A Spinster's Luck (18 page)

“Indeed, I do, Letty.” He gave her a slight hard smile and swung her onto the floor to the opening strains of a waltz.

Celia was anxiously trying to recall the name of the gentleman with whom she was dancing. He was a fair young man with a florid complexion and little to contribute by way of conversation. After two useless attempts at dialogue, Celia gave up and contented herself with thinking about the duke. Her heart fluttered as she recalled his deep voice telling her he thought her graceful even while watching her skip stones on a pond. What could he have meant by that? Had he happened upon
her and the boys during one of their outings? That really was the only explanation for his comment, she decided. Could it be possible that he had admired her when she had looked so plain and dowdy? A shiver brought the gooseflesh to her skin, and her partner roused himself enough to ask if she was chilled.

Before she could answer, they made a half turn to avoid another couple, and the sight of the duke dancing with the beautiful Lady Kendall caught Celia's attention. Severly's dark head was bent close to the petite blonde's and he held her closer than was correct. They whirled closer and Celia observed them gazing into each other's eyes, the countess with her head tilted back, lips parted, and lids alluringly lowered.

A disbelieving sense of shock almost caused Celia to stumble. There was no mistaking the blatant passion exhibited on their faces. Looking away in confusion, Celia stared at her partner's snowy white neckcloth. Could the countess and the duke be lovers? The thought came like a thunderbolt to her mortified thoughts. What else could explain the emotions she had so plainly seen? Surely, she must be wrong. She cast about desperately for another explanation. No woman of breeding would ever degrade herself or her husband in such a way. And the duke? Indeed, she had known of his reputation. All the world called him a rake, but an affair with the wife of a peer? It was beneath him as a gentleman.

Finally, the music ended and her nameless partner returned her to Imogene, departing with a bow. Celia, fanning her flushed cheeks, searched the mass of people for the duke, wanting to convince herself that her eyes had deceived her.

Easily locating his dark head above the others, Celia craned her neck to see him better. He was with the countess, her arm through his, and she was still gazing at him with that blazingly intimate expression. They stepped through the open French doors and disappeared into the garden.

O
pening her eyes as little as possible, Celia squinted down at the dappled light pattern playing across her bed, caused by the sun beaming in from the windows on the other side of the room. Groaning, she realized that it must be well after noon and she rolled over, burrowing deeper into the silky bedclothes, trying to recapture the slumberous feeling that was fast slipping away. Soon aware that sleep was futile, she kicked off the covers and pulled herself out of bed. Dora must have been listening right outside of the door, for immediately there was a light tap and the little maid slipped in, offering to draw Miss her bath.

“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 would 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.