A Spinster's Luck (20 page)

He continued to socialize, but kept an eye on Celia.

A little while later, the duke moved to lean against a large oak tree. From here, he had a very good view of Celia. Soon, to his annoyance, Letty approached arm in arm with Lord Petersham.

“Severly, you must see milord's latest trinket,” Letty called to the duke.

“I would be delighted,” the duke said drolly. He usually found Lord Petersham a diverting sapskull.

Lord Petersham was showing off his newest bejeweled snuffbox when Severly caught sight of Celia making her way to the pond in a mode that was suspiciously like a prance. This put the duke very much on alert. When she started skipping stones, Drake adroitly disengaged himself from Lord Petersham and Letty. With feigned casualness he strolled across the lawn to join Imy and Major Rotham.

“Oh, Drake, what shall we do?” Imogene whispered to her brother anxiously, twisting her beribboned parasol around and around. “David has just informed me that one of the punch bowls has been contaminated with spirits! That scoundrel Pembrington, who I'm sure is the culprit, has constantly been at her elbow with a full cup. Celly is obviously unaware of what she's been drinking.” Glancing back at her friend, the duchess continued, “If Celia continues to act the hoyden, she will never get her vouchers for Almack's. Countess Lieven has not taken her eyes from Celia in the last five minutes.”

Drake did not answer his sister immediately, as he continued to assess the situation with an enigmatic expression across his handsome face.

“Celia is unused to spirits,” Imy said in a hiss, using Major Rotham as a screen from the other guests. “No wonder she is behaving in this uninhibited way. How can we intervene without calling more attention?” Imogene looked up at her brother anxiously.

Coming to a decision, Severly turned to his sister with a grim smile. “We shall join in the fun. It is a fine spring
day and there is no harm in kicking up our heels a bit,” Drake reasoned, watching Celia clapping excitedly as Chandley's stone skipped several times.

A moment later, Celia was scrambling around the water's edge, encouraging her admirers to help her find a suitable stone. Drake gritted his teeth as he saw a number of other guests turn their full attention to Miss Langston's antics.

Westlake joined them at that moment, saying with a wicked grin, “Our Miss Langston certainly has a good arm.”

“Yes, and we've decided to find it charming,” Drake told his friend pointedly. “Rotham, let's join in. After a bit, Imy, you come and persuade Celia to go to the gypsy's tent with you,” he directed, starting toward the crowd by the pond.

“I'll go with you,” Westlake offered helpfully, falling into step with his old friend. “I hear she's taking wagers that no one can outskip her stones.”

“Good lord,” Drake said through clenched teeth.

Celia was extremely surprised, a moment later, when the duke suddenly appeared at her side. Peering up at him, Celia wondered why there seemed to be two of him. Following several deliberate blinks, he settled into one, and Celia smiled beatifically.

“Would you care to try your arm, my lord Duke? I have just found the loveliest stone and will let you have it, if you think you can beat six skips.” She held out the rock just a little too far to the right of him.

Severly took the stone, relieved to see that she was at least steady on her feet.

“Thank you, Miss Langston. It is indeed a fine stone,” he said, hefting the rock and taking a couple of steps closer to the pond. With a powerful yet graceful flick of his wrist, the duke sent the stone sailing across the surface of the pond.

“Good show!” said Rotham.

“Was that nine or ten skips?” someone in the group questioned.

Celia looked up at the duke with admiration. “What
hidden talents you have, your grace. I would never have guessed.” She was almost flirting with him, she realized, but found she didn't care.

“There is much about me you don't know, Miss Langston,” Severly said. Celia wondered at the stern note in his voice.

Because the Duke of Severly had sanctioned the rock skipping, soon a number of gentlemen were trying their hand, laying wagers and having a rousing good time.

“Celly, you must have your fortune told. Come with me now,” Imy urged, pulling Celia by her elbow away from the fun.

Celia resisted her at first, but Imy continued to drag her across the lawn to the brightly colored tent.

Pushing aside the canvas that covered the tent door, Celia entered cautiously, blinking several times against the low lighting. She saw in the corner of the tent a small, wrinkled old woman sitting on an ornate red velvet chair. Looking around, she saw that the walls were draped in dark velvet. Celia also noticed a sweet, musky smell hanging in the dimly lit tent and closed her eyes as a curious, dizzy feeling came upon her again.

“Come in, come in.” The old woman's voice was a raspy whisper. “I've been waiting for you.”

“You have?” Imogene said in an awed tone.

Celia only snorted inelegantly, and then placed a hasty hand over her mouth, surprised by her own uncharacteristic behavior.

The crone, wrapped in a black shawl, fixed her beady gaze upon Celia.

“So, you do not believe that Maria can tell the future?”

“Well, I beg your pardon, but no, I don't,” Celia said a little breathlessly. She found the tent oppressive and wanted to remove her bonnet.

Never taking her eyes from Celia, the old woman gestured for her to come closer. After glancing at Imy, Celia took a few steps nearer the wizened old woman.

“Let me see your palm,” the crone demanded.

Wishing she didn't feel so muffle-headed, Celia hesitantly held out her hand, palm up.

Imogene drew closer as the old woman squinted a moment over Celia's palm.

“Mmm … I see two paths before you. You must chose wisely. Long life, great wealth, and happiness, or despair and solitude,” the old gypsy muttered as she continued to peer at Celia's palm.

Considering the vagueness of these statements and how easy it would be to guess that she was wealthy, Celia was not impressed and pulled her hand away, disappointed.

“Will she find love?” Imogene asked quickly.

Celia paused, frowning at Imy before looking back to the strange gypsy woman.

Pulling her shawl closer, the old woman cackled hoarsely. “She already has it, but her stubbornness may cause it to die.”

“Oh, Celia,” Imy exclaimed, looking at the old woman with awestruck eyes.

“Imy, you can't possibly believe any of this!” Celia cried. “Even I could make better predictions. And I don't even claim to be clairvoyant.”

“You will see that Maria is right,” the crone interjected, pointing a gnarled brown finger at Celia. “You may lose what is most precious to you through your own stubbornness.”

Suddenly, Celia wanted nothing more than to be away from this stifling tent and strange old woman.

“Will you read my palm?” Imy requested eagerly.

“Sit, sit,” the gypsy directed, indicating a chair next to hers.

Seeing that Imy was caught up in having her palm read, Celia slipped from the tent. A wave of dizziness came over her again, leaving her feeling unsteady. Looking around for a place to sit, she saw that the great house was close by and decided to go in and rest for a while instead of joining the other guests.

A maid spied her and curtsied as Celia entered a spacious drawing room from the garden.

“Is there a place I may rest, please? I am feeling a little overcome by the heat,” Celia explained.

“Yes, miss. Please come this way.”

The maid led her to a charming anteroom and offered to bring her some refreshment.

Celia thanked the maid as she removed her bonnet and pelisse before seating herself on a comfortable little settee.

How long she sat there, she did not know, and found she did not care. It was much cooler inside, and if she did not move too quickly her head did not swim so dreadfully. It was actually a relief to be away from everyone.

“There you are. I was just about to become worried that you had wandered off to challenge someone at darts or had gotten lost in the maze.”

Celia looked up swiftly and saw the duke standing in the doorway with an amused smile on his lips. She jumped up in surprise and immediately wished she hadn't. The room spun in a dizzying fashion. She hoped she was not becoming ill.

Severly moved swiftly to her side, catching her elbow as she swayed slightly. He watched her closely, recognizing all the signs of being slightly disguised. His grin widened.

“Are you well? Pray, Miss Langston, be seated.” He helped her to the settee.

His unexpected presence so unsettled her that she could not look at him, and consequently occupied herself with carefully arranging her skirt and fanning herself. A definite flush stained her cheeks.

“Thank you, your grace, I am quiet well. But I admit I feel it is a bit warm in here, don't you?”

Severly sat down next to Celia. “No, but I expect you do. How many cups of punch have you had?”

Celia continued to fan herself and look around the room vaguely. “Two or three, I believe. Everyone has been fetching me cups.” She turned to the duke and gazed at him quite boldly, very aware of how handsome and strong he looked. In fact, there seemed to be something different about him. A hazy glow seemed to surround the duke. The blood pounded in her wrists and temples, and Celia wondered why she felt so muzzy.

“More like four or five,” the duke said archly.

“Four or five what?” Celia asked, her eyes fixed on the scar on his cheek, and she thought that it was most attractive.

“Cups of punch, Miss Langston,” he explained patiently.

“Oh, yes, cups.” Celia had no idea what he was talking about and continued to gaze at his face, admiring his strong jaw and angled cheekbones.

Setting her fan in her lap, Celia reached out a gentle hand and lightly touched the scar on his cheek. The duke was suddenly very still.

“How did this happen?” she asked, looking at him with soft brownish green eyes. It seemed perfectly natural to Celia, wrapped in her warm golden glow, to be sitting quite alone with the duke, touching his cheek.

Severly captured her hand and silently cursed Pembrington. He brought her hand up and lightly brushed her fingertips over his lips. “In Spain.” His voice was almost stilted. “I don't recall exactly how, there was so much happening. A gash on the cheek went unnoticed at the time.”

“It's really rather nice,” she complimented him as she met his intense gaze.

Celia's heart thudded wildly as he leaned closer to her, still holding her hand.

“I feel very strange,” she said faintly, unable to look away.

“You are utterly entrancing.” The duke's voice was a husky rumble.

“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.