A Spinster's Luck (27 page)

Celia shrugged slightly. “Lady Kendall. Also, I saw the way you looked at her when you danced together at Severly House.”

Severly suddenly felt ashamed of himself. With a bitter twist to his lips, he recalled how he had flaunted his mistress. He was the Duke of Severly. He didn't follow fashions—he
set them. If Society had certain conventions, he was above them. How arrogant he had been, he thought now with regret. How could he explain the truth to this beautiful, naive country girl? He walked forward until he was within inches of her.

“I do not love Lady Kendall. I never have. I did not know her well before the war. Her husband is not so very old.” He shrugged. “And from everything I have heard, she pursued him avidly. I will not lie to you, Celia. Lady Kendall and I had an understanding. I wish it were not so. But I assure you, my heart has never been involved with any woman.”

The deep timbre of his voice seemed to vibrate through her. Not knowing what to think of his admissions, Celia turned her back and moved away from him again. Trying to organize her chaotic emotions, she was hardly willing to comprehend what he was saying to her. Celia lowered her head, exposing the graceful curve of her nape to him.

“I do not understand you, your grace,” she whispered, and meant it. There had been a time when she had hoped he might care for her. But then she had seen him with the countess and had realized his intentions were not to be trusted. Could she allow herself to trust him? He came from such a different world than she, Celia thought sadly. His world took vows lightly. Commitment lasted only until the next amusement.

Severly watched her unyielding back and lowered head. It took a great effort not to press his lips to her pale nape. The silence stretched between them for some moments.

“I believe you do understand me, Miss Langston. You have made it plain that my intentions are disagreeable to you. I will beg your pardon and take my leave,” he said quietly and formally.

Celia heard him walking away from her. Suddenly galvanized by an inexpressible and overwhelming emotion, she whirled around, only to see his retreating back.

“Wait, please, your grace. I must ask you about a certain bolt of fabric I received from the housekeeper at Harbrooke
Hall. I was told it was meant for me,” she questioned breathlessly, suddenly recalling the violet material.

The duke stopped and slowly turned upon his heel. “A bolt of fabric? What significance does a bolt of fabric have to this conversation?”

Celia hesitated, not quite knowing how to continue but certain she could not allow him to leave before he explained. “Well, I admired it several months ago while shopping in the village. It had been much too dear for a governess to afford. Do you know how I have come to possess it?”

It was the duke's turn to appear uncomfortable. “I had taken note of your admiration of the material and thought the color might suit you,” he stated after a moment. “I had my tiger make the purchase, but had not the chance to give it to you before we left for London.”

The fear and confusion that had settled around Celia's heart dissolved. It was a revelation to know that before she had received her inheritance, while she was still dressed so plainly, the duke had thought well enough of her to want to give her something so lovely. A wave of joy swelled deep within her heart.

The duke made an impatient and dismissive gesture with a sweep of his hand. “The material is of no import.”

“But it is very important to me, your grace. Please explain to me why you purchased something so intimate for a dowdy governess,” she asked, her eyes shining, revealing plainly what was in her heart.

The duke's face was unreadable as he hesitated before her. “You were never dowdy. I thought you the loveliest and most interesting woman I have ever encountered. When I had chanced upon you and my nephews skipping stones on the pond, at that moment you stole my heart,” he said quietly. His deep voice was measured and sincere.

The room suddenly seemed to spin around. Celia knew that her heart had been waiting all her life for this moment. Still, she could hardly allow herself to believe what she saw in his eyes.

“You really admired me when I was a spinster?”

Standing before her, motionless, Severly knew by her shy expression that she had placed her trust in him.

The duke reached her in three strides, pulling her fiercely to his chest. As his hungry lips pressed against her pulsing neck, Celia was exquisitely aware of his muscular arms around her. Breathlessly, she marveled at the quick beat of his heart, matching hers.

Pulling back, he looked deep into her eyes. His large hands came up to cup her beautiful face gently. Someday he would write an ode to the splendor of her eyes. Soon, he would compose a sonnet declaring the depth of his love.

All that would come later. For now, he could only say, “Yes.”

That one word, so huskily spoken, filled Celia with the deepest sense of wonder and joy she had ever known.

As she leaned into his embrace, his lips took hers in a kiss that began gently, but soon held the promise of their passion.

His arms tightened around her slim body, pulling her closer against him.
This is not a dream
, Celia thought to herself in a haze of growing desire. Severly was truly here, at Harford Abbey, and he had declared his love for her.

Their kiss deepened, and with newfound confidence Celia's hands stroked Severly's chest before stealing up to his neck. She savored the new sensations coursing through her veins. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed herself even closer against him, wanting to show him how much she loved him.

After some time, Severly reluctantly pulled back, fearing for the first time since he'd been a lad that he would not be able to control the passion flaming through him.

Standing in the middle of her library, still loosely encircled in his arms, Celia felt her face glow with a new inner light as she gazed up in wonder at the expression on Severly's face. Never had she thought to see such tenderness and passion so plainly evident. All for her, she thought with humble amazement.

“You have come all the way from London,” she marveled out loud.

“To the ends of the earth, if need be, my darling torment,”
he said with the slightest touch of a wicked grin. Her heart seemed to catch and stop for a moment. “Imy sends her love,” he continued. “She hopes you will send her and David your good wishes.”

For a moment, Celia was too enthralled by his presence to fully take his meaning.

“Drake!” she said in a dawning surprise at his words. “Are Imy and David betrothed?” This news would only make her happiness complete, Celia thought with delight.

Severly, greatly pleased with Celia for saying his name so naturally, pulled her back into his arms. “Yes,” he murmured against her temple. “They shall be wed at Harbrooke Hall next month.”

Celia snuggled her cheek against Severly's shoulder. “Next month? So soon?” she said, wishing he would kiss her again.

With a deep chuckle, Severly's warm lips traveled down her cheek.

“Soon, my love? It is my deepest desire to precede my sister to the altar.”

As the revelation of his love coursed through her body, Celia raised her radiant face to his.

“What a lovely idea, your grace,” she said as his lips captured hers once more.

S
everly Park, the duke's family home in Kent, was ablaze with lights as the numerous liveried footmen, maids, and kitchen staff scurried about in preparation for what promised to be the county's most glittering social event in years.

Despite the gloom of the late-fall weather every one of the ninety-odd guests to receive an invitation from the duke and the new duchess had accepted eagerly.

A number of them, who were not actually staying at Severly Park, were now arriving at exactly seven o'clock.

“How unfashionably prompt,” the duke remarked drolly to his new brother-in-law, David Rotham, as they strode through the wide hallway to the main salon. A footman opened the impressively wide double doors and the two men passed through them into a huge room with large mullioned windows that opened into the rose garden.

“What do you expect?” David asked his friend. “Everyone is eager to meet your new bride.”

More than two dozen guests immediately surrounded the duke, most from neighboring estates, who had not yet had the pleasure of meeting the new Duchess of Severly.

Soon everyone was enjoying themselves, helped in part by the bounty produced from the duke's excellent cellars.

As guests continued to arrive, it became apparent that one very important ingredient seemed to be missing from the festivities—the Duchess of Severly.

The duke continued to circulate among the colorful
and increasingly curious revelers. He greeted old friends and distant relatives, all with one topic on their lips—his wife.

As he directed a footman to bring Lord Graston another glass of champagne, Severly had to own that he found it amusing to know that the most recent rumor being spread about was that he and Celia had been secretly engaged for years before their marriage.

He was looking forward to sharing this latest
on dit
with Celia. That was, if she ever came downstairs, he thought with wry tenderness toward his beloved's tardiness.

As more guests arrived, Severly caught sight of Alex, the Duke of Westlake, threading his way toward him through the crowd.

“Westlake!” he greeted his old friend with pleasure. “Celia and I are well pleased that you will be staying this week. It has been too long since we have had your company.”

Accepting a glass from a passing footman, Westlake gave his friend a knowing grin.

“Sink me, Severly, if you hadn't taken such a shockingly long honeymoon, you would have had my company long before this.”

Severly laughed at his friend's comment. He had been receiving much the same roasting from a number of his guests, and accepted the teasing good-naturedly. After all, he and Celia had not been home to anyone save Imy and David for more than four months.

“My dear Severly,” Lady Ardale loudly interrupted the two gentlemen, “never tell me the duchess has taken ill?”

Severly smiled fondly down at the petite Lady Ardale. Her family and his had been neighbors for generations, and she had been one of his mama's dearest friends. Having no sons of her own, she had always taken a keen interest in the duke's affairs.

“Fear not, Lady Ardale; I have no doubt my wife shall be along presently. My bride has but one fault: She takes a prodigious time over her toilette,” he said with a
slightly conspiratorial smile that set the old lady's heart aflutter.

“Oh, you,” she twittered, hiding her face behind her fan.

The guests continued to stream in and yet there was still no sign of the duchess.

Excusing herself from a group of old friends, Imogene made her way across the crowded room to her brother. Severly thought his sister looked magnificent in an evening dress of bishop's blue.

“Drake, I am going to see what's keeping Celly,” she said with a mischievous smile. “You must stop purchasing her so many gowns. You know what a difficult time she has deciding what to wear.”

Severly nodded his agreement, glad of his sister's offer, before turning his attention to Lord and Lady Darnham. He wanted Celia next to him, for he was eager to show her off.

It took Imy some minutes to make her way out of the salon and up the massive oak staircase of her childhood home.

Upon reaching Celia and Drake's suite, she lightly tapped on the door. A moment later, the door opened a fraction and Imy saw Dora's blue eye peering at her.

“Oh, it's you, your grace,” the little maid said with a deep sigh of relief before stepping back and opening the door wide.

“What on earth?” Imy said, wondering what could cause such odd behavior. Curiously, she looked around the beautiful room. It was decorated in shades of lilac and silver. One of the many gifts her brother had bestowed upon his bride had been the pleasure of completely redecorating their private quarters.

The yards and yards of sumptuous lilac and silver satin draping the large canopy bed must have cost Drake a small fortune, Imy thought. She could not help but admire her friend's taste as she stepped farther into the exquisitely appointed room.

“Celia?” Imy called, again looking around the room with a slight frown on her brow. Suddenly Dora rushed
past the duchess, knelt, and crawled under the bed. This bizarre behavior caused Imy to lose her usual poise so much that she stared agape at Dora's feet sticking out from under the bed.

“What on earth?” Imy said again, as Celia emerged from a very large dressing room situated on the other side of the bedchamber.

“Oh, Imy! Thank God it's you,” Celia said with great relief. Imy saw that Celia was arrayed in the most beautifully designed gown Imogene had ever seen. The violet-blue velvet seemed to deepen the emerald green flecks in Celia's eyes.

Dora had obviously spent a considerable amount of time on her mistress's hair arrangement, and Celia was wearing the magnificent Severly diamonds around her neck and wrists. Imogene thought she had never seen Celia looking more beautiful or regal—until she looked down and noticed that Celia's stockinged feet were slipperless.

“Celly! Your guests are waiting. I can understand your desire to make a grand entrance, but—”

Imy was cut off abruptly when Dora emerged from under the bed with a cry of triumph.

“Here they are, your grace,” she said with delight, holding up a muslin bag.

“At last, Dora,” Celia said, relief plainly written on her face. “Imy, dear, I had no intention of being so late. I just wanted to surprise Drake,” she began as she moved to sit on a beautifully upholstered settee placed in a bay window that overlooked the formal gardens.

Dora removed a pair of violet-blue slippers from the muslin bag and knelt to help her mistress put them on.