A Spinster's Luck

by Rhonda Woodward

  “I am?” Celia questioned, feeling a thrill go through her entire being at his words.

  “Yes, you are. And if you continue to look at me in that fashion I shall have to beg your pardon.”

  “My pardon? For what?” She gazed at him in confusion, acutely aware of her hand clasped in his and how she desired to feel his lips on hers. Ever since the day she had rebuffed Squire Marchman’s fumbling attempt to kiss her after church, she had often wondered how it would feel to kiss someone she wanted to kiss.

  Severly saw the open invitation in her glorious eyes and found her irresistible. Telling himself there was no harm in one chaste kiss, he leaned the few inches that separated them and gently took her lips with his.

  As the warmth of his mouth held hers, the world stopped for Celia. Everything became part of this moment; the sunlight filtering in from the widow behind them, the scent of tuberoses and lilies, all became part of this, her first kiss.

  Tilting his head slightly, Severly slipped an arm around her and drew her closer, deepening the kiss.

  In her wildest dreams Celia would not have believed that a kiss could cause her to feel such intense new sensations. Of its own volition, her hand moved to his chest. She marveled at the strong beat of his heart beneath the heavy muscles her fingers caressed.

  His lips continued to hold hers, full of tenderness and barely veiled passion. Celia did not want him to stop. Ever. When he felt her tremble, he pulled back reluctantly to look into her dark, passion-filled eyes. He put his long fingers against her cheek.

  “Celia, I …” he began purposefully, then shook his head in frustration. “Why did you have to drink that damned punch?”

  “What does punch have to do—” Celia began on a shaky note when the door opened and Imogene entered.

  The duchess gasped upon seeing her brother and Celia seated so closely together with Drake’s hand on Celia’s cheek!

  “What is going on here, Drake?” Imy demanded, twirling around to shut the door lest anyone should happen by.

  Celia looked at Imogene and thought that her voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. Everything seemed slightly distorted, and she was terribly disappointed when the duke’s hand left her cheek. Had he just kissed her? Had he really told her she was entrancing? The world must be upside down, she thought, putting a hand to her head.

  “Drake, I demand to know what is happening.” Imogene was so incensed and shocked she even stamped her foot on the Aubussen carpet.

  “Imogene, please do not make yourself ridiculous,” the duke said sharply, rising from the settee. “What has transpired between Miss Langston and myself is private,” he said in a tone of voice that would brook no further questioning.

  After one intense, searching glance at her brother, Imogene rushed to Celia and knelt at her side. “My dear, are you all right?” she cried, reaching for her friend’s hand and looking at Celia’s flushed face with concerned hazel eyes.

  Celia did not know if she was all right or not. Looking past Imy to where the duke stood watching her, she wondered what had just transpired between them.

  “I feel a little muzzy, that’s all, Imogene,” she said, beginning to feel confused and embarrassed.

  Imogene brushed her hand across Celia’s brow. “Oh, Celly, I should have told you about the punch! It was too bad of that beast Pembrington to ply you with it,” she said angrily.

  Celia was becoming annoyed with this odd obsession everyone seemed to have with punch.

  “Drake, go have the landau brought around,” Imy ordered her brother. “We shall say that I have the headache. You will have to make our excuses. Go, go.” She waved him away.

  The duke stood where he was for a moment, watching with a thunderous frown on his face as Imy fussed over Celia. He was a man used to strong drink on occasion, and knew from experience that one did things when foxed that would never be considered in a sober state. The duke had the sudden feeling that that was the case here.

  With a last look at Celia’s distressed face, he turned and left the room, still feeling her gentle fingers on his scarred cheek.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Celia sat in the breakfast room staring dismally across the room at a mural depicting a cheerful medieval garden party. John, the footman attending her, frowned as she pushed the food around on her plate, her cheeks unusually pale.

  Below stairs, the servants had discussed how much they enjoyed having Miss Langston as a houseguest. She was so cheerful and kind, but today there was obviously something distressing her. John poured more hot water in the teapot, hoping she wasn’t sickening for something.

  Sighing with relief that no one had joined her for breakfast, Celia wondered how she could possibly face the duke after what had transpired between them yesterday. Resisting the urge to massage her temples, Celia squinted slightly as a dozen little men with very sharp picks mined in her brain. She knew she could not face anyone just yet and was glad to have time to herself to decide how to tell Imogene of her plans.

  Looking down at the beautifully prepared food in front of her, Celia gave up trying to force herself to eat and signaled to John that she was finished. She rose, deciding she must go back to her room and start making plans. There was so much to do. She didn’t quite know where to begin.

  She left the breakfast room and was halfway across the entry hall when she saw the duke step from his library and stop a few feet in front of her.

  With her heart thudding wildly in her chest, Celia froze midstep. She stared at him with surprised embarrassment as he stood before her, so straight and tall, looking at her in a way he had never looked at her before.

  Celia pulled her gaze from his and continued toward the staircase, feeling a mortified blush scorch its way to her cheeks. So desperately did she desire to be out of his presence, she had no care that she was being terribly rude in not acknowledging him.

  “I desire a word with you, Miss Langston,” he requested. His voice was unfamiliar to her with its tone of gentleness and intimacy.

  His words halted her on the first step, and slowly she shook her head. She shook her head because at that moment it would be impossible to trust her voice. His sudden appearance jolted her tenuously set emotions. She had purposely avoided thinking about what had happened yesterday at Chandley, for her confusion was such that she didn’t know if she would cry or throw something at him.

  Anger came to rescue her pride. Celia had no desire to hear him explain away the kiss that had transpired between them yesterday. With an effort, she turned toward him and lifted her chin. “I would prefer not to, your grace.”

  Taking a step toward her, his solemn eyes fixed upon her, he said quietly, “You do not feel it necessary to settle things between us?”

  Continuing to keep a tight rein on her roiling emotions, Celia said in a surprisingly calm voice, “What is there to settle? If you are worried that I misinterpreted the situation yesterday, put your mind at ease. I am not a naive child.”

  A frown creased his dark brow. “Just what do you perceive the situation to be?”

  Taking a few cautious steps up the staircase, Celia tried for a haughty tone. “Isn’t it obvious? I was disguised and you displayed your true nature—nothing more needs to be said on the mater.” She hoped fervently he would allow this embarrassing subject to be closed. She jumped at his sardonic bark of laughter and was a little alarmed at the anger suddenly flashing in his hazel-gold eyes.

  “My dear Celia, if I had displayed my “true nature,’ as you put it, you certainly would have experienced more than a chaste kiss.”

  Chaste! Celia could hardly believe her ears as she stared askance at his amused face. Her high-strung nerves could take no more, and the slim hold she had on her temper snapped.

  “Chaste?” she said in outraged scorn, looking up at the mural on the ceiling in vexation. “I don’t know why you are arguing with me, your grace. Considering how forgiving I am being over your rakish behavior, I should think that you would b
e relieved.”

  The duke stared at Celia with his square jaw tightly set, but made no immediate response to her intemperate statement. When he first approached Miss Langston a few moments ago, he had expected embarrassment, shyness, and even confusion. But this lofty self-possession was surprising. Beneath his frustration he found himself admiring her poise under such awkward circumstances. Even so, he was beginning to find her stubbornness extremely provoking.

  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Severly lifted his massive shoulders in a self-deprecating manner and said as gently as he could, “Believe me, I am not unaware of my seemingly improper behavior, but we are off the subject. Celia, if you will allow me—”

  “Seemingly?” Celia’s voice rose with outrage and she pounded her fist once on the balustrade. “Your arrogance has no boundaries, your grace. My first impression of you was correct—you are unfeeling. You practically flaunt your mistress, the wife of a peer, in front of all the ton and then kiss me when I was … my judgment was impaired,” she continued, her voice rising with each word.

  She stood looking down at him from the third step of the staircase, as he sauntered forward until they were standing almost face-to-face. She refused to look away from his arrogantly amused countenance.

  Though his lips were quirked in cynical amusement, Severly’s gaze was assessing. He was a little surprised that she knew about Letty, but that was of no consequence compared to her opinion of him. Perhaps, at last, he would discover the reason she had been avoiding him in the past. His eyes continued to scan her face, taking in how regal she looked in her anger.

  “What about your first impression of me convinced you that I was unfeeling?” His tone was deceptively mild as his eyes kept her riveted to where she stood. Celia could no longer force herself to meet his piercing scrutiny and allowed her eyes to drop to the gold chain of his fob. He was the most vexing man! She had an overwhelming urge to take him down a peg. Maybe then he would not dally with the hearts of unsuspecting females, she thought, bolstering her anger.

  After a brief hesitation she spoke quickly. “When I first went to Harbrooke Hall you told Imogene I shouldn’t take care of the boys. You thought I should be sent away.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Celia wished them unsaid. How foolish she felt for bringing up something that had happened over ten years ago. He would think her a child to attack him in this way. The last bit of amusement left his eyes. For a moment, the duke’s expression was completely blank, until the full implication of her words became clear.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Celia began to tremble at the anger in his voice, but it was too late to stop now.

  “In the first few days of my stay at Harbrooke, I overheard you tell Imogene that I was not suited to look after Peter and Henry. You felt I was too young to take charge of the boys and told Imy to send me away.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he said again, fairly shouting.

  “I just told—”

  “I know what you said. I can’t believe you believe what you are saying,” he claimed in a biting tone. “I may have expressed my concern about your tender years, but I had no care about Imy having you in her home. Why should I?”

  Frowning, Celia tried to recall his exact words those many years ago as he continued in a bitterly angry voice.

  “So this is your opinion of me. So many things become clear. I now understand your peculiar avoidance of me during my stays at the hall. And why you gave me the cut direct that day in the village.” He paused to stare at her in cold anger. “Allow me to assure you, Miss Langston, albeit ten years too late, though I may be a bit beyond the pale, I haven’t quite stooped to throwing orphans into the streets.” His tone was so harshly scornful Celia felt almost seared by it.

  Turning her head from him, Celia whispered hoarsely, “I will not discuss this further. This situation has become untenable, your grace. I thank you for your hospitality but I shall be leaving London tomorrow,” she finished, hazarding a quick glance at his face.

  The unconcealed rage on his countenance sent her up another step.

  “No, Miss Langston, there is no need for you to leave London. I understand from my sister that you have received your voucher for Almack’s. Your leaving would upset her greatly. Are you so willing to disappoint her over this absurd misunderstanding?”

  Celia bit her bottom lip as she took in his closed expression. The truth of his words defeated her. Of course she would do nothing to disappoint Imy. Her tear-clogged throat prevented her from speaking.

  “Somehow I find this ironically amusing, Miss Langston. But to reduce your distress over my presence, I shall do my best to avoid you. Rather the opposite of the situation at Harbrooke Hall, wouldn’t you say?” he queried with mild sarcasm.

  With a half-suppressed sob Celia turned and fled. She ran blindly up the stairs past Imy’s room to the sanctuary of her own. Very gently she closed the door behind her before throwing herself on the bed, burying her face in the coverlet to muffle her heart-rending sobs.

  Down the hall, Imogene was in the midst of dusting off a note to David Rotham, postponing their outing. After sending her maid off with the missive, Imogene paced her room for a few moments, deep in thought, before going in search of her brother. She was determined to speak to him about what has transpired between him and Celia. To her annoyance his valet informed her that his grace would be away from home the rest of the day. Frowning, Imogene went to the library and made herself comfortable in one of the deep armchairs. Instructing a footman to see to it that she was undisturbed, except to be told of the duke’s return, the duchess leaned back in the chair to think things over.

  Some time later, at the sound of a light tap at her door, Celia sat up and wiped her tear-wet face with the back of her hand. Dora stepped in, looking very concerned. “Begging your pardon, miss, but Miss Sheffield is downstairs. She says you were to go to Kensington Gardens with her.”

  “Oh! I had completely forgotten,” Celia cried, putting her hands to her face. “Dora, please tell Miss Sheffield I shall be with her in fifteen minutes.”

  Jumping from the bed, she splashed her face with cold water from the porcelain basin, admonishing herself for allowing the duke to so upset her. Patting her face dry with a flannel, Celia forced her turbulent emotions to some order and went to her dressing room to choose a promenade ensemble.

  How nonsensical this situation is, she thought as she stepped into an exquisite dress in sophisticated shades of peach and gray. It was so unlike her to behave in such an overemotional manner. She felt as if she no longer knew herself.

  Dora returned to button Celia’s gown, informing her that Miss Sheffield was in the salon being entertained by the duchess.

  Relieved that Corinna was not cooling her heels in the foyer, Celia took a few extra moments to rearrange her hair and place a dashing little bonnet at the perfect angle.

  Though she did not want to cry off her outing with Corinna, Celia recoiled at the thought of spending the afternoon being falsely cheerful. But she owned that taking a walk in the gardens was certainly preferable to reliving, over and over, the scene between herself and the duke. Could it be possible that she had misunderstood what he meant all those years ago? Shaking her head, she forced the disturbing thoughts from her mind.

  Gathering her gloves, reticule, and lace parasol, Celia moved to the door. Before reaching for the knob, she turned to Dora.

  “Is his grace at home, Dora?” she queried in a tone she strove to make casual.

  “No, miss, he left more than an hour ago and is not expected back until late,” Dora said as she straightened the bed coverlet.

  Celia expelled her breath in a rush of relief and bade Dora good-bye.

  Within half an hour Celia and Corinna were strolling among the well-ordered and lushly blooming flower beds of Kensington Gardens, with Corinna’s lady’s maid a few paces behind them.

  “Are you well, Celia? You are very quiet today,” C
orinna asked her friend after a few moments. She could not help but notice that the taller girl was unusually pale.

  “I am sorry to be so dull today, Corinna.” Celia smiled an apology to the younger woman. “This whirlwind of parties has caught up with me. But come; we shall continue to walk in the sun, and the fog will clear from my head.”

  Forcing thoughts of the duke from her mind, Celia strolled through the grounds with Corinna chattering excitedly about Princess Charlotte’s wedding, which was now only a few days away.

  “Look, Lady Baldridge, “tis Miss Sheffield and Miss Langston!”

  Celia and Corinna turned at hearing their names to see the Countess of Kendall and the rotund Lady Baldridge fast approaching.

  Celia knew there was nothing for it but to stop and let the other two ladies catch up. This is all today needed, Celia thought, groaning inwardly. The last thing she wanted right now was to be forced to speak to Severly’s mistress.

  “What a delightful picture the two of you make,” Lady Kendall said in her high, sweet voice. “I was just saying so to Lady Baldridge, wasn’t I?” She turned to her companion for confirmation, and the heavier woman nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Before Celia or Corinna could respond to this unorthodox greeting, Lady Kendall looked straight at Celia and said, “May I please have a word with you, Miss Langston? Lady Baldridge, Miss Sheffield, you will pardon us for a few moments, won’t you?”

  “Of course we will, Lady Kendall,” Lady Baldridge said forcefully, drawing her arm through Corinna’s and steering the young lady away. Corinna looked over her shoulder at Celia with a very surprised expression. Celia could do nothing but smile politely and wait for Lady Kendall to speak. She owned that she was very curious as to why Lady Kendall would seek her out so pointedly.

  “Let us go over to that pretty little arbor and have a nice coze. We really must make an effort to know one another. After all, it’s almost as if we were family.”

  “Oh? How can that be?” Celia raised a brow and followed her into the arbor, seating herself next to the countess on a little stone bench. It was clear that she would not be able to get away until the countess had her say. “I am not related to the duke or his sister. Are you?”