Celia felt a brief pang of guilt at the mention of mourning, because she was not properly mourning Edna. Instantly she dismissed the feeling because she knew Edna would have preferred her to attend a ball, instead of mourn her.
Tilting her head to the side, Celia paused to examine the petite girl from head to toe. She thought her very pretty, but had to agree that the white gown with its ruching and bows did look rather juvenile.
“I think you look delightful,” Celia said diplomatically.
Miss Sheffield stopped beneath a chandelier. “You are too kind, Miss Langston, but I know I look silly. Seeing you in your lovely violet gown has given me hope. Mama so approves of you, and how could she not, as a number of the most eligible gentlemen in London have partnered you this evening? Maybe she will bend a little and let me wear something with color.”
Though Celia blushed a little at the younger girl’s frank manner, she found it refreshing and saw no harm in supporting Miss Sheffield in her desire. Resuming their walk, they continued to discuss clothes and dancing and other feminine things. They parted a little later after agreeing to call upon each other during the week. Celia was delighted to meet such an unaffected creature as Miss Sheffield.
Returning to Imogene and Major Rotham, Celia thanked them both for making her first ball such a wonderful experience.
“You did most of that on your own, my dear,” Imy said. “You have taken London by storm. Dozens of people have asked me about you.”
“I can’t believe I am as popular as all that,” Celia demurred.
“You shall see; by the end of the week you will have so many invitations, your head will spin,” Imy vowed, and Major Rotham seconded her opinion.
Celia did not encounter the duke again for the remainder of the evening, though her eyes did scan the room occasionally. She told herself not to be silly and resolutely turned her attention to her little circle of beaux, who did their best to keep her attention on them.
Sometime after two in the morning, Severly emerged from the billiards room and requested the carriage, even though the ball showed no signs of slowing down. Celia did not mind a bit, because she was much too happy and, in truth, she was beginning to stifle a yawn or two.
As the footman handed her into the duke’s town coach, Celia could not help but recall how, just a few hours ago, she had been terrified. Imy and the duke entered and settled back into the soft leather squabs as the coach moved forward.
“So, Miss Langston, did your first ball meet your expectations?” the duke questioned with an enigmatic smile.
Sighing with remembered pleasure, Celia looked directly at the duke. “Exceeded them, your grace.”
The morning after her first ball, Celia lingered in the cozy warmth of her pretty chamber long after Dora had opened the curtains to let in the spring sunshine. Stretching her arms over her head, she thought over last evening and savored the afterglow of the enchantment. Her first ball! She had actually attended a ball and danced with handsome gentlemen, and maybe even made a new friend in Corinna Sheffield. It was all rather wonderful, she thought, as she finally got out of bed.
After dallying over her toilette, she went downstairs for breakfast. At the bottom of the stairs, she gasped in astonishment at the veritable hothouse of floral arrangements that met her wondering gaze. The entire foyer was filled with bouquets, nosegays, and baskets of fruit and flowers of every description.
Almost hesitantly she stepped forward to touch an immense arrangement of roses and snapdragons. The envelope nestled among the green leaves bore her name. She read the brief missive and was enormously flattered that the sender was the Earl of Chandley. She checked other bouquets and discovered that many of the senders were gentlemen with whom she had not even danced. Celia marveled at the abundance of the blossoms and delighted in their beauty and sweet scent, touched beyond reason that they were for her.
Severly came downstairs at that moment, dressed for riding and looking even more handsome than he had last evening. Celia’s cheeks grew pink at being caught standing in the midst of all the flowers with her nose buried in a bunch of violets.
The duke took in the scene with a lazy eye and raised a brow. “It would seem, Miss Langston, that every buck who saw you last evening has sent you his garden.”
Surprised, Celia could not help laughing. “It does look as if someone has brought in the greenhouse.” Her shining eyes met his, until she remembered the moment on the staircase just before she had entered the ballroom.
Dropping her gaze, she self-consciously placed the violets on the entry table. “I hope we aren’t so late that Imy must breakfast alone,” she said shyly. As she stepped past him, Celia quietly asked Porter if he would be so kind as to have the flowers removed to her room.
When they entered the sunny breakfast room they found Imogene full of last evening’s merriment and plans for the day. “We must pay a call to Lady Pembrington; then we must call on Lady Cowper. I’m positive that she will give you your voucher to Almack’s.” This was extremely exciting news, Imy informed Celia, since it would be impossible to be considered a true success if one did not have a voucher to attend the assembly at the much-vaunted Almack’s.
The duke said very little over breakfast, but Celia often felt his eyes upon her. She refused to take notice, feeling too confused about her changed opinion of him to know how to behave.
Soon she was released from his nerve-racking presence as Imy bustled her from the room almost before she had completed her breakfast, admonishing her not to linger over dressing, as they did not have all day. Celia did glance back at the duke and wondered at the deep frown creasing his brow as he gazed down at his paper.
Chapter Eleven
The lovely spring days that remained before the Severly ball passed swiftly while Imogene and Celia threw themselves into London town life. They shopped, went to museums and the theater, and paid numerous visits and received countless visitors. Imy was enjoying herself prodigiously over Celia’s come-out, and felt sure the coveted vouchers to Almack’s would soon be arriving.
The floral tributes continued to flow, and, to Imy’s delight, Celia received dozens of invitations from the grandest hostesses in London. Celia had even gone for a carriage ride with the Earl of Chandley, whose company she found she enjoyed very much—though, at first, Imogene had been very concerned about this outing.
“Celia, you must not say anything about taking care of the boys.” Imogene stared intently at Celia as she was buttoning her pelisse. “One slip about your past would be a complete disaster.”
“I understand, Imy; I shall be very careful.” Celia gave Imogene the most reassuring smile she could muster before leaving Severly House.
At first, sitting next to the earl in his high-perch phaeton had made Celia nervous to the point of muteness. Soon the task of making conversation was eased when Corinna Sheffield and her mother pulled their carriage alongside the earl’s and hailed a greeting.
“I say, Miss Langston, are we to see you at Lady Sefton’s musicale this eve?” Miss Sheffield asked.
Celia said that she would.
“I do hope the prince regent decides to attend. But one never knows with his royal highness,” Corinna stated with some asperity.
“No, indeed,” put in the earl. “He promised ‘pon his honor only a week ago to attend my rout. But we did not see hide nor hair of him.”
The honorable Mrs. Sheffield nodded her understanding. “How vexing of him. He promised to attend our ball, but sent his regrets at the last moment.”
“I was terribly disappointed,” Corinna piped in. “I so wish to be presented to the regent. Don’t you, Miss Langston?”
“Oh, but I have met his royal highness,” Celia responded before thinking.
After a moment of surprised silence the earl laughed and said to the other two ladies, “Will the mystery of Miss Langston never cease?”
“Do tell how you’ve stolen a march on me and met the regent, Miss Langston,” Corinna s
aid in mock demand.
Celia paused a moment, very aware of the expectant faces before her. She knew she needed to be careful, lest she give too much away about her past in the telling.
With a self-deprecating gesture she said, “My encounter with the regent is not so very exciting. We were both guests at the Duke and Duchess of Harbrooke’s wedding. I told him he was handsome; I recall thinking his green waistcoat was divine. He kissed my cheek and told me I was a very good girl. I was a mere child.”
“What a lovely story,” Mrs. Sheffield said.
“Be careful, Miss Langston; it may get around town that the regent is smitten by your charms. You know how gossip can be distorted,” the earl teased.
This caused laughter all around, and after a few more pleasantries the Sheffield ladies bade Celia and the earl adieu. Celia waved her farewell, promising to see Corinna later at Lady Sefton’s.
Celia was grateful for her growing friendship with Miss Sheffield and was pleased to discover that they did, indeed, have much in common. Both girls enjoyed reading and loved gardening, and to her delight, Celia felt they were fast becoming good friends. They had shopped together several times, and Celia found it quite impressive that Corinna could tell the owner of a carriage just by glancing at the crest on the door. Corinna seemed to be acquainted with everyone in the ton, and Celia’s confidence grew as she gained some much-needed town polish from her new friend.
“Miss Corinna Sheffield is a most delightful creature,” Celia pronounced.
“She is indeed,” the earl agreed.
As they rode along, Celia smiled to herself, for she was very pleased with her outing with the earl.
After the earl returned her to Severly House, Celia went to her room to rest before the evening’s festivities and wondered if the duke would join them at Lady Sefton’s musicale. Celia saw little of him of late. She knew the duke was often in his private library or gone much of the day. She did not know if she felt relieved or not. As much as she tried, she could not banish the image of his intense gaze and broad-shouldered presence from her mind. She found herself reliving, over and over, the moment on the stairs at Pembrington House when his look had been almost a physical touch. Sometimes she would lie awake at night and wonder if the slight noises she heard were those of the duke returning home.
Why had he not married? She pondered this question the next morning while helping Sims, the gardener, cut flowers. She knew the duke to be near two and thirty. Surely it was not because of a lack of candidates, she thought as she snipped a few larkspur and placed them in her basket. She had witnessed for herself how practically every unattached female in London pursued him. Maybe he had found no one to whom he could truly give his heart. She shrugged this thought off because she couldn’t imagine the duke giving his heart to anyone. To her, he seemed completely self-sufficient.
The day before the Severly ball, Corrina and her mother invited Celia to take a carriage ride in Hyde Park, as it was such a fine day. Celia and Corrina stifled a few giggles at the attention they received from a number of young bucks who were doing their best to show off.
The honorable Mrs. Sheffield, an older, less talkative version of her daughter, had finally agreed that Corrina could wear colors, but nothing bright. Nevertheless, Corinna was happy with the concession, and excitedly informed Celia she would be wearing palest lavender to the Duke of Severly’s ball.
“I am so glad Mother relented,” Corinna confided, glancing back to make sure Mrs. Sheffield was still conversing with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell on the other side of the carriage. “For it would have been too lowering to wear such a missish white gown to what I’m sure will be the most exciting ball of the Season.”
“Fustian! You are lovely no matter how you are clothed,” Celia assured her.
“Well, I shall be much happier in my lavender gown. What shall you be wearing, Miss Langston?”
“A gown of white silk, Miss Sheffield,” Celia said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Corrina looked aghast. “No! You must be hoaxing me,” the younger girl said.
“Not a bit of it.” Celia laughed. “Mrs. Triaud vows this gown is a masterpiece. And I assure you, it is the farthest thing from missish.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Corrina lamented.
“What in the world do you mean?” Celia turned a surprised face to her friend, for she would never use the word confident to describe herself.
“You are all the rage. All the ton discusses your attire and jewelry. You are setting a fashion with the angle at which you wear your chapeau. All the patronesses praise your manners and you sail along, unperturbed by any of it,” Corrina explained.
“Now you are hoaxing me.” Celia felt her cheeks growing pink. She scarcely knew what to say.
Miss Sheffield continued, “And the most toplofty bucks in London attend to you. The Earl of Chandley, Sir John Mayhew. Even the Duke of Westlake, whom everyone knows finds the polite world a dead bore, danced with you twice at the Pembrington ball. And of course, the Duke of Severly.” Corinna clutched her hands to her heart expressively. “Severly is so imperious and intimidating. To be in his set is to be all the crack. And you behave as if it is all a ride in the park.”
Miss Sheffield was rewarded for this speech by the look of incredulity that came upon Miss Langston’s face.
“I can scarce find a word to say to you, Miss Sheffield,” she began at last. “I believe you are being exceedingly kind, so before my head turns from your flummery, we shall change the subject.”
As the carriage moved along, Corinna’s laughter rang out merrily. “Poor Miss Langston, your modesty will only add to your popularity.”
When the day of the Duke of Severly’s ball finally arrived, Celia felt as ill-prepared for this ball as she had for Lady Pembrington’s little ball and set about getting ready in a state of anticipation and dread.
The silk gown she finally decided upon was the shade of white found on the inside of oyster shells. The little puff sleeves were intricately tucked into hundreds of tiny folds and dotted with seed pearls. Celia again marveled at Mrs. Triaud’s cleverness.
As she stood before her mirror with Dora buttoning the dozens of little pearl buttons down her back, Celia noticed the gown showed more décolletage than she was comfortable revealing. Even though she knew her low-cut gown was the height of fashion, she pinned a large emerald brooch at her cleavage to make it less daring, unwittingly drawing more attention to the creamy expanse of her bosom.
Edna’s jewel case had rendered a half dozen hairpins with large emeralds on their ends. Dora had, with painstaking care, arranged them becomingly in Celia’s upswept hair. Celia draped her oyster shell-white shawl to her elbows and donned her long satin gloves while trying to examine her appearance from all angles. Dora had already stated herself satisfied with her mistress, but Celia still stared at herself with critical eyes. Even as she told herself it did not matter, she wondered if the duke would admire her.
During their many discussions about the ball, Celia had learned from Imogene that the receiving line would form on the landing above the wide marble steps that descended into the ballroom on the ground floor.
Years ago, the fourth Duke of Severly had decided the ladies looked particularly charming descending a staircase. The only problem was that the architect he had commissioned had made the staircase so enormously wide that it could be intimidating to walk down the middle unaided. Celia and Imy decided it would be too gauche to descend clinging to the side of the balustrade.
The numerous steps caused Celia to chew her bottom lip in worry over tripping in front of four hundred people. “I shall probably stare at my feet and walk so slowly that I will appear an oaf,” she predicted to Imogene. Imy expressed the same concern, and so they decided to meet in the ballroom to practice their descents before any of the guests arrived.
Leaving her room with Dora’s good wishes for the evening, Celia walked swiftly to the west wing of the house, fearing s
he might be a little late. Reaching the wide-open double doors, Celia stood at the top of the steps, her breath catching at the glowing beauty of the huge ballroom below her.
Several footmen were engaged in lighting the innumerable candles in the three massive crystal chandeliers that hung from the gloriously painted ceiling. There were a large number of gilt-covered chairs, and huge bunches of tuberoses, gladioli, lilies, and irises stood in Grecian-style urns on tall marble columns. Floor-to-ceiling French doors opened to the gardens, where the trees and shrubbery sparkled with a multitude of fairy lights.
Celia sighed with pleasure at the opulent, glowing splendor, and a quiver of excitement touched her at the thought of dancing with the duke in such an enchanted setting.
Imogene wasn’t to be seen, so Celia decided to practice by herself. Lifting her chin, she flipped open her fan and carefully attempted to walk down the middle of the massive marble staircase, with some elegance, she hoped. She turned her head this way and that, as if the guests were already assembled, reminding herself not to look at her feet. When she reached the bottom she curtsied deeply to an invisible prince regent. Dissatisfied, she decided to go back up and try again, but stopped short at the sound of clapping reverberating through the room.
“Very graceful, Miss Langston. I especially enjoyed the languid fan movement.”
Celia looked up to see the duke dressed in evening clothes, standing at the top of the stairs. He was gazing down at her with a slight but devilish grin on his face.
Celia didn’t know where to look and felt ready to burst into flames from embarrassment. How lowering to be caught behaving in such an unsophisticated manner when she wanted him to think her elegant and poised. But something about his handsome, amused face turned her chagrin to anger. He had probably never been embarrassed in his life, she thought resentfully.
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