A Spinster's Luck

by Rhonda Woodward

  Another fop had shirt collars so high that Celia wondered how he could turn his head without poking his eye out. Glancing to the other side of the conveyance, Celia admired the way Severly’s gray-blue coat fit snugly to his shoulders. There was almost a military cut to his clothing, which showed his tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame to advantage. She could never imagine him sporting such silly and extreme fashions.

  The carriage pulled forward, but once again they were hailed, and the duke reined in his horses.

  “Oh, dear! Lady Pembrington is coming straight for us!” Imogene whispered quickly to Celia. “She is one of my mama-in-law’s cronies. We’ll just have to play it off, Celly. I have already written Alice explaining everything, so she’ll be up to scratch if questioned.”

  Celia nodded her understanding quickly and tried to smile confidently as the carriage pulled up next to the duke’s.

  “My dearest Duchess of Harbrooke! How vey delightful to see you!” Lady Pembrington, dressed in scads of orange satin, possessed a booming voice and an open curricle upholstered in deep red leather. Her gargantuan bright orange and beplumed bonnet proved quite the most absurd thing Celia had seen all day.

  “I was just saying to dear Richard, my dear son,” she went on loudly, “how vey, vey delighted I was to see that the Duchess of Harbrooke shall be attending my little ball come Friday. So vey delighted.” She fairly shouted this last to a politely smiling Imogene before Celia could be presented.

  “And here is your dear brother! How vey delightful! One never knows where he shall pop up. Maybe you, my dear Duchess, can prod him into making an appearance at my little ball. Not that he can be led, I’m sure, dear boy.” Her laugh was so loud that a number of fashionables turned to attend the situation.

  “Knew he’d be a dasher from the start!” Lady Pembrington said, waving her parasol at the duke, who only gazed at the lady imperiously. She continued, “I wonder if your dearest mother-in-law shall attend? But la! Last I heard from Alice she was vey delighted with Brighton.”

  Celia stared in fascination at Lady Pembrington, amazed that she could say so much without ever drawing a new breath.

  Imogene finally wedged a word in and introduced Celia.

  Lady Pembrington eyed Celia as if she had suddenly sprung whole from the seat cushions.

  “How vey delightful! Miss Langston, you say? Langston, Langston …” She tapped the side of the curricle with her parasol. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with your family,” she stated curiously, making note of the chit’s chic clothing and elegant posture.

  “The baron, her uncle, is settled in Northumberland. Not fond of town life, you know. I’m sure my mother-in-law must have mentioned Miss Langston. After all, Celia has lived at Harbrooke Hall for the last ten years, since her parents passed away,” Imogene rattled on a little nervously, lest Lady Pembrington question her further. But the duke’s consequence was such that Lady Pembrington suddenly seemed to recall Miss Langston’s being mentioned.

  “Miss Langston! Of course! How vey delightful to finally make your acquaintance! If I had but known that you would be visiting I would have sent along an invitation to my little ball. How remiss of Alice not to mention it. Any friend of the dear duchess must, of course, be happily welcomed by me! I would be vey delighted if you would join us at my little ball on Friday.” She took Celia’s acceptance as a matter of course and waved her good-byes as she spied another person she wished to speak to and drove away. Celia’s and Imogene’s eyes met in silent laughter and relief. Celia could not recall ever having so much fun.

  After making a little progress, Severly again stopped the carriage. He caught Celia’s attention and introduced an elegantly attired gentleman astride a black horse.

  “You remember the Duke of Westlake, Miss Langston?” Severly asked with a significant look and a raised brow. “I believe you met some years ago.”

  Celia was nonplussed at this unexpected address and for a moment couldn’t think of a thing to say. Evidently the Duke of Westlake had no such lapse. Even though seated on a horse, he still managed a courtly bow. He was an exceedingly handsome man with very dark hair and green-gray eyes, and Celia thought him almost as dashing as Severly.

  “Your servant, Miss Langston. How very pleased I am to meet you again. It has been two, maybe three years since we last met?” He spoke easily and sincerely, and the little crowd that had gravitated around the duke’s carriage gaped and murmured. First Severly and now Westlake! The two most sought-after men in London both claimed an acquaintance with the mysterious beauty. Neither of the men was noted for dealing with any female who wasn’t married, a widow, or an opera dancer. So the mood of curiosity among the onlookers grew to an almost frenzied pitch. Imogene gave Celia a discreet nudge.

  “Er … three, I believe, your grace. How lovely to see you again. And may I ask after your family?” Celia said in a rush, throwing the last bit in for good measure.

  He grinned wickedly. “Mama is fit as a fiddle, and my sister has just recently been delivered of another baby girl.”

  “Goodness! And how many does that make now?” she asked, following his lead, smiling into his lazy eyes.

  “Three, to Charlie’s despair. He’s already looking about for husbands for them. How are you enjoying your stay in London, Miss Langston?” he asked in a most engaging manner, his eyes sliding to his old friend, who was gazing at Miss Langston with a mixture of pride and concern.

  Earlier in the day, Westlake had encountered his old friend at Waiter’s, their club. While they were seated comfortably in deep armchairs, sipping brandy, Severly asked him in confidence to acknowledge a friend of his sister’s.

  “Just a quirk of your brow should be enough to set her up for the season, Drake. Why do you need my nod also?” Westlake asked curiously. He had never known his friend to show partial attention to any female, even his mistresses. Drake then explained the highly unusual circumstances in which Miss Langston found herself. There was no need for Drake to request Westlake’s silence on the matter.

  “She’s my sister’s closest confidante and a bit lacking in town polish. Imogene insists that I help, and there really is nothing else for it; you know how sisters are. I thought the more arsenal backing her, the better,” he drawled, taking another sip of his drink. Of course Westlake had agreed; the whole thing rather amused him. Besides, a gentleman never let down a friend.

  Now, looking at the lovely face and figure of Miss Langston, Westlake found himself wondering if it was only at his sister’s urging that Drake had roused himself to lend the girl an air of consequence. After exchanging a few more pleasantries with the two ladies, Westlake took himself off, but not before cutting a knowing grin to Severly.

  The duke continued to tool the phaeton along Rotten Row, stopping the carriage for a few more notables, before deciding to return to Severly House. Celia was extremely relieved that this first trial was over. She hoped she would remember the names of all the people she had met, in case she should meet them again.

  “What a charming man the Duke of Westlake is,” Celia said to Imogene as they left the park. The duke snorted derisively.

  “Yes, he is. But Drake, I thought that no one was to know of Celly’s situation,” Imy questioned her frowning brother.

  “Besides Rotham, Alex is the only person I would trust with this. I think with this strategy Miss Langston will find her entry into Society an easier path,” he stated firmly.

  Celia looked at his carved profile as he expertly guided the horses around a corner. It really was too kind of him and Imy to go to so much bother for her. Her heart swelled with gratitude. She vowed to do nothing that could cause them any embarrassment.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday turned misty by late afternoon. By then Celia felt almost sick with anticipation for Lady Pembrington’s little ball. To distract herself, she sat on her bed trying to read The Haunting of Hinchley Manor, her hair in rag curls. After staring at the first page for a full quarter
of an hour without reading a word, she set the book aside and rang for Dora to draw her bath. She decided she would rather start getting ready early than endure this interminable feeling of expectation.

  After her bath, Celia wrapped herself in a luxurious dressing gown of purple satin and walked to a comfortable chair by the fireplace. Hesitating a moment, she came to a decision. After she directed Dora to request her grace’s presence, Celia went to the rosewood bureau and retrieved the red leather jewelry case Mr. Whitely had given her the day he brought her the sad news about Edna.

  Moments later Imogene entered, a look of curiosity in her hazel eyes. “Getting ready so soon?”

  “Yes”—Celia sighed—“you know how long it takes me to decide what to wear. Though, I did not ask you to come here to help me with that decision. Imy, I am finally going to open Edna’s jewel case.”

  Imogene gasped and sat down quickly in a chair by the fireplace. “Finally! I don’t know how you’ve resisted this long,” Imy said excitedly, and leaned forward for a better view.

  After a moment’s pause, Celia sank into the chair next to Imy’s and slowly lifted the lid, then inhaled sharply. Imy forgot herself so much that she actually whistled. The deep, velvet-lined case held a kaleidoscope of jewels. Ropes of pearls in all lengths, bracelets of varied precious stones, at least a dozen rings, and a myriad of earbobs, necklaces, and brooches met their wondering gazes.

  “It looks like a pirate’s treasure,” Celia whispered, her greenish brown eyes wide with astonishment.

  “I can’t believe my eyes.” Imogene gasped.

  Lifting out different pieces, Celia marveled at the fiery glitter of the precious stones, enjoying their weighty coolness in her hands. After passing a few handfuls of jewelry to Imy, Celia picked out a few more pieces and noticed something else beneath the jumble.

  “Look, Imy, a diadem too! How did Edna ever keep all this a secret? I would have worn something different every day if I had been her.” She shook her head, amazed at the sapphires and emeralds in her lap.

  “Try on the diadem, Celly,” Imy urged, continuing to sift through the pile of jewels with girlish pleasure.

  Celia did, and Imogene helped her on with a diamond collar also. The young women fell about laughing at the absurd picture Celia made with her rag curls and wrap. Half an hour later they were still trying on and admiring the jewels, like two little girls playing dress-up.

  Celia discovered an exquisite set of diamond-and-topaz earbobs with a matching brooch and bracelet. Instantly, she decided Imy must have them because they complemented her beautiful eyes so well.

  “Oh, no, Celly, do not start giving away your jewels. Besides, I have enough of my own,” Imy protested, laughing.

  “But nothing like this! They match your eyes, Imy. Please allow me the pleasure of making them a gift. Anyway, you know I could never wear topaz; the color does not suit me,” she cajoled, an impish light in her eyes.

  “They are lovely and unusual.” Imogene hesitated, then looked to her friend. “Thank you, Celly, I would love them.”

  They embraced; then Imy pulled back to look at her friend. “I’m so happy for you, Celly. I know you grieve for Edna, but I’m so glad that she has given you this new life. I confess that I shall enjoy London so much better now that we can share it.”

  Celia bit her lip to hold back the emotional tears that pressed against her eyes as Imy moved to the door.

  “I must leave you now or I shall never be ready on time. Thank you so much again for the lovely jewels, Celly, dear; I’m quite bowled over,” she said on a light note.

  Standing in the middle of the beautiful rose and gold room, covered in jewels and with more jewels strewn across the chair and bed, Celia said, “So am I,” an ironic smile touching her well-defined lips.

  Seated at her vanity table an hour later, Celia watched in the mirror as Dora put the finishing touches on her hair. Celia had been surprised at the jumpy little maid’s skill, considering that just a week before she had been a belowstairs maid. It had always been Dora’s dream to be a real lady’s maid, she had informed her new mistress, and so she had diligently tried to learn all that she could. She had gone so far as to practice hair arranging on the other housemaids.

  Celia encouraged the little blonde to talk, and learned that Dora’s cousin Sophie, a lady’s maid to the fashionable Lady Kendall, had kindly guided her on a few things. But not even Sophie had been elevated to lady’s maid this young, Dora told Celia proudly. She was very proud of her new mistress, too. So pretty and kind, and Dora knew Miss Langston would be the perfect subject on which to practice her skills.

  Celia felt the gown she had finally decided to wear was breathtaking. It was made of a deep violet silk with silver ribbons threaded through the little puffed sleeves that revealed the tops of her shoulders. Another silver ribbon was threaded underneath her bosom in the very fashionable Empire style. Dora had wound a silver ribbon through her golden brown curls and now stood back to judge her work with critical eyes.

  On the night of her first ball, Celia wanted everything to be perfect. She fussed nervously with her new jewelry, changing it at least ten times, still not satisfied.

  “If you’ll excuse me, miss, but I thought the little diamond earbobs and the plain diamond brooch and bracelet were the most becoming. Simple, like, if you take my meaning, miss.” The little maid loved looking at the ladies’ magazines that the duchess and Miss Langston left lying about and had developed a good eye for style.

  Again, Celia donned the jewels Dora had suggested and, after gazing at herself carefully, felt Dora had hit the right note. “Very good, Dora. You are right. I would just be gilding the lily, so to speak, to add anything else. This dress is lovely enough.” She stared at her reflection and knew without vanity that she had never been in better looks. Not too ramshackle for a spinster of nearly six and twenty, she thought with some satisfaction. Her eyes were dark with excited anticipation, and the flush in her cheeks gave her an added glow. Dora then produced a box of very fine French powder and a chamois. Tapping the chamois into the powder, she gently pressed it against Celia’s nose, forehead, and chin.

  “You don’t want to shine, miss,” cautioned Dora, circling Celia to judge her handiwork from all angles. She felt more than satisfied with her beautiful mistress.

  “No, indeed, Dora. Thank you so very much for making me feel so pretty. You really are a wonder,” she said admiringly to the blushing maid.

  Dora was saved from trying to respond by the entrance of the duchess, radiant in a pale, glimmering yellow gown accented by the topaz-and-diamond jewels Celia had given her earlier.

  “Oh, Imogene, you’re so lovely.”

  “Pish, tosh. This gown is quite old. But you, my dear, are breathtaking. If you don’t have a dozen beaux by the end of the evening I shall wonder why,” she stated positively.

  After Celia collected her silver shawl and reticule, they left the room and went downstairs to the blue salon. The duke was already there, standing by the mantel, gazing into the fireplace.

  Celia’s breath caught in her throat. Even in evening clothes he still managed to be so handsomely masculine. His black coat hugged his broad shoulders and the color brought out the gold in his hazel eyes. He wore a neckcloth of such intricately tied folds that she was convinced it must have taken his valet an hour to perfect it. A large emerald nestling in the folds of his cravat was his only adornment.

  Imogene had been quite pleased when her brother had informed her that he would escort Celia and her to Lady Pembrington’s ball. Imogene had informed Celia earlier that Severly believed this was an excellent opportunity to ease her into Society before their own ball. Again, Celia had been surprised by his thoughtfulness.

  “Here you are, and only a few minutes late. But I would have waited the whole evening for such exquisite beauty as this,” he said with a slight teasing smile.

  His eyes came to rest on Celia and he could hardly comprehend that this beautiful, sop
histicated young woman was the same one whom he watched skip stones with his nephews. His eyes met hers briefly as they left the salon.

  Imogene chatted excitedly as they rode in the duke’s well-sprung town coach, pulled by four matched bloods, with the Severly crest emblazoned on the doors. Celia was grateful for Imogene’s incessant prattle, as the feeling of nervous anticipation that had plagued her all day suddenly started diluting into nervous dread. The duke was seated across from Celia, and she gazed at the emerald in his neckcloth as it blinked at her in the lights of the passing lampposts. She wondered what in the world she was doing.

  She was a governess, for heaven’s sake. Celia knew she was only a country bumpkin trying to pass herself off as a lady of quality. By the end of the evening she was sure she would be considered an antidote by all and sundry. Celia’s palms became clammy and she felt the blood pounding in her ears as the carriage moved swiftly through the shadowy streets of London. Surely this was the most cork-brained plan ever to be contemplated—to introduce a spinster governess to the crème de la crème of London Society?

  Before Celia could ask the duke to have the carriage turned around, the coach stopped. A footman in green livery opened the coach door and placed wooden steps on the ground; then Severly was helping her from the carriage. They were walking up the steps of a mansion that was brilliantly ablaze and obviously crowded. A crush of people surrounded her in the large foyer, the mass slowly moving forward to ascend the stairs to the ballroom. The plethora of brightly colored gowns and the scent of overblown flowers rendered Celia breathless in the oppressive warmth of the high-ceilinged room.

  This was Lady Pembrington’s little ball? she wondered, gazing about in alarm. There must be three hundred people crowding up the stairs.

  Panic seared through her veins as she heard the sonorous tones of the majordomo announcing the guests.

  “His grace, the Duke of Roxbury.