by Diane Farr
But she would have to stay alive, she realized tiredly, until summer. Augusta was already in a perpetual temper, believing her chances had been blighted by Elizabeth’s prolonged spinsterhood. She would be frantic if her mother’s death forced her into mourning and put off her Season another year. Whatever it cost her, then, she must hang on as long as she could. For Augusta’s sake. It was her duty.
This grim train of thought was interrupted by Munsil’s discreet cough. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace, but the Duke of Blenhurst has arrived.”
………
Jack and Celia were crossing the last expanse of rapidly-melting snow, heading for the rear of the palace, when two stout footmen came through the side door and headed purposefully toward them.
Jack indicated them with a nod. “The general is sending reinforcements. We’ll win this battle yet.”
“We didn’t even tell anyone we were going to gather greenery,” marveled Celia. “What an efficient staff you have.”
“Frightening, isn’t it? Let’s test them. I say we stop right here, climb up on the sledge, and wait for them to drag us the rest of the way.”
Celia giggled. The bed of the sledge was invisible beneath the stack of boughs, piled so high that she could not see over the top. “Too dangerous,” she averred.
“Well, I’m stopping here, at any rate,” said Jack, doing so. He pressed one hand to the small of his back and stretched. “Faugh! That’s warm work, even in December.”
Celia was instantly contrite. “I should have thought of that. I’m so sorry. Why did you not ask me to push it from behind?”
His eyes twinkled down at her. “You persist in believing me a hothouse plant, don’t you?”
“Oh—not that, exactly—”
“Too soft to pull a rubbishing sledge.”
“That isn’t what I—”
“Weakened by my idle life of luxury and privilege.”
She placed her fists on her hips and glared at him. “That is not what I meant.”
He grinned, and lightly flicked her nose with one finger. “Had you pushed from behind, I would not have had the pleasure of your conversation. You were far more useful by my side.”
She was so surprised by this casual, almost brotherly contact, she did not immediately reply. Then the footmen were upon them, to take the sledge from Jack. The younger of the two men seemed to be laboring under suppressed excitement. As Jack and Celia fell into step behind the sledge he blurted, in a congratulatory tone, “I think you should know, my lord, that His Grace of Blenhurst has arrived.”
“Blenhurst! Blenhurst? You’re joking.”
“No, my lord.”
“Ha! Then someone is hoaxing you, my good man.”
The young man ignored the older footman’s admonishing frown. “No, my lord,” he said eagerly. “For I saw him myself.”
Jack looked startled. “By Jove! Is he staying for dinner, d’you know?”
The young man swelled with importance. “I daresay he’ll be stopping for some several days, my lord. He had a quantity of baggage with him, and Her Grace has put him in the Gold Room.”
“You don’t say!” Jack seemed to cogitate for a moment. “Thank you, Martin. Most interesting.”
Celia, burning with curiosity, felt an almost imperceptible tug on her elbow. She glanced up and met’s Jack’s eyes. In response to his clear signal, they dropped a little farther behind the sledge. “What does it mean?” she asked softly.
“It can only mean one thing. Mother’s got her hooks into the poor fellow again.”
“How can that be? I thought you told me he was married.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Seems to me there was more to the story. I’m afraid I don’t keep track of people as closely as I ought. Forgive me; I have a constitutional dislike of gossip.”
Celia nodded with quick sympathy. If Jack had been kept in London, with his oddities on public display, he had probably been the target of gossip himself. “Perfectly understandable,” she told him staunchly.
“Yes, but my failure to read the columns, and my avoidance of conversations about the personal lives of others, often leaves me in the dark regarding matters that are common knowledge.” He scratched his chin, perplexed. “Did Blenhurst’s duchess run off with another man? Seems to me that was one of the on-dits last summer. No, begad, it must have been someone else. Blenhurst made a love match.”
By now, they had reached the back entrance and the stone-floored room where they had found the sledge and saw. The footmen stood impassively by, awaiting instructions.
“Hm,” said Jack. “Under the circumstances, I think you should pack the boughs in snow and we’ll deck the halls tomorrow rather than today.”
“Very good, my lord.”
As they entered the main portion of the house they encountered Munsil, who confirmed that His Grace of Blenhurst had, in fact, arrived, and that refreshments would be served shortly in the tea room. Jack was hungry and Celia was curious, so they both sped to their chambers to change their outdoor clothing for more suitable attire. Celia could not help smiling as she reflected on the astonishing change in her circumstances: she thought nothing now of sitting down to tea with an unknown duke. And, thanks to the Duchess of Arnsford’s generosity, she actually owned frocks that were suitable for drinking tea with dukes. It made one’s head swim, to unexpectedly reach such dizzying heights.
The orange pelisse went back to its place in the far depths of her wardrobe, and Celia donned sober black once more. For the first time since she had gone into mourning, she was conscious of a twinge of regret. It was a shame, she thought, that black did not become her.
She regarded her reflection in the looking glass over her dressing table and sighed. Such beautiful, well-made clothes! She had never owned such garments in her life. And every last one of them made her look sallow and haggish. She frowned, then rummaged briefly through a drawer until she found a modest lace collar. She tried it with the dress, and the narrow edge of white seemed to brighten her face a bit. Feeling faintly cheered, she went down to the tea room.
Jack had not yet arrived. The room’s sole occupants were Lady Elizabeth and a gentleman whom Celia had never seen. Both looked up as Celia paused on the threshold. Their expressions of relief were almost comical; Celia had evidently interrupted a rather strained tete-a-tete. The gentleman rose.
“Ah, here is my new-found cousin,” announced Elizabeth, her voice overbright. “You have not met Miss Delacourt, I think. Your Grace, may I present my cousin Celia? Celia, the Duke of Blenhurst.”
“Your Grace,” murmured Celia, curtseying very low.
The duke bowed. “Miss Delacourt.”
She looked at him with interest. He was older than Celia had expected, a slightly-built, modest-looking man who appeared to be nearing forty, with thinning brown hair and a mild, pleasant face. Although there was nothing particularly distinctive about his appearance, he had a certain dignity that sat naturally upon his shoulders and lent him a distinguished air. He looked thoughtful and educated. She liked him at once.
Almost the instant Celia sat down, the awkwardness in the room returned. They drank tea. Elizabeth poured. Celia cleared her throat and commented gamely on the weather. The duke politely agreed that yes, it was pleasant to see a little snow at last. An uneasy silence fell. His Grace opined that the snow would be gone by Christmas, however, unless it snowed again. Celia and Elizabeth concurred. More silence.
Celia pointed out that one always associated snow with Christmas, even though one frequently celebrated Christmas with no snow at all. His Grace seconded this observation, and wondered whether there really had been a great deal more snow at Christmastime when he was a boy than there was nowadays, or whether everyone remembered childhood Christmases that way? Celia was sure she didn’t know, but she also remembered Christmas as a snowy time, and wasn’t that odd? Yes, yes, yes, most odd, very interesting.
Silence.
Of course, nothing compar
ed with the winter of 1814. Oh! Heavens, no. No, that was a shocking winter, completely out of the ordinary. Not a typical English winter at all. Dreadful, dreadful. Of course, the Frost Fair was amusing. But, on the whole, a shocking winter. Shouldn’t care to have a winter like that every year, no, indeed.
Silence again.
His Grace turned at last to Celia. “How is it that we have never met, Miss Delacourt?” he asked, with a pleasant smile. “I feel sure I would have remembered you.”
Celia was in no danger of reading anything other than common courtesy into this gallant statement, so she was a little startled when Elizabeth rushed into speech before she could reply.
“Oh! Celia has lived all her life quite buried in the country,” said Elizabeth, with a hostile little laugh. “We never even knew of her existence until a month or so ago.”
Blenhurst looked mildly surprised. “And yet, you say, you are cousins? How can this be?”
“We are—” began Celia, but Elizabeth cut her off.
“The connection is remote,” she said. “We call each other ‘cousin’ as a formality. May I pour you a little more tea, Your Grace?”
“Thank you,” said Blenhurst absently. His eyes still rested on Celia, who had relapsed into silence. “You have never been to London, then, Miss Delacourt?”
“No, Your Grace,” said Celia woodenly. She was keenly aware of the angry glitter in Elizabeth’s eyes, and knew it was His Grace’s polite interest in her that had earned her that crushing snub. She would not make the mistake of attempting to converse with him. Expressionless, she sipped her tea and stared at the carpet, waiting for Elizabeth to take the lead. She did not have long to wait. Elizabeth seized the reins at once.
“How are your sisters, Your Grace?” asked Elizabeth gaily. “I vow, it is an age since I last saw them!”
Blenhurst turned back to Lady Elizabeth and she artfully led him into talking of people whom Celia had never met. It was unfortunate, thought Celia, that it took misplaced jealousy to spark Elizabeth into showing a little animation. Now that she had been roused, however, she was able to maintain it, and the conversation flowed much more naturally—without Celia’s participation. She sat, mouselike, and meekly nibbled a biscuit.
The duke was far too well-bred, however, to exclude Celia from the conversation indefinitely. Munsil and one of his underlings brought more tea, and while Elizabeth was occupied in directing the servants His Grace turned back to Celia, saying quietly, “I hope you will not think me impertinent if I offer the condolences of a fellow sufferer, Miss Delacourt. Is your loss of recent date?”
The understanding in his eyes, and the fact that he was also wearing mourning, eased the tension that always gripped her at such questions and enabled her to answer him with a fair degree of composure. “September, Your Grace.” She felt that something more than this bald answer was required and managed to add, “I lost my family. But the duchess very kindly took me in.” This last was added hastily, in case he thought her pitiable. He looked shocked anyway, of course, and bowed his head in an expression of concern.
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you. Was your loss…recent, Your Grace?”
Pain crossed his features. “Not as recent as yours. I lost my wife last spring. And my newborn daughter with her.”
She felt a strong pang of sympathy. They were kindred spirits, she and this melancholy duke. For he was melancholy, she saw. There was bone-deep loneliness in every line of his face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and, forgetting the differences in their rank and gender, she gently laid her hand on his sleeve.
Chapter 11
A footman intercepted Jack on his way down to tea with a message from his mother. He stopped by her rooms on his way to the stairs and, with only a quick knock to precede him, entered.
“You wished to speak with me, ma’am? I warn you, I’m headed for tea and devilish hungry.” He accompanied this disrespectful greeting with a grin that robbed his words of offense.
The duchess looked up from the neat stack of household accounts on the desk before her, a faint smile lightening her features. “I shan’t keep you long, John.”
“Did you wish to inspect my costume?” He spread his arms wide. “Perfectly dull and respectable, you see.”
But even the smallest touch of humor was lost on Her Grace. “I had no doubt you would accede to my wishes, once I had made them known to you,” she replied calmly. “No, I merely wished to confirm whether you spent the morning with Celia. Did you?”
He stiffened, frowning a little. “Yes. Why?”
“So I was told, but I am glad to hear it directly from you. She sent word that she could not meet me this morning, as is our habit. If she spent the time with you, I shall not reproach her. I trust you had a pleasant time. Thank you.”
She returned her attention to the bills. It was clear he had been dismissed, but Jack did not go. His frown deepened. “Reproach her? Is she under some obligation to spend her mornings with you? I hope you do not keep her dancing attendance on you, ma’am. She is no servant.”
His mother looked up at him again, her finely-arched brows lifted in frosty surprise. “Certainly not. Quite the contrary. Celia spends her mornings with me in preparation for the role she has been asked to play. You must be aware, John, that her upbringing has not equipped her in any way to be a duchess. If she shall be one, one day, it is by no means too early to teach her how to go on. She has a great deal to learn.” She tapped the edge of a paper with her pencil, returning his frown with one of her own. “You seem surprised. Did I not tell you of this last night?”
Jack was more than surprised. He was dismayed. And what was truly surprising, to him, was the depth of his dismay. His mind replayed that brief scene in the forest—the moment when he had tried to speak openly to Celia about his mother’s scheme to marry them, when the words had died on his lips because he was so sure she did not know. Had Celia misled him? Was she really hand-in-glove with Mother? And if she was, why did that upset him?
For it did upset him, and that was the most surprising thing of all. He had met her only twenty-four hours ago. It was absurd to think he knew her well, and yet he felt he did. And somehow it mattered, mattered very much indeed, if he now discovered he had been mistaken in her character.
His eyes narrowed. “You told me that you meant to undertake her education. I did not realize that you had already begun. Let me be sure I understand you, Mother. Is Celia aware that you are preparing her to be the next Duchess of Arnsford? Have you, in fact, told her that you hope to install her here as your daughter-in-law?”
The duchess’s eyebrows climbed higher. “I saw no point in hiding it from her,” she said impatiently. “Certainly I told her. Had I not, she would have thought my interest in her inexplicable.”
So Celia knew. Jack felt himself turning pale. “And has she been a good student? Has she been eager to learn? Biddable?” He raked one hand distractedly through his hair. “But you need not answer. Celia’s a clever girl. I’m sure she has learned quickly and well.”
The picture of Celia sitting attentively at his mother’s knee, soaking up her instruction, striving to be exactly like her and secretly plotting how best to attract him, was sickening. The fact that she had succeeded in attracting him was more sickening yet.
“Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “I believe I am expected in the tea room.” He bowed quickly to his mother, who was regarding him in speechless astonishment, and quit the room.
He found he had to linger in the passage, taking deep breaths to steady himself, before entering the tea room. He was angry, and not entirely sure why. It was disconcerting to feel that one had been preyed upon, but after all, wasn’t that what he had expected? What was the matter with him? This was the way of the world. Penniless girls like Celia set traps for wealthy men every day. They had to, to keep the wolf from the door. He shouldn’t blame her. If he was angry with anyone, it ought to be Mother, not Celia.
&
nbsp; Hell’s bells! He was angry at both of them. And if anything, he was more angry at Celia than the duchess. After all, one expected such cloak-and-dagger rubbish from Her Grace. But Celia—! He couldn’t explain why he felt betrayed. What did it matter why he felt what he felt? He was too angry to care.
He stopped arguing with himself and pushed open the door. Tea, he thought sarcastically, was exactly what he needed.
The room was filled with the last light of a brilliantly sunny day, and he was briefly dazzled after the dimness of the passage. He nearly collided with Munsil and a lackey pushing an empty tea cart on their way out. He stepped aside, his eyes gradually taking in the scene.
Tea had been set for a larger number of persons than had, as yet, arrived. Elizabeth sat stiffly over the teapot, its enormity and gleaming silveriness separating her from the room’s other two occupants, who sat side-by-side at the opposite end of the tea table.
Elizabeth’s solitary state gave her an air, simultaneously, of power and helplessness. She was in control, but only of the teapot. Her eyes blazed with fury and suffering. All of her attention was focused, miserably, on Celia and the Duke of Blenhurst.
Celia and Blenhurst seemed utterly oblivious.
Jack was conscious of a strong desire to land Blenhurst a facer. The rogue was gazing intently into Celia’s upturned face. And—God save the mark!—Celia had her hand on the fellow’s arm! What the deuce—?
A killing rage swept through Jack, immediately followed by a black and bitter mood. Ha! cried an ugly little voice in the back of his mind. So that’s the way of it, is it? And why not? An unattached duke is an even bigger prize than an unattached marquess.
Then his eyes met Elizabeth’s, and his fury swung back to target Blenhurst. The cur was not only stealing Celia, he was making Jack’s sister unhappy. Hanging was too good for the villain. He felt his hands clenching into purposeful fists.
