A Spinster's Luck

by Rhonda Woodward

  “Lord and Lady Hampton.”

  On and on it went, his voice clearly carrying throughout the assemblage. In a very few moments, Celia would be handing her card to the majordomo and hearing her name almost shouted out.

  It was too much! Fear fluttered in her chest as she looked around the densely populated room for a way to escape. Why did she ever think that she wanted to go to a ball? What could she possibly say to all these people? This was horrid!

  With her heart pounding fiercely, Celia began to edge away from the crowd, instantly concocting a hazy plan to hide in the cloakroom until the ball was over.

  “You may call that particular shade of purple your own, Miss Langston, for no one else could look so well in it as you,” Severly’s deep voice rumbled just above her right ear. Some of Celia’s distress had transmitted itself to the duke and he wondered what to do. The chit was obviously panic-stricken. Celia turned to look up at the duke with terrified eyes.

  “How kind of you, your grace.” She made a heroic effort to keep the tremor from her voice.

  Severly smiled slightly into her troubled eyes. She was quite lovely, he thought distractedly. The candlelight from the enormous chandeliers brought a fiery shimmer to her golden brown hair, which smelled of lilacs, he noted. Her skin reminded him of the petal of a magnolia, the most exotic and rare flower in his vast hothouse at Severly. He felt his hand rise of its own volition to stroke her velvet cheek.

  Shock blazed through his body. What a nine-days’ wonder that would be! The Duke of Severly taking a liberty with his own guest in public. He must catch hold, he told himself harshly. Celia Langston was not a light-skirt, nor even an experienced woman. The only course for a lady like Celia was marriage, and marriage was definitely not in the cards for Severly. He enjoyed variety and freedom too much to ever get caught in the parson’s mousetrap. But if he continued in this senseless manner, Imy would soon be haranguing him to offer for the girl, if only to save her reputation.

  Yet his eyes still inexplicably held hers.

  Celia could not look away from the expression in his glittering gaze. It seemed almost a physical touch that reached deep into her being and settled somewhere around her heart. His presence, the very broadness of his shoulders, and the glittering gold of his eyes blocked out the noise, the music, the world, and left only them.

  Someone jostled Celia from the side and begged her pardon. The frozen moment shattered around her and left her feeling confused and disordered. Dazedly, she turned her gaze from Severly’s and ascended a few more steps. How close she stood to the majordomo now.

  Celia mentally gave herself a shake, and her practical governess’s mind told her not to be a ninny. The duke was being kind. She had nothing to fear this evening; she was an independent woman now, not a governess. Hadn’t she always dreamed of wearing beautiful gowns and dancing at a ball? Imogene would be close at hand, so all would be fine, she told herself sternly, forcing the image of the duke’s enigmatic eyes gazing so deeply into hers from her mind.

  With a lift of her chin she gracefully ascended the last few steps and handed the majordomo her card.

  “Miss Langston.”

  Chapter Ten

  Two hours later, Celia found herself twirling around the crowded ballroom in the arms of Major Rotham. The music of a waltz carried them along on its lilting melody, and Celia felt almost intoxicated by the excitement of the evening. To Celia’s mind, all the ladies were beautiful, all the gentlemen dashing, and the room was filled with magic.

  Major Rotham swung her near an enormous gilt-framed mirror, where Celia caught a brief glimpse of herself. Her own figure moved amidst a kaleidoscope of twirling dancers and giant bunches of spring flowers that Lady Pembrington had placed everywhere, including the chandeliers. Could that really have been her in the mirror? She smiled in bemusement and hoped the Lady Pembrington’s little ball would never end.

  Celia thought Major Rotham looked exceptionally dashing in his uniform, and despite his limp he proved an excellent dancer. Or because of it, he explained:

  ”Never was much of a dancer before the war. But after I came home from France, my physician suggested I take up dancing to speed my recovery and help my agility. Actually, I feel I’m a better dancer now than I ever was, if I don’t sound conceited saying so.”

  “Not at all. You should be proud of yourself. You have recovered remarkably from your injuries. Besides, your very slight limp makes you more romantical. I have heard more than one lady say so,” she said artlessly, causing the major to blush.

  The waltz ended and he guided her back through the throng of dancers and chattering groups of revelers to where Imogene stood conversing with several people. Immediately Celia found herself surrounded by a small but impressive group of gentlemen.

  Major Rotham had been the first gentleman to lead Celia out onto the dance floor earlier in the evening. Celia thought this had been exceptionally nice of him, but she had a suspicion that Imogene had made a gentle request. Afterward, he had introduced several young men to her: Sir Richard Pembrington, son of their hostess, the Earl of Chandley, a quietly handsome man with a military bearing, and Sir John Mayhew, whom she had met in Hyde Park and understood was a much-admired Corinthian.

  Each man had requested her hand for a dance, and she had demurely obliged them, her confidence growing. Until the first waltz, that was. Sir John had requested her hand for the waltz. Celia had stood there hesitating, wondering what she should do, for Imy had expressly warned her against waltzing with gentlemen she had just been introduced to.

  “You must be very careful of your reputation, Celly. I am still trying to procure your vouchers for Almack’s, and all the patronesses are so censorious about unmarried ladies waltzing. Some of them still think it a little fast. Even though you are not making a come-out, you had better only waltz with Drake and David—and Westlake, of course, since you two have such a long acquaintance,” she finished with a laugh.

  So Celia had hesitated before her new admirer, ready to claim fatigue, when the polished figure of the Duke of Westlake nimbly stepped through the crowd. With a sly grin he said, “Our waltz, I believe, Miss Langston.” Celia felt a little self-conscious at the marked attention they were receiving as his arm went around her waist.

  “Now, Miss Langston, we are old friends and you must smile at me and tell me of your life since we last met. That will give everyone something to whisper about.”

  Celia looked at him in surprise and could not suppress the laugh that bubbled forth. “Indeed, your grace, I believe they will whisper if I smile at you or not, such is your consequence.”

  “But the whispers shall be much more interesting if you continue to smile at me.”

  Celia laughed again, unaware that his teasing words were completely true. The easily bored members of Society loved to be distracted, and this mysterious new beauty, who seemed to be intimate with those of the first consequence, was already causing speculation.

  Celia continued to banter with the wickedly grinning duke for the remainder of their dance. A reel with Sir Richard followed the waltz, and a quadrille with Chandley came after that. The next dance was again a waltz, and that she danced with Major Rotham.

  Now she stood amidst her little band of admirers and felt enough confidence to flip open the silver fan that dangled from her wrist and wave it in the languid fashion that Imy had shown her. She listened to the sincerely offered flowery compliments with much feminine gratitude, but very little belief, for she was of an age and temperament that did not put overmuch stock in flattery.

  Imogene had introduced Celia to many people, all with curious eyes. One or two had even suggested that they had been previously acquainted, for Celia looked so familiar. Celia had dealt with this all very gracefully, and many members of the ton soon expressed their opinion that Miss Langston possessed an elegant poise.

  Before long, the most prolific topic of the evening, second only to the upcoming wedding of Princess Charlotte, was Miss Lan
gston and her wealth. Lady Castlereagh had admired the topaz-and-diamond jewels that Imogene wore, and Imy had casually stated that they had been a gift from dear Miss Langston. “So generous and kind she is. I have rarely met such a thoughtful creature as Miss Langston. Some may say my opinion is a bit prejudiced, since she is my dearest friend,” Imy said with a smile.

  The story spread in a rapid wave that Miss Langston must be as rich as Midas if she handed about such gifts. But Imy had an ulterior motive for telling the story to a noted gossip. She wanted the fact of her close friendship with Celia to be established quickly, so that fewer questions would be asked about Celia’s background. Being the best friend of a duchess should be enough to shield Celia from most prying questions. Lady Castlereagh had eagerly parlayed this information to many of her friends throughout the assemblage, and by the end of the evening Miss Langston’s wealth and generosity had been exaggerated to almost mythical proportions.

  As she stood near Imogene, Celia politely listened to her small group of admirers, feeling so enchanted with the evening, she could not recall now why she was so nervous earlier. But in the back of her mind she still saw Severly’s disturbing gaze and marveled at the odd, breathless feeling in her chest. She had not seen the duke for some minutes. The ballroom walls fairly bulged with a glittering array of the haute ton, and she knew that there were also card rooms and billiard rooms beyond. The duke could be anywhere.

  Her gaze continued to travel around the room, and soon, on the opposite side of the ballroom, she found the object of her search, Severly. He stood beneath a chandelier with a group of gentlemen. One seemed to be relating a story using an abundance of expressive hand gestures. After a moment, the duke threw back his head and laughed. Celia caught her breath. Unequivocally, he was the handsomest man in the room. Evidently, she was not the only woman to think so. She watched with an amused smile touching her expressive eyes as a number of ladies tried to attract his attention, and anxious mamas tried to push their daughters into his path.

  He had taken the dance floor only three times so far, Celia noted. He had danced first with his beturbaned hostess, who had been effusive in her delight at his appearance at her little ball, then with his sister, and finally with a stunning blond woman in emerald green. Celia had been informed that she was Lady Kendall, the elderly Earl of Kendall’s much younger wife. Celia recalled Dora saying that her cousin was in service to Lady Kendall.

  Celia wondered if—nay, secretly hoped—the duke would ask her to dance. She was an honest girl and could do nothing but admit to herself that her feelings for the enigmatic duke had undergone a complete change. He was so manly and handsome and kind. His kindness had completely surprised her, for she had always thought him such an ogre, but he had treated her as a welcome guest from the moment she came to London.

  How foolish she felt for such thoughts, but she could not help it. Just the sight of his square jaw and even the scar on his cheek sent a frisson of awareness up her spine. One dance would be more than wonderful. Other men had complimented her this evening, she told herself, so maybe he would find her attractive enough to dance with.

  As if he heard her thoughts, Severly turned at that moment and met her gaze across the room. The smile faded from his lips, and Celia held his piercing glance for a second before turning away, mortified that he had caught her staring at him like a silly girl. The tempo of her fanning quickened, and Imogene turned from her conversation with Countess Lieven to ask quietly if all was well. Before she could respond, Celia heard a familiar, deep voice requesting her hand.

  Several of the young men surrounding her protested that Miss Langston had only just been returned to them, that it was too bad of him to whisk her away in this manner.

  “You may trust me to return Miss Langston to you safely,” Severly drawled with dry amusement as he drew her to the parquet.

  The meter of this waltz was slightly slower than the previous one, and Celia became acutely conscious of how close her body was to the duke’s. Again, she noted the many curious eyes upon them and felt a blush rising to her cheeks as she tried to focus on anything but the duke.

  “I believe you are enjoying yourself, Miss Langston,” his deep voice rumbled above her shyly bent head.

  “Yes, your grace. It has all been wonderful,” she said with forced composure, trying to hold fast to her newfound confidence.

  “Excellent. I confess that I am curious as to how you learned to waltz so gracefully. I know you had few opportunities to enjoy Society at Harbrooke Hall,” he said diplomatically.

  A dimple appeared at the corner of Celia’s mouth. “I could say that your grace instructed me.”

  “How so?” His tone held surprised curiosity.

  Celia took a moment to gather her thoughts. She felt intensely aware of his strong arm around her waist and her hand engulfed by his as he expertly led her through the steps of the waltz. A shameless yearning to feel him pull her closer coursed through her body, and Celia took a deep breath to calm herself.

  “On a previous visit to the hall, you taught Imy how to waltz,” she began. “She was so enchanted that she purchased sheet music, and I played the piano while she showed Henry the steps. When he became proficient, Imy played while Henry and I danced. So, since you instructed Imy and she instructed Henry, in a roundabout way one could say that you taught me, your grace.”

  Severly laughed outright at this deduction, and the assembled guests goggled. No one could recall his giving such marked attention to an unmarried woman. Yet here he was, hanging on the lovely Miss Langston’s every word. A few dandies wondered if it would be too early to lay a wager.

  Severly still had a smile on his lips when he asked how they had persuaded Henry to go along with the scheme.

  “He kicked up a fuss at first, but when we explained that you were a very good dancer he agreed to try. The boys try to emulate your grace in every way.”

  “I shall have to commend Henry on his excellent tutelage,” he said in his deep voice as he swung her around the polished floor.

  The rest of the waltz passed in a haze for Celia. She couldn’t help recalling the look in his eyes as they had stood on the stairs earlier in the evening, and again she felt that odd sensation in her chest. When the lilting strains of the waltz faded away, the duke returned her to his sister instead of her little group of swains. When he bowed over her hand, she felt hers tremble slightly in his strong grasp; then he excused himself. She watched his tall frame disappear into one of the faro rooms.

  I have thoroughly misjudged him, she told herself. He really is a gentleman, and not the rake everyone reputes him to be. For a reason she refused to examine, her heart felt very light to realize this.

  She was pulled from these musings when Imogene took her arm and turned to Major Rotham. “David, would you mind terribly obtaining some champagne for us? I’m positively parched, and I’m sure Celia is too,” she requested of him with a sweet smile.

  “Happy to, my dear, and it will give you and Miss Langston a chance to have a private coze,” he teased with a bow.

  Instead of being chagrined at his accurate deduction, Imogene just laughed and said, “How intuitive of you, David,” as she pulled Celia to a pair of chairs in a secluded alcove near the dais the dowagers occupied.

  “Dear Celia, I’m so proud of you! You are a rousing success! By tomorrow you will be discussed in every drawing room from St. James to Park Lane. Why, even the old tabby dowagers approve of you.” She quickly cast a worried glance toward the dais in case she had spoken too loudly.

  “I own my dance card is full, but there are dozens of young ladies more popular. Besides, I’m a spinster, not a young miss. This is all quite lovely, but it doesn’t really matter if I make a splash or not,” Celia explained with a wry smile to her friend.

  “You a spinster? Don’t be a goose. Not an hour ago Lady Sefton, one of the patronesses, said that not even Miss Corinna Sheffield, this Season’s Incomparable, could compare to Miss Langston’s b
eauty, easy charm, and artless wit. I do not want to hear any more talk of spinsters when you have such as the Earl of Chandley and Lord Mayhew dancing attendance,” Imy finished firmly, tapping Celia’s knee with her ivory fan. Celia made no further arguments, for she was young enough to enjoy the heady feeling of being sought after.

  Later in the evening, Celia stood conversing with a few of her new acquaintances, slightly amazed with her own confidence after being so terrified just a few hours earlier. Imogene approached with a very pretty, petite young woman with titian hair.

  “Celia, dear, Miss Corinna Sheffield wishes to make your acquaintance. I am sure the two of you shall find much in common,” Imogene said, smiling encouragingly to both girls before sweeping off to dance with Lord Beresford.

  “Indeed, Miss Langston, I did want to make your acquaintance. I have been admiring you. Your gown is so elegant and you dance so beautifully. My dear mama has been holding you up all evening as the example she wishes me to emulate,” Miss Sheffield said in a breathless, almost childlike voice.

  Celia was rather taken by surprise by this onslaught of compliments. She almost laughed out loud at the thought of someone wanting to emulate her, but found herself instantly liking Miss Sheffield’s unguarded pale blue eyes.

  “How obliging you are, Miss Sheffield!” Celia began. “And I am very happy to meet you. Shall we take a turn about the room and visit?”

  With that, the two young women curtsied to the gentlemen Celia had been conversing with and set out to get to know one another.

  “Miss Langston, I must admit that I am quite envious of you,” Miss Sheffield stated baldly, but there was a smile in her voice.

  “How so? Obviously you have no reason to envy anyone.”

  “But I do!” she said in earnest as they strolled through the crowded room. “I am one and twenty. This is my first Season because I have been in mourning for a number of years due to the deaths of my grandfather and uncle. Yet now that I am finally here, my mother still insists that I dress as the other girls do, in these boring white gowns that do not flatter me. She does not seem to understand that I am no longer seventeen.”