreciative if you would dine with us for the duration of his stay. It would save Imogene from being stuck with two bachelors, you understand.”
Celia almost choked. Desperately, she searched for a way to decline. She could think of few worse situations than being forced to dine with the duke. Glancing up at him quickly, she saw that he was waiting for her answer. To her great disappointment, she could think of no excuse to give him.
“Of course, your grace.”
The duke gave the conversation one more try.
“Thank you. May I ask how Miss Forbisher is recovering?”
“Very well, your grace.”
The duke stopped dead in the path. A momentary but awesome anger flashed in his hazel eyes, making Celia catch her breath.
“Pray tell me, Miss Langston, have I offended you in some way? I find your behavior toward me quite odd and I cannot account for it. I have been trying to converse with you this past half hour and you are making it dashed—and purposely, I believe—difficult.”
Celia stepped back, shocked by this sudden attack. How dared he speak to her in this way, towering over her in that imperious manner? A latent but fierce temper made the blood pound in her ears, and the green in her brown eyes caught fire.
“I beg your pardon, your grace. I have been as civil as anyone could expect, considering that you have practically forced your presence upon me this afternoon.” Her voice was icy and her chin went up. For the first time she looked him in the eye.
The anger completely left the duke as he watched this transformation take place. A moment ago she had been placid to the point of blandness. Now he wouldn’t be caught off guard if she took her packages back and threw them at him.
With throaty laughter and raised hands, Severly said, “Cry truce, Miss Langston. You are perfectly right. I did force my rude self upon your walk. But how else could I speak to you about dining with us?”
Suddenly, Celia was horrified by what she had just said. How had she dared ring such a peal over him? Her slightly unsteady hand attempted to cover the blush coming over her throat. It must be due to the familiar situation at Harbrooke Hill, she owned. Being as one of the family had given her too much assurance.
He did not appear incensed with her effrontery, Celia observed with relief. To her great surprise, amusement definitely glimmered in his lazy eyes.
Celia suddenly became acutely aware of the attractive cleft in his square chin, as they stood alone on the quiet country lane.
For the first time, Celia could see how the duke had gotten the reputation for being a heartbreaker. That smile could almost make her forget what a selfish libertine he really was. Almost.
She didn’t know where to look, and her heart began to beat a little faster. Suddenly, she recalled a tale she had heard many years ago about some poor woman making a cake of herself in public over the duke. It had been a nine-days’ wonder, and Imogene had been much concerned that her brother was becoming a rogue.
And no wonder, thought Celia, giving the duke a quick, cautious glance. He was obviously a practiced flirt and intimidatingly handsome. Who could blame a silly woman for becoming twitterpated over him? she thought honestly.
But I am not a silly woman. I am an old maid, and the duke must be bored with country life, she thought cynically as she looked at the scar on his cheek.
“Forgive my shrewish tongue, your grace. I can’t think why I was so rude. I will be happy to make up the numbers at dinner,” she said in a quiet tone, avoiding his pointed question.
“Not at all, Miss Langston. As I said, I rudely forced my presence upon you,” the duke said gallantly, liking Miss Langston better when she was indignant rather than subdued.
As they resumed their walk, Celia had to prevent herself from picking up her skirts and running the rest of the way to Harbrooke Hall.
Chapter Four
The ladies of the house lingered patiently in the blue drawing room while waiting for the arrival of Major Rotham. That particular room’s chief appeal was that it afforded a view of the front drive.
Celia, observing Imogene sitting calmly on the settee, could not help but notice that she had taken great pains with her appearance. The duchess appeared exceptionally pretty in a lovely blush-colored tea gown with cream lace at the neck and hem and a cream ribbon threaded through her coffee-colored curls.
Imogene chanced to look up at that moment and catch her friend’s appraising eye, causing a flush to rise to her cheeks.
“Well, I don’t wish him to think I have completely lost my looks over the years,” Imogene said defensively.
“Indeed he won’t, my dear Imy,” Celia soothed, knowing the duchess was feeling nervous in spite of her outward serenity.
“Oh, dear.” The duchess sighed with a shake of her head. “What does one say to an old beau in a situation like this?”
Having never had a beau, old or otherwise, Celia did not know what she could say to ease Imogene’s discomfort.
The duke strode into the room at that moment and greeted the ladies. “I see David has not arrived yet,” he observed, pulling a watch from his pocket to check the time.
“No, not yet,” his sister said with a casual air, glancing out the window as if she had almost forgotten they were expecting a guest.
The duke sat down in an overstuffed chair opposite Celia. Again, she wore the dark blue gown in which he had first noticed her by the pond. Her hair was covered with a little lace mobcap that the duke thought looked quite absurd, considering how young and beautiful she was.
Feeling his eyes upon her, Celia refused to look up from her needlepoint. She still felt self-conscious after their encounter yesterday and did not know exactly how to behave with him.
“It will be good to see old David again. Imy, didn’t you make his acquaintance during your Season? I’m sure I heard him mention it once or twice,” Severly asked his sister, who dropped her tatting at that moment.
“I … ah … we did meet in London. We met several times at different balls and soirees and such. I believe him to be a fine figure of a man.” The flush in her cheeks had become a definite blush, and Celia stared at her with raised eyebrows. A fine figure of a man, indeed. Imy was really doing the thing much too brown in Celia’s opinion.
Suddenly, Grimes entered the room and announced the awaited guest. Only Celia heard Imogene’s small squeak of trepidation.
As their guest walked past the butler, the duke crossed the room and the two men clasped hands firmly. “David! Good to see you,” the duke exclaimed.
Celia took that moment to look over the much-anticipated Major Rotham. He was near the same height as the duke, but of a lighter build. His complexion was a ruddy tan, his hair the color of wheat. His features were angular and engaging. He did possess a slight limp, but it did not seem to affect him unduly. Noticeably, he and the duke were of the same ilk. Both were athletically built men of sophisticated taste. There was an air abo
ut the two of them that told the observer that they had experienced much of what life had to offer.
Celia thought the major quite handsome and glanced to her friend to see her reaction to her old beau.
“You remember my sister, don’t you, David?”
“Of course, how could I ever forget someone so lovely? Your grace.” Major Rotham bowed over Imy’s hand, and Celia wondered how the polite smile on her friend’s face remained so placid.
“How very nice to see you again, Major Rotham. May I acquaint you with my dear friend Miss Celia Langston?”
So that was going to be the way of it, thought Celia as she curtsied to the bowing major. Imogene was going to act the cool and distant duchess.
After Imogene rang for tea and they all took their seats, the men caught up on the goings-on since they last met. Celia gave Imogene a reassuring smile, and Imogene appeared relieved that the initial meeting was over.
When Grimes entered with the tea tray, followed by a maid carrying a silver tray laden with various cakes and sandwiches, Imogene asked him to make sure the major’s luggage was taken to the green room.
“I have no luggage, your grace. I reside at the Staff and Cleaver,” Major Rotham said in a surprised tone before Grimes could respond. “When Westlake told me that Severly was staying at Harbrooke, I thought it was a great opportunity to see my old friend, as I have business in Harford. I never expected to foist myself upon your household.” His manner was so engaging and cavalier that Celia hoped he would stay.
“Nonsense, David, we’ll send a man for your things. We wouldn’t stand having you stay anywhere else, would we, Imy?”
Imogene rarely argued with her autocratic brother, and, being an excellent hostess, she did not in this instance either.
“Of course you must stay at Harbrooke, Major. We are quite counting on it.” She smiled in her most benevolent duchesslike manner and instructed Grimes to see to collecting the major’s things. The major protested that it wasn’t necessary, but he was no match for the duke and his sister and, in the end, he thanked Imogene handsomely.
Celia had little to offer the general conversation, but she was rapt in her attention to the reminiscing of the two gentlemen. Sometimes it was hard for Celia to realize the duke had been a soldier during the horrible war with France. He was so lofty and sophisticated that she couldn’t picture it. But listening to them talk, it appeared that there were two heroes in the room.
As each man related stories about the other, Imogene and Celia exchanged looks of amazement.
“You never told me this, Drake,” accused his sister when the major told them how the duke had saved several of their comrades after a surprise attack on the Peninsula.
“I had forgotten. It really was not as colorful as Rotham is making it sound.” Severly dismissed the tale and reached for another scone.
“You mean to say that you never showed your sister the medal you received for that?” the major asked his friend, who was becoming uncomfortable with the notice he was receiving.
“Give over, Rotham, what about the time you went charging up that hill when we were hemmed in on all sides? You took out a half dozen frogs, at least, before they stopped you by putting that ball in your leg.”
“I remember it well,” he said, patting the leg in question, “and I also remember that you were right behind me.”
“Of course, I wanted to be sure you didn’t stick your spoon in the wall before you could give me the money I had won off you the night before.”
Even Celia laughed at that. The duke turned to look at her, arrested by the beauty of her laughter.
Celia met his gaze and quickly turned her eyes to her teacup. Sometimes he had the oddest expression when he looked at her. He probably thought she was much too forward for laughing at his banter so heartily. Her face sobered and she sipped her tea, vowing not to be so forthcoming in the future.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Imogene introduced her sons to the new guest, and he remarked on their striking resemblance to their father, which made Imogene blush with pleasure. Evidently there was to be no awkwardness about their past romance, and Imogene appeared to be completely at ease by the time she excused herself to prepare for dinner.
Celia was not so blessed. As she slowly climbed the stairs, she pondered her dread of the evening. First of all, she was quite dispirited about her clothing. She owned absolutely nothing she could feel comfortable wearing to dinner, which was always a formal occasion at Harbrooke. She barely noticed when it was just Imy or the dowager duchess, but it was very lowering to be so dowdy when two men of fashion were present.
The only possibility was an old gown that had belonged to her mother. A year ago, she had taken it apart and tried to resew the whole thing, using a plate from La Belle Assemblée as a model. Taking it from the armoire, she held the gown against herself and stared with critical eyes at her reflection in the mirror, twisting this way and that, hoping for some flattering angle to present itself.
The dress was sadly out-of-date, but it was of a good silk, and she felt the color, a deep greenish blue, was flattering to the green flecks in her eyes. Laying the gown across her bed, she sighed dejectedly, knowing she really had no other choice. Seating herself at her dressing table, she proceeded to pile her hair on top of her head in an unfashionable, yet becoming twist. She grimaced at the mirror. They will think I’m an antidote, she thought, wondering if she could feign illness. She dismissed the thought, as she had already agreed to dine with them, and she never dissembled.
The other problem that put a crease in her smooth brow was the thought of trying to make conversation. She had lived in the country all of her life, and though she was intelligent and well-read, she knew it would be difficult to converse on any subject that the major or the duke would find interesting. She had never had the chance to develop the fine art of chatting.
After putting the final pin in her hair, Celia left her room with one last critical glance at the mirror and made her way to the salon to await the appearance of the new guest. She found the duke and Imogene already there, sipping champagne and conversing quietly. Dressed in a stunning cranberry silk evening gown, Imogene had rarely been in better looks. Celia, who did not possess a jealous bone, for the first time in her life came close to envy.
Compared to the magnificent beauty of Imogene’s Empire-style gown, Celia felt even drabber, if that were possible. A stab of anger toward the duke pierced her; she blamed him for her present state of discomfiture. If he hadn’t been so odiously insistent on her dining with them she would not now be looking like such a frump, Celia thought with an uncharacteristic flash of churlishness.
The duke, of course, appeared the pinnacle of elegance, she noticed resentfully. His black coat and snowy white waistcoat fit to perfection, a large diamond stickpin sparkled in his intricately tied cravat, and his lean, chiseled face wore a slight frown as he observed her standing uncertainly in the doorway.
“There you are, Celly; don’t you look pretty,” Imogene called across the room, her tone overly cheerful. For the first time in their acquaintance, Imogene felt uneasy with her friend. She couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what Drake had said to persuade Celly to dine with them.
Knowing Celia as she did, she could see that despite her composed expression, her friend was mortified at having to appear in her mother’s old, redone gown. Imogene was at a complete loss as to what to say to her and even began to feel guilty for dressing in her loveliest gown, since Celia’s gown looked even worse in comparison. To hide her discomfort she prattled on in a slightly shrill tone and busied herself with directing Grimes to pour Celia a glass of champagne.
On his part, the duke felt an unexplainable anger. How was he to know that she would have nothing presentable to wear? And Imy should not have shown her up so obviously, either, he thought, frowning slightly at his sister’s elegant attire. But what he felt most was guilt. He had virtually forced her to dine with them when she had made it clear
that she had no desire to do so, and now his manipulating had embarrassed her terribly.
His knowledgeable eye continued to assess Celia. The gown was outdated and noticeably old. But what Imy said was true: Celia did look lovely. The color of the gown suited her well, and her upswept hair showed her long neck to advantage.
The expression on her face did something strange to his chest as he stood by the fireplace sipping his glass of champagne. A momentary glitter of anger had flashed in her extraordinary eyes when Imogene had called her pretty. She had turned her brown-green eyes to him and, with her chin up, defied him to laugh. Instead of sneering, as he somehow thought she expected him to do, he had raised his champagne glass slightly, as if in salute. Surprise touched her face for a moment. Then she turned away with a flush rising to her cheeks.
“Excuse me, I hope you haven’t been waiting for me. I confess I got a bit lost.” Everyone in the room turned eagerly to the major, grateful for the diversion.
“How remiss of me. I should have sent one of the maids to direct you. Let’s go in, shall we? Grimes, you may serve now,” Imogene said in a nervous tone with a too-bright smile.
Since the party was so small, Imogene had decided not to use the grand dining room, but a smaller room the family commonly used. The table was round instead of the usual rectangle, and the room was decorated in royal blue, white, and gold. A cheery fire blazed in the grate, as the evenings were still cold, and this combined with the smaller proportions of the room resulted in a more intimate atmosphere.
Grimes, a stolid and unflappable man, took in Miss Celia’s distress and filled her wineglass to the brim. In Grimes’s wise opinion, there were few uncomfortable situations a good glass of wine could not cure.
It may have been the unusual amount of wine, or the fact that the duke and the major set out to be as felicitous as they were able, but the evening proved less arduous than Celia had anticipated.
Being seated between the two men had, at first, been so daunting Celia felt unable to say anything, or even to look up from her plate very often. After the first course or two, with the wine and the easy conversation, Celia forgot her shame somewhat, and behaved more naturally. Imogene had even been able to draw Celia out enough for her to recount an amusing story about the boys. To her abashment, Celia noticed the duke’s glittering hazel gaze often on her. She assumed he was chastising himself for insisting that such a dowd dine with them. Serves him right, she thought defiantly, vowing to herself not to look in his direction again.
A Spinster's Luck Page 5
