A Spinster's Luck (14 page)

“No, indeed, Dora. Thank you so very much for making me feel so pretty. You really are a wonder,” she said admiringly to the blushing maid.

Dora was saved from trying to respond by the entrance of the duchess, radiant in a pale, glimmering yellow gown accented by the topaz-and-diamond jewels Celia had given her earlier.

“Oh, Imogene, you're so lovely.”

“Pish, tosh. This gown is quite old. But you, my dear, are breathtaking. If you don't have a dozen beaux by the end of the evening I shall wonder why,” she stated positively.

After Celia collected her silver shawl and reticule, they left the room and went downstairs to the blue salon. The
duke was already there, standing by the mantel, gazing into the fireplace.

Celia's breath caught in her throat. Even in evening clothes he still managed to be so handsomely masculine. His black coat hugged his broad shoulders and the color brought out the gold in his hazel eyes. He wore a neckcloth of such intricately tied folds that she was convinced it must have taken his valet an hour to perfect it. A large emerald nestling in the folds of his cravat was his only adornment.

Imogene had been quite pleased when her brother had informed her that he would escort Celia and her to Lady Pembrington's ball. Imogene had informed Celia earlier that Severly believed this was an excellent opportunity to ease her into Society before their own ball. Again, Celia had been surprised by his thoughtfulness.

“Here you are, and only a few minutes late. But I would have waited the whole evening for such exquisite beauty as this,” he said with a slight teasing smile.

His eyes came to rest on Celia and he could hardly comprehend that this beautiful, sophisticated young woman was the same one whom he watched skip stones with his nephews. His eyes met hers briefly as they left the salon.

Imogene chatted excitedly as they rode in the duke's well-sprung town coach, pulled by four matched bloods, with the Severly crest emblazoned on the doors. Celia was grateful for Imogene's incessant prattle, as the feeling of nervous anticipation that had plagued her all day suddenly started diluting into nervous dread. The duke was seated across from Celia, and she gazed at the emerald in his neckcloth as it blinked at her in the lights of the passing lampposts. She wondered what in the world she was doing.

She was a governess, for heaven's sake. Celia knew she was only a country bumpkin trying to pass herself off as a lady of quality. By the end of the evening she was sure she would be considered an antidote by all and sundry. Celia's palms became clammy and she felt the blood pounding in her ears as the carriage moved swiftly
through the shadowy streets of London. Surely this was the most cork-brained plan ever to be contemplated—to introduce a spinster governess to the crème de la crème of London Society?

Before Celia could ask the duke to have the carriage turned around, the coach stopped. A footman in green livery opened the coach door and placed wooden steps on the ground; then Severly was helping her from the carriage. They were walking up the steps of a mansion that was brilliantly ablaze and obviously crowded. A crush of people surrounded her in the large foyer, the mass slowly moving forward to ascend the stairs to the ballroom. The plethora of brightly colored gowns and the scent of overblown flowers rendered Celia breathless in the oppressive warmth of the high-ceilinged room.

This was Lady Pembrington's
little
ball? she wondered, gazing about in alarm. There must be three hundred people crowding up the stairs.

Panic seared through her veins as she heard the sonorous tones of the majordomo announcing the guests.

“His grace, the Duke of Roxbury.

“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.”

T
wo 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 Langston 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.