A Spinster's Luck (24 page)

Severly stared at his friend in growing comprehension. “Devil take it,” he said in a growl, striding out of the room. Once he reached the ballroom it took only a moment to take in the situation. There was an odd hush over the guests, and his sister's face was frozen in a polite, dignified mask. Letty's chin was thrust up in a haughty tilt, and even at this distance he could see the gleam of malicious triumph in her blue eyes.

Celia was speaking to the young Earl of Chandley. Severly was grimly pleased to see she had not been completely abandoned.

The duke watched as Chandley led Celia out to the opening strains of a reel. Severly moved to his sister's side, trying to force the scowl from his face.

“Severly!” Letty twittered when she saw him. “Shame
on you! There are not enough gentlemen who dance well, and you go off to play cards. Why, poor Miss Langston has only had one dance in the last five.” Her laugh was delighted.

At that moment Severly could not comprehend why he'd ever found Leticia Kendall attractive. He liked gold-brown hair not blond. He wanted to look into brownish green eyes that tilted up, not childishly wide blue ones.

“There must indeed be a shortage of gentlemen, for I would dance with Miss Langston every dance if she would consent.” He turned to his sister and offered his arm, ignoring the shocked gasps of those near enough to have heard his comment.

Leading his sister to a pair of empty chairs, Severly quietly asked, “How bad is it?”

Imogene sighed dejectedly. “Rather bad. None of the patronesses has actually snubbed her yet, but everyone is talking and staring. Drake, this is awful. Celia shall be so hurt if all the friends she had begun to make now turn,” she whispered, hoping she did not look as upset as she felt.

“Don't worry, Imy. The situation can be salvaged.”

“How?” she asked doubtfully.

“Leave it to me and keep your chin up. And do not leave for at least an hour,” he ordered.

The beau monde was treated to an evening of many surprises. Speculation grew to enormous proportions at the sight of the elusive Duke of Severly watching Miss Langston with a frankly admiring gaze. He could barely pull his eyes from her when someone spoke to him.

The room was abuzz when the very fickle Duke of Westlake danced with her twice and seemed to hang on her every word. It could barely be believed when Westlake asked her for an unprecedented third dance, which Miss Langston demurely declined.

The Earl of Chandley also asked Celia for a second dance, and still, Severly stayed on the side, casually leaning against a wall, with his eyes never leaving Miss Langston's graceful form.

Lady Jersey, one of the most redoubtable patronesses
of Almack's, had been watching this scandal brewing and could not stand another moment of ignorance. Having been on good terms with Severly for years, she took matters into her own hands.

Marching across the assembly room, with most of the eyes of the
ton
upon her, Lady Jersey called a greeting to the duke.

After dispensing with the necessary social patter as quickly as possible, Lady Jersey got to the point. “Now, Severly, there seems to be something havey-cavey afoot. Why have we not seen Miss Langston in town before?”

Severly pulled his eyes from Miss Langston to give Lady Jersey a very out-of-character sheepish look.

“Naturally, I've been protective of Miss Langston. Having watched her grow from a sweet girl to a beautiful young woman, I was not eager to see her pursued by every buck in town, so I have always discouraged the idea of a London Season.”

Turning his eyes back to Celia, the duke continued with this unprecedented speech. “But Celia … er … Miss Langston, like most young ladies, would not hear of settling down until she had her trip to London. I am sure you understand this desire,” he finished, giving Lady Jersey one of his rare and charming smiles.

Nonplussed at these unexpected revelations, Lady Jersey, for once, was speechless. The high and mighty Duke of Severly had practically declared his intentions toward the mysterious Miss Langston, and it appeared, at least according to the duke, that Miss Langston was not in any hurry to bring him to scratch.

Before the avidly curious Lady Jersey could ask another question, Severly begged her pardon, gave the lady a courtly bow, and sauntered across the hall to gain a closer vantage point of Miss Langston.

Within half an hour, Severly felt the tide turning. Many of the people who had been watching Celia began to turn speculative eyes toward Lady Kendall.

Everyone knew the countess and Severly had been having an affair. Could Letty, in a jealous fit, have started the rumors to discredit Miss Langston? A new speculation grew.

During the orchestra's intermission, Severly approached Celia, who was standing near the refreshments table with Imy. It did not matter if she accepted or declined his request for a dance; either way, it fit into his plan to discredit the rumor circulating the room. Celia's guarded eyes met his in a question.

“May I have the honor of the next waltz, Miss Langston?” His tone was deeply gentle.

For an instant, Celia found herself about to say yes. “I'm sorry, your grace, I am quite fatigued,” Celia said with dignity, moving to his sister's side.

It spread like wildfire through the assemblage that Miss Langston had actually declined to dance with the Duke of Severly.

No one could recall that ever happening.

“A mere lady's companion could not be so confident,” opined Lady Jersey to Princess Esterhazy, after recounting her conversation with the duke. “Lady Kendall must know that she is losing her thrall over the duke.”

Lady Cowper nodded her agreement. “Out of jealousy she obviously spread this vicious gossip. Why, Westlake has known Miss Langston for years. He would not dance attendance on a mere servant.”

Desperately wondering how her plan had gone wrong, Letty cast about for a way to save her dignity. Placing herself in the duke's path proved futile. He never asked her to dance. Soon, she became so discomfited with the attention she was receiving, she angrily called for her carriage.

In her distress, Celia was unaware of the changes in the demeanor of the other guests. She had no idea how she was going to get through the remainder of the evening. To her mortification, she had somehow been found out, and she just wanted to leave. The minutes creaked along with agonizing slowness. With each passing moment her distress grew.

Even people Celia had never met were approaching, just to give her the cut direct.

Unbeknownst to her, Celia's inner anxiety showed outwardly as icy calm, impressing a number of the
ton
, even as they savored the delicious gossip.

When Chandley returned her to Imogene after dancing a minuet, Celia turned to her friend and said in a tightly controlled voice, “If it's convenient, Imy, I would like to leave.”

“Of course, we may go now.” Imy frowned in concern over Celia's pale face.

The ride home was silent, for Imogene truly did not know what to say to her friend.

Upon arriving at Severly House, Celia quickly ascended the staircase and gained her room. Dismissing Dora as soon as she helped her disrobe, Celia sat at her dressing table, feeling strangely emotionless. The tears that had been threatening to fall for the last two hours had somehow dried up, and she was left with the crystal-clear knowledge that she was in love with the duke.

She also knew that she could not stand another day in London.

T
he road had gotten quite rough over the last few miles. Celia had been bounced from one side of her new coach to the other until she felt sore to her bones.

Looking out the small window, Celia frowned at the heavy, dark day. It had rained, off and on, since the carriage had taken her from Severly House early that morning. At least the countryside was now looking more familiar. She should be at Harford Abbey, her new home, in an hour or so. She wondered why this information gave her no satisfaction. Feeling the tears well up once again, she searched for her crumpled hankie.

“You must stop this silliness,” she admonished herself after wiping her watery eyes.

Feeling sorry for herself was useless. She must face the facts as they were, and go on.

Taking a deep breath, Celia knew the time had come to be honest. She loved the duke. There. She had faced it and she had not dissolved. So she had made a fool of herself at Chandley's picnic and later in the foyer. Wishing differently could not change what had transpired. With a great sigh, she stared out the window at the waterlogged countryside, forcing her thoughts to more painful subjects.

Everyone in the
ton
knew she was not a lady. Everyone in the
ton
knew she had tried to pass herself off as something she wasn't. This could not be changed either. “So far, so good,” she told herself, straightening her shoulders against the soft leather squabs. She was facing
the facts. They would not destroy her. She forced her weary heart to look at the most difficult fact of all.

Severly loved Lady Kendall.

Celia's shoulders sagged. She buried her face in her hands. No matter how hard she tried to face this, it pierced her heart sharply. She loved him so much it was inconceivable that he did not love her in return.

But he did not, and she was not a child who would die from a broken heart.

Celia recalled the events of earlier in the day. Her leavetaking had been awkward, and she had almost weakened at Imy's pleadings.

“Celia, you can't.” Imogene had been horrified when Celia had informed her that she would be departing immediately after breakfast. “Everyone is coming around now. There's no need for you to leave. No one believes—well, no one of any import to us—that you were in my employ. Wait and let us discuss this with Drake. Do not be hasty,” Imogene urged with concerned hazel eyes.

“No, Imy, I must leave. I have no desire to be in London any longer. Besides, if I stay I shall probably make a bigger fool of myself than I already have.” She tried to smile at her frowning friend.

“Don't be silly. You just can't leave. Tomorrow is Princess Charlotte's wedding.”

“I know. Please, Imy, I can't stay. I cannot.” Celia's tone told of her distress as she stood before Imogene in her wine-and-gray traveling costume.

Though Imogene still frowned, she did not continue to harangue Celia. However, she told Porter to inform her the moment his grace returned from his morning ride.

Following a brief repast, Celia had gone upstairs to see how Dora was coming along with the packing.

“Almost done, Dora?” she asked the little maid.

“Yes, miss, and I've packed me own belongings, too.” Dora's little chin hardened.

“What?” Celia was startled.

“I'm your lady's maid, miss,” Dora said simply.

Touched by the maid's loyalty, Celia stepped forward and put her hand on Dora's shoulder.

“I know you'll like Harford, Dora. “Tis a pretty place. Mr. Whitley tells me the repairs on my home are well under way.”

“I'm sure I'll like it, miss. I've never been to the country afore.”

Within an hour Celia said good-bye to Imogene, assuring her that she would see her friend again soon.

Imogene stood on the steps, wringing her hands anxiously. Pleading her case one last time, she said, “Oh, Celia, I know things have taken a turn, but won't you please stay and let Drake help us straighten everything out? Besides, I will miss you.”

As the footman opened the carriage door, Celia gave her friend a beseeching look.

“Please, Imy, don't press me further. I have my reasons for leaving. You will return to Harbrooke Hall soon, so there will be no time to miss me.” Celia embraced the duchess tightly before stepping into the coach.

Dora rode up top with the coachman, for she tended to become ill in an enclosed carriage. This left Celia alone in the coach to torture herself, mile after mile, by living the last few days over and over again.

Because they had set out bright and early with fresh horses, the coachman assured her they would reach Harford Abbey before nightfall.

In an effort to resist her depressed emotions, Celia forced her thoughts to the state of affairs at her new home. During one of her meetings with Mr. Whitley, Celia had asked him if he would arrange to have the abbey renovated. He had been delighted to carry out her instructions, for he believed the house could be comfortable if properly attended to.

The sun was beginning its descent when the coach turned onto the newly smoothed surface of the abbey road.

As the coach got closer to the house, Celia raised the shade and looked out the window. When Harford Abbey came into view, she was quite taken by all the changes so immediately apparent, despite feeling exhausted from her emotions and the rough journey. The overgrowth of
ivy and shrubs had been reduced, the roof reshingled, and new doors and window frames gave the manor a fresh face.

Jarvis was on the steps as the coachman leaped down to open the coach door and help Celia alight.

“Miss Celia, we wasn't expecting you till after the Season was well done and gone. Matthews will be happy to see you, miss. Hasn't been herself since the old miss passed on.”

Celia forced a cheerful greeting to the wizened butler. The old miss. How many years would it be before she was referred to in such a way?

“I'm so glad to be home. How wonderful everything looks,” she said as she started to tug off her gloves. “I'm very tired, Jarvis, and I'm sure Dora is also. She shall be part of our household from now on. Are there any rooms suitable to rest in?” she asked as they entered the much-altered foyer.

Celia wanted to be alone. She couldn't face any questions right then. It was too poignant to be in Harford Abbey with memories of Edna so close.

Matthews hurried in from the kitchen with cries of greeting and delight that the young miss had returned home.