“Of course you do. You’ve been around me all these years, haven’t you?” Imy demanded archly, bringing a wry smile to Celia’s lips.
“I know you are right about what Edna wanted. We had a conversation shortly before I came to London. She told me I would soon have many choices. Now I understand her words.” Sadness colored Celia’s voice. “I shall miss her very much.”
“I know you will, my dear,” Imy replied, going over to lay a supportive hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I regret that I never had the honor of meeting her. But from her letter, it is clear that her fondest wish would be for you to jump into your new life. And I think you should begin tomorrow by going shopping with me,” Imogene finished hopefully.
Celia hesitated. “Well … let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
Imogene, well pleased with this morning’s work, decided not to press her friend. After placing a kiss on Celia’s forehead, she went to the door.
“Rest this afternoon; it will help you get over the shock. Remember, Edna is at peace, and she gave you a wonderful opportunity for a new life.”
Celia slept the afternoon away. Awakening after the sun had set gave her a strange, disoriented feeling. Turning her head to glance at the clock, she saw that she had only an hour to dress before dinner.
After bathing, she donned the new umber-colored gown that Imy had given her. Celia smiled when it suddenly occurred to her that she could now return the generosity. Coiling her thick hair onto the back of her head, Celia frowned at the reflection of her pale face. After tucking a stray hair away, she gave herself one last look, shrugged, and left the room.
She found the duke alone in the salon, staring into the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up at her entry and she curtsied.
“I have not had the chance to offer my condolences, Miss Langston,” he offered as he turned away from the mantel and approached her. “You have my deepest sympathy at the loss of your friend. She seemed a fascinating person.”
Celia looked up at his somber, handsome face and saw that he meant the words. Lowering her eyes, she admitted to herself reluctantly that his kindness touched her heart.
“I thank you, your grace. I confess that I have been overset by the news.”
“Most certainly. You must give yourself time to become accustomed to your new situation. Of course, you shall remain here as my guest and follow Miss Forbisher’s instructions,” he remarked agreeably, as if it were all very natural.
Celia’s surprise was so great, she could not bring herself to respond.
The duke did not seem to expect her to say anything and walked over to the liquor cabinet. He offered her a glass of sherry, which she gratefully accepted.
To Celia’s relief, Imogene burst into the room in a flurry of deep blue silk, babbling about how late she was for dinner.
Just then Porter opened the double mahogany doors leading to the dining room.
“Dinner is served, your grace,” he stated, bowing slowly.
The duke stepped forward and offered both ladies an arm, saying with a slight smile, “Shall we?”
Imogene took her brother’s arm and smiled happily at Celia, delighted with her brother’s gallantry.
Despite her long-standing friendship with Imogene, Celia did not feel comfortable placing herself as a social equal. Since coming to Severly House she had always followed Imy and the duke into supper. So she hesitated before them now, looking lovely and confused, frowning slightly as she looked from Imy to the duke.
Disengaging his right arm from Imy’s, Severly reached over, took Celia’s hand, and gently pulled it through his left arm. Celia felt a tingle through her fingers as she gazed down at his warm, long-fingered hand touching hers.
Severly turned to his sister again, offered her his right arm, and said, “Cook will be angry if we let his efforts get cold.”
As they all walked arm in arm into the dining room, it suddenly struck Celia how profoundly her life had changed.
The next morning, Imogene would hear none of Celia’s protests and bustled her out of the house and into a waiting carriage to go shopping. By the time they had been conveyed to Knightsbridge, some of Imogene’s chattering excitement had transferred itself to Celia.
Imogene had informed Celia that Mrs. Triaud of Bolton Street was a very fashionable and creative modiste. They arrived at the elegant little shop, only to be informed that Mrs. Triaud would be much too busy to assist them, for she was in the midst of working on Princess Charlotte’s trousseau.
Celia didn’t know if she was on her head or heels. How Edna would have loved this! For a moment Celia thought about writing to Edna, until she remembered that Edna was gone. But Celia would never have had the chance to be in this place if Edna were still alive. It was all very sad and ironic, she thought, gazing about the opulent little shop.
Imogene had a brief word with the shop girl. The girl disappeared into the back room, and a moment later a plump woman in a very chic dark gray gown came into the room with outstretched arms.
“Forgive the silly girl, your grace,” Mrs. Triaud solicited, sweeping a very deep curtsy to the duchess. “I have, of late, not accepted new clients, as we are so busy with the royal wedding. Besides the wedding dress, there are over a dozen more to complete! But of course I should be delighted and honored to create something for the Duchess of Harbrooke,” she fairly gushed in her attempt to placate the duchess. One never knew when the fortunes could turn and some other modiste would take her place as the most exclusive dressmaker to the beau monde. Indeed, she had turned away a few ladies and even the daughter of an earl, but only a fool would turn away the illustrious Duke of Severly’s sister.
Imogene inclined her head to the plump woman, not in the least surprised by the woman’s consideration.
“Yes, I am in need of one or two ball gowns, but it is my friend, Miss Langston, who is in need of a complete wardrobe.”
Mrs. Triaud’s eyes bulged from her head as her gaze went to the lovely young woman standing serenely next to the duchess. A complete wardrobe! This was much better. One or two gowns were just an inconvenience, but a complete wardrobe was money in the bank.
Her assessing eyes narrowed as she looked at Celia from tip to toe. Good. She obviously was not making her come-out. Mrs. Triaud disliked dressing young girls, as everything had to be white and missish and not the least bit daring. This young lady, being tall and possessing such a graceful carriage, would show off her creations to perfection. Mrs. Triaud made a rustling bow, and gave a clap of her hands, and the shop girl immediately appeared with bolts of fabric, a measuring tape, and fashion plates for Miss to inspect.
And so it began—the overwhelming task of choosing and being measured and standing for endless fittings. As she decided on more morning gowns, day dresses, tea gowns, afternoon dresses, riding habits, dinner gowns, and ball gowns, Celia’s eyes glowed with delight at the appearance of each new ensemble. She had had no idea how wonderful shopping could be, or how wearying.
In the following week, the thrill of being able to purchase anything that took her fancy completely overtook Celia. It was such a new and exciting feeling for her. Imogene had laughingly protested that Celia could not possibly wear all the stockings, gloves, parasols, and shawls that she had bought.
“But they are all so beautiful,” Celia had countered laughingly, as a groom followed them to the carriage, struggling with a mountain of boxes.
A week before the Severly ball, the duke, Imy, and Celia breakfasted together in the flower-filled morning room and discussed the plans for the day. They had seen little of the duke of late, as the ladies had been so busy shopping during the days and the duke had been gone most evenings.
Celia felt shy in her new, very fashionable morning dress of periwinkle blue. Secretly, she wondered if the duke noticed that she no longer looked so dowdy. Immediately she squelched the foolish notion. She was still only a governess, no matter what she wore, and thus was beneath his notice. Not th
at she wished him to notice her, she reminded herself sternly.
“As we are to formally introduce you at our ball next week, Miss Langston, I think it would be wise for you to appear in public once or twice before then. A drive in Hyde Park this afternoon would be a good start. We shall introduce you to our friends so that you may become acquainted with a few more people in London,” the duke instructed.
Imogene thought this a capital suggestion and Celia thanked him demurely, finally able to look at him. He really was very handsome, she thought before she could stop herself.
“But we must all be very careful—not a word about this governess business. You are an heiress who has lived with the Duchess of Harbrooke since the tragic deaths of your parents. Perhaps there is some distant family connection that could be brought forth. Do you know anything about your parents’ relatives?” he queried, admiring the way Celia tilted her head when she concentrated.
Celia knew full well how important one’s family tree was to the ton. Her hand cupped her chin as she tried to recall what her mother had told her of the family.
“My father’s uncle is Baron Langston. The family settled in Northumberland, I believe. They were of simple means, so they were relieved when my father took up the cloth. My mother was the granddaughter of a French émigré. I know little of my mother’s people, save that they did not feel that a second son of a second son was a good match for Mama. It caused hard feelings, so my parents rarely spoke of it. At least, I don’t recall much discussion of the family.” She strove to suppress the sad tone that always seemed to be in her voice when she spoke of her parents.
She met the duke’s astute gaze, and an odd feeling came over her at the look of understanding in his dark-fringed hazel eyes. He seemed to be able to look into her heart and see the pain that her words did not reveal. It must be because he had lost his parents, also. It gave her a slight shock to realize that they actually had something in common.
Imogene clapped her hands together. “Capital! We shall hint that you are the great-granddaughter of a French aristocrat and a relation of a well-respected landowning family in Northumberland. Do you know them, Drake?”
“I am not acquainted with the Langstons of Northumberland. But that shall be our story. Actually, it is the truth, so you needn’t feel as if you are deceiving anyone, Miss Langston. We are just leaving out the part about your being a governess, which is of no one’s concern.”
Celia’s head jerked up to look at him. How had he known that she had been feeling a niggling discomfort at the thought of possibly living a lie? He really was the most amazing man, and he had completely alleviated her doubts. He gave her a devilish, yet charming smile and rose from his chair.
“If you will excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to before we meet again … at, shall we say, three o’clock?” he asked after consulting his watch fob.
The ladies found this agreeable and the duke took his leave.
“I am so glad that Drake is being helpful. Everything is so much easier now,” Imogene said.
“Yes, indeed. He is excessively kind to do this,” Celia offered sincerely, busying herself with a piece of fruit.
“I believe you find him more tolerable than you once did.” There was a question in Imy’s gentle voice.
“Well,” Celia began, tracing a pattern with her fingertip in the damask cloth covering the table. “I have gotten a better measure of his temperament since coming to London. He has also been very kind about Edna’s death.”
“Yes, my brother has a few nice qualities that I sometimes think he does not wish to be known,” Imy stated archly.
Celia had no answer to this, and the ladies spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon going over the fine art of deportment. Although Celia had exquisite manners, due no doubt to Imy’s fine example for so many years, Celia wanted to be sure she would not make a wrong step. Imogene instructed Celia on how to address various members of the peerage, how to hold a fan properly, how to drape a shawl to the best advantage, and many other essential modes of behavior.
Celia followed Imogene’s every move and instruction with firm attention. She felt excited—and a little nervous—about riding in Hyde Park with Imy and the duke, for this was to be her first test on behaving like a lady of quality.
Chapter Eight
An hour before the promised ride, Celia was in her room agonizing over what to wear. Dora, Mrs. Chambers’s niece and Celia’s newly appointed lady’s maid, had been pulling out one ensemble after another for Celia’s approval. Celia was in the process of tossing yet another gown onto her already burdened bed when Imogene entered, looking fresh as spring in an apple-green dress with matching bonnet and parasol.
“Celly! You aren’t dressed? Drake will be here shortly and he hates to keep his cattle standing,” she admonished, staring at the pile of gowns on the bed.
“I know, I know! I can’t decide what to wear.” Celia felt panicked by her indecision. Never had she had to decide between even two gowns, nonetheless a dozen.
“You goose! Anything you own looks as if it just arrived from Paris. Here, this dark pink gown with the pretty bows on the pelisse is very smart. Dora, please locate the fawn-colored bonnet and gloves I remember arriving with this ensemble, and help Miss Langston dress. We mustn’t keep Drake waiting,” she said pointedly to Celia.
A little while later Celia calmly descended the stairs in the rose-colored gown and pelisse. As she pulled on the fawn kid gloves she wondered how she could have overlooked this lovely confection.
The duke was waiting for them in the circular drive, controlling a pair of jet-black high-steppers. He handed the reins to a groom and stepped agilely from the vehicle to help his sister alight, and then he turned to Celia.
He noted her hair, swept back into a chignon with tendrils framing her face beneath her smart new bonnet. She bore little resemblance to the badly dressed young woman he had encountered at Harbrooke Hall. She even carried herself differently. Edna Forbisher had been right: clothes did give a woman confidence. Celia appeared a beautiful, poised young lady. He felt an odd pang somewhere near his heart because he knew how deceiving appearances could be. Miss Langston was still the shy, green governess who had never been more than a few miles from sleepy little Harford until a few weeks ago.
Logically, Severly knew it would be ludicrous for her to go on as if nothing had happened to change her life. Few young, unmarried women found themselves the possessor of such fortunes. So there really was only one thing for her to do—enter Society and find a husband who could take proper care of her and keep her away from fortune hunters. This thought brought a cynical quirk to his well-shaped mouth.
He knew the ton well enough to know that the sudden appearance of an extremely wealthy and unknown woman would cause a stir. Everyone would be politely trying to find out everything about her. If she would meet personal questions with a lofty stare and a short response, she’d get by, he concluded. From personal experience, he knew that she should have no trouble with giving a short response.
A wave of shyness engulfed Celia as she stood before the duke’s direct and disturbing gaze. As he towered over her, she fussed with her reticule nervously.
“May I compliment you on your excellent taste, Miss Langston? I confess that I have been admiring each new ensemble more than the last,” he praised in his deep voice.
It was exactly what she needed to hear, and she smiled up at him, though still unable to meet his gaze.
“Thank you, your grace. I confess I’ve been enjoying the shops of London prodigiously,” she said demurely as he handed her into the phaeton.
The duke’s deep laughter set the horses to dancing.
As he tooled the phaeton through the streets of London, Severly contemplated his plan to launch Celia into Society. He had already decided to introduce her to a few of his particular friends. Rotham she already knew, and that would help. He had also decided to take one more friend into his confidence. The duke knew
that if he and the Duke of Westlake paid Celia the mildest of attention she would soon be the biggest rage London had seen in years. Westlake, though a rake and deep gambler like Severly, could still be counted on to be a gentleman with a lady. They’d been close friends ever since school days, and Drake trusted him completely. In fact, he was the only person, other than Rotham, whom he trusted with the true circumstances of Celia’s situation.
Hyde Park was bright with spring flowers and crowded with everyone who was anyone in the beau monde.
From the moment they entered Rotten Row, Celia became fully aware of the esteem in which the Duke of Severly and the Duchess of Harbrooke were held. More than once, the duke had to use the excuse of his restless horses to move forward several yards, only to be hailed again by another acquaintance hoping for a few words.
“Lady Tayborne, I do not believe you have met my dear friend Miss Langston, visiting us from Harford,” called Imogene to a thin matron in brown.
“Sir Mayhew, have you met Miss Langston? She is my dearest friend visiting us from Harford.”
To Celia’s amused surprise she found herself the recipient of much avid curiosity. She had the odd feeling this was happening to someone else and she was just an observer, enjoying the novelty of all the attention. The word spread quickly that Severly was on the scene escorting his sister and a lovely, exquisitely dressed young lady whom no one seemed to be acquainted with. The crowd around the phaeton grew. Not a few hopeful mamas were brought to near panic at the thought of some unknown chit stealing the elusive duke before they could bring him to heel for their unmarried daughters.
“Who is she?” Everyone seemed to be asking this question.
Celia suppressed a startled laugh when a dandy in a bright green-and-pink-striped waistcoat pulled his conveyance alongside the duke’s. In a very deliberate manner, he raised a monocle to his eye, examined her for a moment, and pronounced in a drawling tone, “Charming.”
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