A Spinster's Luck (19 page)

“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.

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.

B
ees 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.

It was obvious to all that the young earl had gone to great expense to entertain the easily bored beau monde. So far, it was proving a rousing success.

Rowboats bobbed on the man-made pond for the Corinthians to show off their athletic prowess. Even the dandies tried their hand at the archery ranges set up on the velvet green lawn, and the ladies especially enjoyed the swings and the gypsy fortune teller.

Servants dressed in old-fashioned country garb circulated amongst the guests, serving an impressive alfresco luncheon. There were even braziers set up for those who might find it a novelty to cook their own food.

Earlier that morning, as they were setting out for Chandley in the duke's open, shiny black landau, Celia was determined to ignore the duke. Now that she knew him to be an unrepentant libertine, she could not possibly find him attractive, Celia decided, tugging on her kid gloves with more force than necessary. Even so, she was annoyed that her thoughts so frequently dwelled on him. After Imy was settled across from her, Celia waited impatiently for the duke to join them, ready to display her new disregard for his presence.

To her chagrin, the duke rode up next to the landau astride his horse.

“Blackwind has become restive with these tame trots in Rotten Row. I shall meet you at Chandley,” he informed the ladies, tipping his beaver hat. After a brief glance to Celia, he spurred the horse with a flick of his heel and was off at a fast trot. Celia watched his broad back until he disappeared around a bend, leaving her more confused than ever.

“What a lovely day for a ride to the countryside,” Imogene opined as the coachman guided the team from the drive to the main road.

“Indeed, the earl could not have picked a better day,” Celia agreed a little absentmindedly.

The landau rolled along at an impressive speed. Imogene kept glancing at Celia, who seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

“A letter from the boys came in the post yesterday. Peter thanks you for your letters and hopes you'll keep writing, even though he hasn't written back.”

Celia laughed. “How like Peter. I hope they are enjoying their visit with their grandmother.” Celia adjusted the angle of her parasol to keep the sun from her face.

“They are. No doubt Alice is spoiling them terribly. But no matter; it is only for a couple of months.”

The two young women fell silent for a time as the landau left the outskirts of London and entered a country lane.

“Celia,” Imogene began suddenly, “are you enjoying your stay in London?”

Noting the tone of concern in Imy's voice, Celia pulled her thoughts from her musings and looked across to her old friend.

“Enormously,” she stated earnestly. “Sometimes, I still cannot believe that this has happened. If not for your care and guidance, where would I be?”

Waving away Celia's gratitude, Imogene said, “I am pleased you are enjoying yourself. I, for one, am having a bang-up time watching you lead your beaux such a merry chase. And isn't it fun to be toasted the most fashionable young lady in London?”

Celia made a self-deprecating face. “That is only because
I gave Mrs. Triaud her head. I certainly had no idea what is considered the mode in London.”

“Maybe so, but if you weren't so poised and pretty it wouldn't matter what you wore.”

“Thank you very much, Imy. And what of you? It has not escaped my notice that Major Rotham is often at your side.”

Celia watched Imogene's cheeks grow pink. “I confess that I do enjoy his company,” she said, suddenly finding the surrounding terrain of great interest.

Once they reached the estate, Celia's new friends surrounded her and she threw herself into the gaiety full force. The number of gentlemen who paid court to her, including their host, soothed and gratified her pride. And it pleased her that she had given the enigmatic duke very little thought, at least for a while.

The day was lovely, if a bit warm, but Sir Richard Pembrington proved to be very obliging by continually bringing Celia cups of the tart and refreshing punch. She smiled at him sweetly, wondering if her opinion of him could be mistaken.

Soon Celia began to feel as if she hadn't a care in the world, and led her band of admirers a merry chase across the Earl of Chandley's perfectly manicured lawn.

Viscount Delford approached Celia and playfully challenged her to a game of horseshoes. Celia obliged him with an impish grin.

“Pray lead the way, my lord,” Celia said, taking the arm he offered. They moved to the horseshoe pit, a flat, grassy area a little away from the rest of the activities.

A footman raised his eyebrows in surprise as he handed the lady her first horseshoe. Evidently, the notion of a lady playing at horseshoes was novel enough to draw a crowd around the two participants. Viscount Delford bowed to Celia, saying, “Ladies first.”

Celia took her time before throwing, touching her hankie to her brow for a moment. For some reason she felt a bit light-headed. Swinging the shoe back and forth a few times, Celia squinted at the distant stake, trying to measure the distance. The crowd was extremely quiet.

She tossed the shoe underhand and watched it fly across the lawn. The distance was good, but the throw was too far left of the stake for Celia to be satisfied with her first attempt.

Delford did not fare much better, but then, he seemed more intent on flirting with Celia than making a good throw. That was until her aim improved with each try. She beat him by barely an inch and he insisted on the best of two out of three.

Celia thought him a very good sport when she bested him again. The little crowd cheered, and, with a smile, she dropped a curtsy to the bowing viscount.

Pleading fatigue, Celia walked back to the other guests and sat on a swing fashioned like a swan. A few swains jockeyed for the privilege to push her, but Celia became dizzy and begged them to stop.

Despite her resolution to put the duke out of her mind, Celia found it impossible to ignore him completely. She noticed him everywhere—winning the trophy at archery, holding a crowd of society's notables engrossed with one of his entertaining stories, and just looking breathtakingly handsome.

She turned away when she saw Lady Kendall, dressed in an exquisite confection of pink gauze, move to his side and stay there. Sir Richard brought Celia another cup of punch and soon she felt better.

For his part, the duke was also finding it an effort to keep his eyes from constantly straying to Celia. He thought she looked utterly charming in her chic, spring-green dress with its sprigged pelisse and her bonnet tilted at a fetching angle. He smiled sardonically at how artlessly she handled her entourage. In fact, he found it dashed annoying that Celia seemed to be enjoying all the attention, even flirting in return.

He also couldn't help noticing how often that pup Pembrington was at her elbow. He turned from his conversation with Leticia to look across the lawn to his sister, standing with Rotham and Lady Sefton by a sundial. Severly noted that Imy kept glancing at Celia with concern as she became bolder and more flirtatious. Not that
Celia's admirers seemed to take exception to her comportment, he thought cynically.