“Yes, thank you, Dora,” Celia said dully, causing Dora to frown in concern.
After the bath, Celia dressed in an exquisite silver-blue tea gown. Her temples throbbed, and she noticed there were shadows under her eyes as she stared at her reflection while Dora arranged her hair.
“You should see the flowers that have come for you and you grace, miss. I’d wager every flower seller in London is blessing the day you arrived,” Dora predicted, putting the finishing touches on Celia’s hair.
A faint smile touched Celia’s lips, but she was in no mood to think about flowers.
“Thank you, Dora; I believe I shall read until tea,” she said as the maid straightened the bottles on the vanity table.
With another concerned look at her mistress’s face, Dora bobbed a curtsy and left Celia to her thoughts.
Pushing away from the vanity, Celia came to the realization that she could no longer put off thinking about last night. She walked over and sat down in one of the chairs by the cold grate. Staring down at the fingers clenched in her lap, Celia felt as if the proverbial scales had been lifted from her eyes.
A wave of shame swept over her, leaving her racked with anger and self-disgust. What a fool she had been, she rebuked herself, wincing as she recalled the moment on the staircase before the ball and how she had not even pulled back as his lips brushed hers.
What a ninny I was to believe he could grow partial to me, she thought with piercing embarrassment. How easily she had succumbed to his practiced charm. She continued to berate herself as she rose from the chair and moved to the window, pushing aside the curtains to stare out at the duke’s magnificent gardens. She had actually believed, she marveled, that there had been something inexplicable growing between them, when in truth he had just found her gullibility amusing. He was an arrogant, jaded rake, and she hated him for so effortlessly snaring her heart.
Last evening, the remainder of the ball had passed in an odd dreamlike manner. She had stood in the midst of the opulent beauty looking at her surroundings with new eyes.
Lady Cowper, the lovely, respected patroness of Almack’s, looked so different to Celia now. Obviously, she was Lord Palmerston’s mistress and took every opportunity to make her husband the butt of one of her witty little jokes. How could she have missed this before? Celia wondered with a bemused shake of her head. Look at the Duke and Duchess of Falton; they arrived in separate carriages and had never acknowledged the other’s presence the entire evening.
She had spent the rest of the ball, which had gone on until the sun was breaking over the horizon, pretending that she was enjoying herself. And whenever the duke got within ten feet of her she moved to the other side of the room.
Before last night it had all seemed so beautiful and amusing. But now, she saw the gossip and infidelity and felt like an idiot for being so deceived. All the clever little stories she had heard took on a new, cynical meaning. A hard, pretty shell masked an empty, frivolous world. Was this what was expected of her. To marry the best title her money could buy and find love and passion where she could?
She could not live that way, Celia thought stubbornly, turning away from the window.
How dared the duke tell her he admired her, Celia thought, her eyes flashing in anger as a dull little ache settled around her heart. How dared he look deeply into her eyes, hold her hand, and kiss her when it all meant less than nothing to him. It had just been social patter to be repeated to other women, she decided with newfound cynicism.
Her very first impression of him, when she had been only sixteen, had been correct. She had just been naive to put any import on his attention toward her. Celia realized she had been too unsophisticated to know this, and vowed to herself that she would not be so foolish in the future.
With new resolution, Celia determined not to let this ruin everything. She was a woman of means now, and her life would go on much better than it had before. Somehow this thought was little comfort to her bruised emotions.
Late in the afternoon, unable to stand her own thoughts a moment longer, Celia decided to leave the sanctuary of her room to wander in the gardens and clear her head. After walking through the formal gardens for a bit, Celia circled back toward the house and came upon Imogene lounging in a chaise on the veranda.
“Hello. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” Imogene called. “Come have tea with me.” She gestured to the tea cart next to her.
Determined to be cheerful, Celia seated herself on a little chair near Imogene and accepted a cup of tea.
“I have told Porter that we are not at home. I am just too fatigued to receive any callers today,” Imogene said gaily, pouring milk into her cup. “Wasn’t the ball too lovely? Why, Lord Allyn told me he hadn’t a nicer time in years.”
Celia managed to muster the proper responses, and felt relieved that Imogene did not seem to notice anything amiss. Soon they were both quietly enjoying the beauty of the garden, and the sight of the iridescent hummingbirds flitting from flower to flower helped to soothe her ragged emotions.
“Here you are. I thought the two of you were going to lie abed till dinner.”
Jolted from her reverie, Celia looked up to see the duke coming toward them, dressed in buff-colored breeches, a white shirt, a bottle green coat, and black top boots. His dark hair gleamed in the afternoon light, and the odd ache in Celia’s heart intensified. Stiffening her spine, she rebuked her heart for quickening and told herself to behave calmly.
“Drake, dear, we didn’t think to see you until the Marmans’ soiree this evening,” Imogene called. Her brother seated himself on a wicker settee next to his sister and sat back in his characteristically languid pose.
Celia continued to watch the hummingbirds with determination.
“Our ball was the highlight of the Season, Drake,” Imy continued. “Porter has been run frazzled from answering the door every other minute.”
“Indeed, I see my foyer again looks like a hothouse.” He flashed an amused glance to Celia, but she seemed to be finding her tea of great interest.
“And Celia! Being toasted from here to St. James!” Imogene said proudly. “What a wonderful idea to bring us to London, Drake. We are having the loveliest time, aren’t we, Celly?”
Lifting her chin, Celia said with newfound sophistication, “Yes, indeed, I am finding London vastly diverting.”
She met the duke’s gaze squarely and coolly to prove to herself that she could. Even so, she was the first to lower her gaze.
“Are we to see you tonight, Drake?” his sister asked.
“I may put in an appearance. But you shall be well looked after with Rotham as your escort.”
“Yes, he is very kind,” Imogene said airily, a blush rising to her cheeks.
“Kind? I certainly would not describe Rotham’s behavior as kind.” There was a teasing note in Severly’s voice.
“Don’t be silly. David and I are old friends,” Imogene rebuked, and fussed with her handkerchief.
“Is that so?” Drake’s glance went to Celia, and his conspiratorial grin invited her to join in his teasing.
Setting her cup down, Celia stood up and said, “If you will both excuse me, I have some correspondence to attend to.” She was proud that her tone betrayed no emotion.
Severly rose at her curtsy and stood, watching her slim, retreating figure with narrowed, speculative eyes.
Later that afternoon, the Duke of Severly stood before the Earl of Kendall’s fashionable town house on upper Brook Street. Using his silver-handled walking stick, he rapped lightly on the front door. Letty’s ancient and discreet butler answered the door and greeted the duke solemnly. Drake was long used to running tame in Letty’s house, so after handing over his hat and cane, Drake strode past the butler and went to the staircase. He was halfway up, headed for the withdrawing room, before it occurred to him that he had no desire to be in his mistress’s home.
For reasons he refused to examine, he felt irritated and restive and thought it wo
uld be wise to avoid his own house as much as possible. After Letty had approached him last evening, he realized that he had been neglecting her in the last few weeks, and was here now out of a sense of duty more than desire. He had always found Letty’s boldness and wit amusing and hoped this afternoon would prove diverting. But now that he was here, standing on her staircase, he wanted nothing more than to go back down and out the front door.
With a dismissive shrug, he continued on. Entering the elegantly appointed room, he was not surprised to find it occupied by a few choice members of society.
There was the Marquis of Dale, an old friend of the duke’s; Lady Baldridge, a frowzy woman whom Letty tolerated because when she stood next to her she showed to such advantage. Then came Viscountess Callon, wearing a vulgar amount of diamonds, sitting next to Lady Baldridge on the settee. Letty’s fourth guest was Harry Smithe-Downe, a fop who prided himself on his garishly embroidered waistcoats.
Letty didn’t hide her surprise and pleasure at seeing Severly. She leaped up, leaving her conversation with the Marquis of Dale, to cross the room and clutch the duke’s arms and whisper in his ear.
“You grace, how divine to see you.” Her voice was almost a purr.
Drake took her hand from his arm, kissed her fingers lightly, and turned to the assemblage.
The other guests greeted Severly as he accepted a cup of tea from Letty. After numerous compliments regarding his ball, the general conversation resumed, but with very little contribution from the duke, who had gone to stand by the fireplace. Even so, his presence dominated the room.
“What a fierce scowl you wear, your grace,” Letty teased as she poured tea for her guests. “What could cause such a thing?” She tilted her head to the side and gazed at him with wide china-blue eyes.
Drake pulled himself from his private musings to attend Letty. His thoughts had been on Celia and how beautiful and regal she had looked last night descending the marble staircase, her alluring figure showing to advantage as she walked down the center of the staircase unescorted. It probably wouldn’t be wise to relate this to Letty, he thought, with self-deprecating humor. With a charming smile he made an effort to be more attentive to his mistress.
Mr. Smithe-Downe, who also prided himself on having the best gossip in town, turned to the duke.
“I say Severly, I believe I heard yesterday that Miss Langston is going to buy herself a racehorse.”
This startling bit of news caught everyone’s attention and all turned to Drake for confirmation of this on dit. Before Severly could respond, Letty’s childlike voice interjected, “Well, good for her. The poor dear needs some amusement.”
Her tone was sweet, and she flashed a quick yet significant glance to her friend, Lady Baldridge.
“Er …what do you mean, Letty?” The rotund lady took the prompt happily, always ready to help her friend annihilate someone else.
The duke’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Letty sigh in dramatic sympathy.
“At her age, one needs to take up interests. I’m sure it would be very comforting,” she explained in a kindly tone.
“Heavens, she’s not an ape leader yet,” the marquis said, laughing at the notion.
“No? Well, I just can’t imagine how … discouraged I would be if I weren’t wed by the age of six and twenty,” she said, casting innocent eyes around the room.
Lady Baldridge and the birdlike Viscountess Callon exchanged knowing looks. This was rich gossip indeed! The Countess of Kendall had virtually called London’s latest rage a spinster. Each woman decided that Miss Langston must somehow hear of this. It would make the next assembly so much more interesting.
The scowl creasing the duke’s brow deepened, but Letty wasn’t finished yet.
“Miss Langston is such an interesting, mysterious woman. I am curious to know what she was doing in the country all the years before she came to London.”
The duke’s cup and saucer met the mantel sharply. Bluntly surprised at Letty’s attack on a guest in his home, Severly gazed down at Letty coldly.
“Miss Langston was the ward of my sister and spent many years living quietly in the country since the deaths of her parents. A subject I’m sure Miss Langston would rather not discuss with strangers” the duke said in an implacable tone.
Realizing her mistake with some alarm, Letty beat a hasty retreat.
“There!” She smiled brightly. “I knew it could be explained easily. Another cup, Severly?”
The duke declined and took his leave a short time later, leaving Letty feeling more threatened than ever.
A large clock struck half past midnight as the duke, stretched out in a leather chair with his ankles crossed, stared down at a pair of deuces. He wasn’t very intent on the game and had come to his club only to avoid going home. Earlier in the evening, he had sat in the common room drinking brandy and conversing with a few friends, but to the duke’s mounting annoyance, they all seemed to turn the conversation to his charming houseguest.
So when Westlake entered, Severly immediately excused himself and invited his old friend to play cards. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, and Drake appreciated that his friend had not mentioned Celia once.
“Where is Rotham this eve?” the handsome Duke of Westlake asked, trying for the tenth time of the evening to engage his friend in conversation.
“Dancing attendance upon my sister, I’m sure.”
“Looks as if those two will make a match,” Westlake observed.
“Possibly.”
Raising an amused brow, Westlake gave up and concentrated on winning the hand. He lost.
“You wagered your matched grays on a pair of deuces?” Westlake said in amazement, impressed that his friend would take such a chance with so cool a demeanor. Both men were so wealthy they usually wagered something they valued more than money, just to make it interesting.
“What if I had called your bluff, Severly?”
“You didn’t,” Drake said, giving his friend a grim smile.
At that moment several young bucks entered the elegant wood-paneled room. Severly glanced up from his cards at the noise the rowdy, dissolute bunch made. Sir Richard Pembrington was in their midst. Even though Pembrington was from a fine old family and their parents had been close, Severly had no time for him. Severly viewed Pembrington as a man who couldn’t hold his liquor, gambled beyond his means, and sat a horse poorly.
So the duke was mildly surprised when Pembrington and his crony, Viscount Treman, approached the table and asked if it was a closed game. After a glance at Severly’s careless face, Westlake directed a footman to bring two more chairs.
After seeing himself comfortable, Pembrington asked the limits. When Westlake told him how deep the play was, the color drained from the younger man’s face.
As Westlake shuffled and dealt the cards, Sir Richard cleared his throat a number of times in a nervous fashion.
“It is the consensus, Severly, that you have the two most beautiful women in London residing under your roof,” Pembrington began jovially.
“I’m sure my sister and Miss Langston would find this information gratifying,” Severly said dryly, not lifting his eyes from the cards in his hands. With weary annoyance, he wondered what Pembrington was playing at. In the past, they spoke to each other only when it was socially unavoidable, and this situation was certainly avoidable.
“I was introduced to Miss Langston in Hyde Park the other day,” offered the viscount, a drawling exquisite who thought himself a ladies’ man. “Utterly charming. Her beauty is surpassed only by her good humor.”
Severly made no comment.
The play continued for a while, with the stakes going higher after each hand. As the stakes grew, the two younger men took longer and longer to place their bids.
“I say, Severly …” Pembrington cleared his throat. “Are you … That is, I wondered … is Miss Langston free to decide … or does one need your permission?” Pembrington finished this disjointed sentence lamely.<
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So that was the way of it, Severly thought, turning his unblinking eyes to Sir Richard’s pale face. Pembrington wanted to know if he needed to get through him before asking for Celia’s hand. Pembrington was an ass. No gentleman would bring up such a subject in a gambling club, Severly thought, continuing to gaze at the younger man derisively. Sir Richard swallowed hard.
Taking his time, Severely threw a number of chips into the middle of the table. “Miss Langston is a family friend of many years and a guest in my home. I naturally feel a certain responsibility for her, but I am not her guardian.” Something in the tone of his voice made the fact that he was not her guardian inconsequential.
As it was Pembrington’s turn to bid he was saved from responding to the duke, which was a good thing, since he had nothing to say.
Severly lost his taste for the game. His jaw muscles worked reflexively and he found it difficult not to insult the atrocity that Pembrington called a neckcloth just so he could call him out. Damn it, he thought, it was hard enough to ignore Celia without her being mentioned everywhere he went.
He certainly hoped Celia had enough good sense not to become involved with Pembrington. She could not be that green, he hoped. Pembrington would throw her fortune away on gambling and opera dancers, leaving her to rot in his moldering estate in Hampshire. Severly refused to examine why these thoughts made him so angry.
Westlake had to inform him twice that it was his turn to bid.
Chapter Thirteen
Bees hummed happily around the hydrangea hedges, and an orchestra played Mozart near the enormous yew-hedge maze at the Earl of Chandley’s glorious estate situated one hour outside London.
A Spinster's Luck Page 14
