A Spinster's Luck (7 page)

Celia thought the major quite handsome and glanced to her friend to see her reaction to her old beau.

“You remember my sister, don't you, David?”

“Of course, how could I ever forget someone so lovely? Your grace.” Major Rotham bowed over Imy's hand, and Celia wondered how the polite smile on her friend's face remained so placid.

“How very nice to see you again, Major Rotham. May I acquaint you with my dear friend Miss Celia Langston?”

So that was going to be the way of it, thought Celia as she curtsied to the bowing major. Imogene was going to act the cool and distant duchess.

After Imogene rang for tea and they all took their seats, the men caught up on the goings-on since they last met. Celia gave Imogene a reassuring smile, and Imogene appeared relieved that the initial meeting was over.

When Grimes entered with the tea tray, followed by a maid carrying a silver tray laden with various cakes and sandwiches, Imogene asked him to make sure the major's luggage was taken to the green room.

“I have no luggage, your grace. I reside at the Staff and Cleaver,” Major Rotham said in a surprised tone before Grimes could respond. “When Westlake told me that Severly was staying at Harbrooke, I thought it was a great opportunity to see my old friend, as I have business in Harford. I never expected to foist myself upon your household.” His manner was so engaging and cavalier that Celia hoped he would stay.

“Nonsense, David, we'll send a man for your things. We wouldn't stand having you stay anywhere else, would we, Imy?”

Imogene rarely argued with her autocratic brother, and, being an excellent hostess, she did not in this instance either.

“Of course you must stay at Harbrooke, Major. We are quite counting on it.” She smiled in her most benevolent duchesslike manner and instructed Grimes to see to collecting the major's things. The major protested that it wasn't necessary, but he was no match for the duke and his sister and, in the end, he thanked Imogene handsomely.

Celia had little to offer the general conversation, but she was rapt in her attention to the reminiscing of the two gentlemen. Sometimes it was hard for Celia to realize the duke had been a soldier during the horrible war with France. He was so lofty and sophisticated that she couldn't picture it. But listening to them talk, it appeared that there were two heroes in the room.

As each man related stories about the other, Imogene and Celia exchanged looks of amazement.

“You never told me this, Drake,” accused his sister when the major told them how the duke had saved several of their comrades after a surprise attack on the Peninsula.

“I had forgotten. It really was not as colorful as Rotham is making it sound.” Severly dismissed the tale and reached for another scone.

“You mean to say that you never showed your sister the medal you received for that?” the major asked his friend, who was becoming uncomfortable with the notice he was receiving.

“Give over, Rotham, what about the time you went charging up that hill when we were hemmed in on all sides? You took out a half dozen frogs, at least, before they stopped you by putting that ball in your leg.”

“I remember it well,” he said, patting the leg in question, “and I also remember that you were right behind me.”

“Of course, I wanted to be sure you didn't stick your spoon in the wall before you could give me the money I had won off you the night before.”

Even Celia laughed at that. The duke turned to look at her, arrested by the beauty of her laughter.

Celia met his gaze and quickly turned her eyes to her teacup. Sometimes he had the oddest expression when he looked at her. He probably thought she was much too forward for laughing at his banter so heartily. Her face sobered and she sipped her tea, vowing not to be so forthcoming in the future.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Imogene introduced her sons to the new guest, and he remarked on
their striking resemblance to their father, which made Imogene blush with pleasure. Evidently there was to be no awkwardness about their past romance, and Imogene appeared to be completely at ease by the time she excused herself to prepare for dinner.

Celia was not so blessed. As she slowly climbed the stairs, she pondered her dread of the evening. First of all, she was quite dispirited about her clothing. She owned absolutely nothing she could feel comfortable wearing to dinner, which was always a formal occasion at Harbrooke. She barely noticed when it was just Imy or the dowager duchess, but it was very lowering to be so dowdy when two men of fashion were present.

The only possibility was an old gown that had belonged to her mother. A year ago, she had taken it apart and tried to resew the whole thing, using a plate from
La Belle Assemblée
as a model. Taking it from the armoire, she held the gown against herself and stared with critical eyes at her reflection in the mirror, twisting this way and that, hoping for some flattering angle to present itself.

The dress was sadly out-of-date, but it was of a good silk, and she felt the color, a deep greenish blue, was flattering to the green flecks in her eyes. Laying the gown across her bed, she sighed dejectedly, knowing she really had no other choice. Seating herself at her dressing table, she proceeded to pile her hair on top of her head in an unfashionable, yet becoming twist. She grimaced at the mirror.
They will think I'm an antidote
, she thought, wondering if she could feign illness. She dismissed the thought, as she had already agreed to dine with them, and she never dissembled.

The other problem that put a crease in her smooth brow was the thought of trying to make conversation. She had lived in the country all of her life, and though she was intelligent and well-read, she knew it would be difficult to converse on any subject that the major or the duke would find interesting. She had never had the chance to develop the fine art of chatting.

After putting the final pin in her hair, Celia left her
room with one last critical glance at the mirror and made her way to the salon to await the appearance of the new guest. She found the duke and Imogene already there, sipping champagne and conversing quietly. Dressed in a stunning cranberry silk evening gown, Imogene had rarely been in better looks. Celia, who did not possess a jealous bone, for the first time in her life came close to envy.

Compared to the magnificent beauty of Imogene's Empire-style gown, Celia felt even drabber, if that were possible. A stab of anger toward the duke pierced her; she blamed him for her present state of discomfiture. If he hadn't been so odiously insistent on her dining with them she would not now be looking like such a frump, Celia thought with an uncharacteristic flash of churlishness.

The duke, of course, appeared the pinnacle of elegance, she noticed resentfully. His black coat and snowy white waistcoat fit to perfection, a large diamond stickpin sparkled in his intricately tied cravat, and his lean, chiseled face wore a slight frown as he observed her standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“There you are, Celly; don't you look pretty,” Imogene called across the room, her tone overly cheerful. For the first time in their acquaintance, Imogene felt uneasy with her friend. She couldn't even hazard a guess as to what Drake had said to persuade Celly to dine with them.

Knowing Celia as she did, she could see that despite her composed expression, her friend was mortified at having to appear in her mother's old, redone gown. Imogene was at a complete loss as to what to say to her and even began to feel guilty for dressing in her loveliest gown, since Celia's gown looked even worse in comparison. To hide her discomfort she prattled on in a slightly shrill tone and busied herself with directing Grimes to pour Celia a glass of champagne.

On his part, the duke felt an unexplainable anger. How was he to know that she would have nothing presentable to wear? And Imy should not have shown her up so
obviously, either, he thought, frowning slightly at his sister's elegant attire. But what he felt most was guilt. He had virtually forced her to dine with them when she had made it clear that she had no desire to do so, and now his manipulating had embarrassed her terribly.

His knowledgeable eye continued to assess Celia. The gown was outdated and noticeably old. But what Imy said was true: Celia did look lovely. The color of the gown suited her well, and her upswept hair showed her long neck to advantage.

The expression on her face did something strange to his chest as he stood by the fireplace sipping his glass of champagne. A momentary glitter of anger had flashed in her extraordinary eyes when Imogene had called her pretty. She had turned her brown-green eyes to him and, with her chin up, defied him to laugh. Instead of sneering, as he somehow thought she expected him to do, he had raised his champagne glass slightly, as if in salute. Surprise touched her face for a moment. Then she turned away with a flush rising to her cheeks.

“Excuse me, I hope you haven't been waiting for me. I confess I got a bit lost.” Everyone in the room turned eagerly to the major, grateful for the diversion.

“How remiss of me. I should have sent one of the maids to direct you. Let's go in, shall we? Grimes, you may serve now,” Imogene said in a nervous tone with a too-bright smile.

Since the party was so small, Imogene had decided not to use the grand dining room, but a smaller room the family commonly used. The table was round instead of the usual rectangle, and the room was decorated in royal blue, white, and gold. A cheery fire blazed in the grate, as the evenings were still cold, and this combined with the smaller proportions of the room resulted in a more intimate atmosphere.

Grimes, a stolid and unflappable man, took in Miss Celia's distress and filled her wineglass to the brim. In Grimes's wise opinion, there were few uncomfortable situations a good glass of wine could not cure.

It may have been the unusual amount of wine, or the
fact that the duke and the major set out to be as felicitous as they were able, but the evening proved less arduous than Celia had anticipated.

Being seated between the two men had, at first, been so daunting Celia felt unable to say anything, or even to look up from her plate very often. After the first course or two, with the wine and the easy conversation, Celia forgot her shame somewhat, and behaved more naturally. Imogene had even been able to draw Celia out enough for her to recount an amusing story about the boys. To her abashment, Celia noticed the duke's glittering hazel gaze often on her. She assumed he was chastising himself for insisting that such a dowd dine with them.
Serves him right
, she thought defiantly, vowing to herself not to look in his direction again.

After a dessert of hothouse fruit and fresh cream was served, the talk eventually came around to the forthcoming Season. The major asked the duke when he would sojourn in London.

“Most likely the beginning of April. I am hoping to convince Imogene to join me this year. I believe she will enjoy herself very much, what with Princess Charlotte's wedding and all.”

“Indeed she would,” Major Rotham agreed, turning eagerly to the duchess. “The town is already in a fever over it. All the great hostesses are planning celebrations that will long be remembered for their gaiety,” he said, watching Imogene for any signs of enthusiasm.

“Indeed, the way you and Drake describe it makes it sound enticing, and I own that some dancing would set me up quite well, but there is so much to do here.” Imogene was just waiting to be talked into it. She looked at her brother and the major with shining eyes, already anticipating the wonders of a London Season.

The men each took turns cajoling her and describing the incomparable merriment she would enjoy.

“All right, all right, we shall go. Oh, Celly, won't it be lovely?” Imogene asked her friend excitedly.

Imogene was young, beautiful, and a duchess. Celia knew London was the place for her.

“You will have a wonderful time.” She smiled encouragingly, already imagining all the delicious gossip she would be able to share with Edna when Imy wrote to her from London.

“But of course you are going too, Celia,” Imogene said in wide-eyed surprise. “Where else would you be?”

Celia did not know where to look, such was her shock at her friend's words. She could imagine few things more horrid than being forced to reside in the duke's home, even if only for a month or two.

“My sister could not do without you, Miss Langston,” said the duke when Celia began to protest. Their eyes met, and Celia felt a little breathless at the expression in his. What a peculiar man he was, she thought. One moment he was rebuking her on the road to Harbrooke, and the next he was gazing at her quite kindly.

“I just didn't think—” she began uncertainly until Imogene interrupted her.

“Don't be a goose, Celly. You will come to London. The boys will be visiting my mother-in-law, so you needn't worry on that score. Besides, I wouldn't enjoy myself half so much if you weren't there.” Her eyes pleaded with Celia not to protest.

Celia observed her friend's anxious face. That niggling feeling of resentment that had plagued her all evening vanished.
What is wrong with me?
Celia wondered to herself.
Why am I suddenly so beset by the blue devils? I must stop thinking this way
, she chided, hating the feeling of dissatisfaction that had invaded her thoughts of late.

“Of course I will go, if you want me to. Thank you very much.” Once she became familiar with the duke's London habits, Celia mused, it would be just as easy to avoid him there as it was at Harbrooke. Actually, when she thought about it for a moment, London would be a rare treat, duke or not.

“Wonderful!” Imogene clapped her hands together in delight. “Heavens! There is so much to do! We shall be leaving in a week and I am not prepared for anything.”

“You will have time to spare, Imogene. I will send a
note to town tomorrow and let Porter know I will have two guests for the Season. The servants can take care of everything else.” The Duke of Severly leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine with an air of satisfaction.