A Spinster's Luck (17 page)

Shakily, she took a deep breath and parted her lips to speak, but no words came. Her wide eyes locked with his. She lifted her hand, whether to push him away or draw him near she did not know, but he took it in his and held it tight.

“Celia,” came a rough whisper, and his head lowered to hers.

“Celia? Are you there? I'm sorry I've taken forever; we must hurry if we are to practice before everyone arrives.” Imogene's lilting voice cut through the magical moment just as the duke's warm lips brushed Celia's. With an unintelligible curse, he lifted his head and turned to look at the top of the stairs.

“We are here, Imy.”

“Oh, good.” She skipped down the stairs in a girlish fashion. “Drake, be a lamb and critique us. We want to cut a dash, but we're afraid of tumbling down the stairs.” She looked past her brother's broad shoulders to stare curiously at Celia's flushed face.

“You'll have to pardon me, Imy, but I must speak to Porter before our guests arrive.” He bowed slightly to both ladies, then turned and ascended the stairs two at a time.

Imy looked at her friend. “Is all well, Celly?” she queried gently.

Celia chewed her lip at the duke's treating back. “Of course, I just came here early and practiced by myself,” she lied with a bright smile to her friend.

“Well, let's have a go, shall we?” Imy said, deciding not to press Celia further.

“Yes,” Celia agreed, but more than anything she wanted to run back to her room and think about what had just happened.

It was almost time to go in to supper and Celia had not decided who would be her escort. Her current partner was Sir Richard Pembrington. Though he had been solicitude and attentiveness itself and had called on her several times in the last few weeks, Celia could not like him overmuch. There was something weak about his hand on her waist, and she noticed that he rather liked malicious gossip.

The Earl of Chandley, with whom she felt more comfortable and who was becoming one of her particular beaux, had already asked her. But she had playfully avoided answering him. After the quadrille with Sir Richard ended, her last little hope that the duke would ask was dashed. To her disappointment, when the doors to the dining room opened, she saw Severly's tall frame escorting his sister.

She felt foolish for hoping, for she should have known he would not seek her out, since he had danced with her only once this evening. They had made up the numbers in a country reel, which had afforded little opportunity for conversation.

She left Sir Richard then, almost abruptly, lest he renew his offer to escort her. She moved to stand by a marble column entwined with orchids and ivy, trying to force her thoughts to some order. It was no use; every other moment she recalled the two of them on the marble steps, his smoldering expression reaching into the depths of her being and touching something that she had not known existed. She couldn't forget the image of his head as it lowered to hers, the length of his lashes before she closed her eyes and felt the briefest touch of his lips
on hers. She reached up and touched her lips, wondering that they didn't feel different to her fingers when they felt so different to her heart.

She looked up to see Chandley making his way through the crowd toward her, a hopeful smile on his lean face, and she was glad that she had not completely discouraged him with her earlier evasiveness.

“There you are, my lord. I had begun to think that I had been abandoned,” she said brightly, taking the arm he offered.

Chandley proved an engaging partner for supper, which was a buffet of titanic proportions. The tables looked about to buckle from the amount of pheasant, lamb, roast beef, and turkey savories. The guests had their choice of every kind of summer fruit imaginable and luscious French pastries.

Celia encouraged the earl to talk, as she did not feel as if she had anything to say, and thus added to her growing reputation as a good conversationalist. A number of people she had met at the Pembrington ball joined Celia and the earl. Soon, she was somewhat able to distract herself with the lively conversation.

In particular, she enjoyed the company of Sir John Mayhew, and was pleased when he strolled over, bowed with a flourish, and asked if she would permit him to be seated.

“Pray be seated, Sir John. We have enough room for you to join the fun,” she replied, smiling her encouragement.

Sir John was a rarefied dandy whose sartorial elegance could be quite blinding. Celia did give him credit, though: Only one of Mr. Mayhew's lithe frame and blithe confidence could carry off such high collar points without looking too silly.

“Miss Langston, I am not able to express to you how utterly charming you look this evening. I believe I shall have to write a poem to do you justice,” he effused as he held up his champagne glass for a passing footman to refill.

“You flatter me greatly, Mr. Mayhew.” Celia laughed.
”I am sure you can find a worthier subject for your poetic talent.”

The other gentlemen at the table disagreed vigorously with her opinion and were soon arguing about who could write an ode, paint her likeness, or even compose a song that would do justice to one so a charming as Miss Langston.

Celia found this conversation more amusing than flattering and soon found her attention wandering. The noise and laughter in the grand dining room, glowing with candlelight, easily caught her attention. Corinna Sheffield waved at her from across the room, and Celia smiled to see that her friend was surrounded by a number of charming young men, and indeed looked lovely in her lavender gown.

Celia continued to scan the room. It did not take her long to spy Severly's tall frame. He was speaking to the lovely Lady Kendall.

Celia remembered her from the Pembrington ball and wondered what her husband was like. She had heard that the London air did not agree with him. The countess was very young, probably not yet four and twenty, Celia surmised, feeling every one of her six and twenty years. Celia admired and even envied slightly the way the petite countess could meet the duke's gaze so easily and converse with so much confidence.

“Miss Langston shall have to be the judge of that,” Chandley said, calling her focus back to the gentlemen around her. Celia felt rude for letting her mind wander from the conversation at hand.

With a determined smile, Celia talked with Chandley and with whomever else approached them until the music from the ballroom began again. She resolutely pushed her confused thoughts about the duke aside and concentrated on being as engaging as she could.

It was well after one o'clock in the morning, and the Duke of Severly's grand ball was in full swing. To the surprise and delight of his guests, the duke had arranged for a number of magicians and jugglers to entertain
throughout the room. He was pleased that he had been able to keep his plan a secret; not even Imogene had known. The enjoyment on his sister's face as she watched a juggler balancing on his back, keeping three balls in the air with his feet, caused him a rare smile.

Standing near the orchestra, the duke let his eyes seek out Celia, and found her holding court in the midst of several admiring bucks. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and her gown was incredibly alluring.

He gave Celia credit: For a green girl she handled herself with an engaging combination of dignity and wry humor. No giggling or simpering from Miss Langston. It was obvious that she had stolen more than one dandy's heart with a glance from those bewitching brownish green eyes, he thought with a cynical twist to his lips.

He watched her look of surprise as a magician made her fan disappear. When the magician pretended to abscond with the trinket, Celia grabbed Westlake's arm and laughingly beseeched him to retrieve her fan. The magician made a mock sad-face and produced the fan from behind her ear. Celia's eyes went wide and she accepted the ornament with a pert little curtsy.

Without a doubt, Celia was a rousing success. The young bucks in the faro room had already toasted her as a diamond of the first water. And no wonder—the
ton
was always willing to welcome a beautiful heiress, Drake's cynicism continued. The sight of Miss Langston surrounded by so many attentive males vying for her attention set his teeth on edge. Even Westlake, who had arrived late, had gone to her side immediately after greeting Imogene, Drake remembered with disgust.

Turning away, Drake made his way through the throng of revelers, and entered the relatively peaceful atmosphere of his billiard room.

As he declined a brandy from one of the vermilion-and-gold-liveried footmen, he greeted a number of older gentlemen who preferred the less strenuous sport of billiards to dancing. It also enabled them to take a pinch of snuff, which, of course, could not be done in front of the ladies. Severly's mind turned again to the strange
scene earlier on the staircase. Her artlessness had touched and amused him, he admitted to himself. How exquisite she looked in a gown that made her skin glow like a pearl, the candlelight sparking off the jewels in her hair like emerald fire that mirrored the green in her eyes.

He had actually kissed her, albeit very briefly, he thought, with something close to astonishment.

A guest in his own home, an innocent young woman without the least experience with seducers like himself. Severly felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling of self-disgust. He had been raised a gentleman and he'd always prided himself on his self-control and sense of honor and decency. The thoughts that he had been having of late for the enchanting Miss Langston were neither honorable nor decent. A gentleman would never consider seducing an innocent lady, especially one living under his protection, and his sister's closest friend.

With his eyes on the painted ivory balls being scattered across the billiard table, Severly told himself that having Celia so close at hand was the trouble. She was a beautiful and charming woman. In his world, when one felt desire for a woman, it was worked out discreetly, with both parties knowing exactly where they stood. That was why married women had always been so attractive; they never confused love with passion.

It was no wonder why he felt this unprecedented frustration where Celia was concerned, he rationalized, running long fingers through his hair. She did not know the rules, and there was no way he could explain them to her. If he followed his desire, she would soon expect a marriage proposal. Marriage was not in Severly's plans for many years to come. His grandfather, whose portrait Celia had stifled a giggle over, had not married until he had been a decade older than Severly was now. The duke planned to follow in his footsteps. It was his opinion that wives were inconvenient, and a mistress was better suited to his life.

Now that he had that settled he was determined to rid himself of this bad humor.

The sound of clinking glass pulled him from his musings.
Across the green baize-covered table, Sir Richard Pembrington was raising his brandy snifter in a toast.

“To Miss Celia Langston, the incomparable of incomparables!” he said in a drawling, slightly affected tone. A chorus of “Hear, hear” and “Quite so” came from the other gentlemen in the room as they raised their glasses in tribute. With a thunderous frown on his dark brow, Severly turned on his heel and returned to the ballroom.

The orchestra was at the end of a minuet as Severly walked to the edge of the parquet. A passing footman offered him a glass of champagne and he accepted it gladly, finishing it in two gulps as his golden-hazel eyes scanned the room.

“I've been wondering where you had disappeared to,” came a soft, feminine voice at his elbow. Looking down, he saw Leticia Kendall gazing up at him with limpid blue eyes the exact shade of the daringly cut gown she wore.

“I've just been playing at being a good host,” he informed her.

“And you play so well,” she practically purred.

“Have I told you how lovely you look this evening, Letty?” the duke said, meeting her bold gaze with some amusement.

Lady Kendall tried to gauge from his enigmatic eyes his sincerity. The Duke of Severly was not the first lover she had taken during her five years of marriage, but he was certainly her favorite. It was not just the cachet of having the elusive duke as her lover that held such appeal; it was that she had never been with someone so completely masculine, yet so fascinating. The frustrating part of their relationship was that, of late, she had become the pursuer instead of the pursued. With shrewd insight, the countess realized the tenuous hold she had on him was slipping. In her insecurity, she had grown quite jealous of him and, therefore, threatened to destroy the one thing that had attracted him in the first place; her undemanding passion and good humor.

Of late, Letty had grown almost desperate in her demands upon Drake, because she sensed he was growing
bored. That was something the petite blonde could not tolerate. He had not visited her in over a fortnight. He had explained to her that he needed to be on hand to squire his sister and Miss Langston around town. At first, his regrets had mollified her.

Now, she wondered if duty was the only reason the duke had curtailed his affair with her. For the life of her, she could not understand why the
ton
was all agog over Miss Langston. She was so tall, she observed with scorn. And a spinster, too.

Glancing up, she watched with narrowed eyes as Severly tracked the Langston chit making her figures in a quadrille. The countess pulled her gaze from the duke's chiseled profile to see Miss Langston leaving the floor on the arm of the Duke of Westlake. Miss Langston made a pretty display of casually waving her fan as she stood conversing with Westlake and a number of other notables.

The situation was more desperate than she at first thought, Letty realized with a touch of fear. Forcing a serene smile to her lips, Leticia laid a gentle hand on Drake's arm. “Would you think me terribly bold, your grace, if I asked you for a waltz? But I forget you have ofttimes told me you like me when I am bold,” she finished on an intimate whisper, hoping to remind him of the passion they had so mutually enjoyed. Her desire was satisfied when he turned to her with a smoldering glance.