A Spinster's Luck (26 page)

“You are no longer living at Harbrooke Hall?” he questioned curiously.

“No I am now living at Harford Abbey.” That fact might as well be established as quickly as possible, she thought.

“And will you be residing at the abbey alone?”

Celia looked up at his jowly face, beginning to be uncomfortable with his many questions.

“Yes,” she said shortly.

A speculative light entered his small eyes. Shifting from one foot to the other, the squire hemmed and hawed for a moment.

“See here, Miss Langston. May I call upon you soon?”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Celia took a deep breath.

“I am sorry, Squire. Harford Abbey is still undergoing
a number of repairs, and is not fit to receive company.” Her tone was very polite. You mustn't let me keep you. I see that your horses are becoming restless.”

Sketching a quick curtsy, Celia left the squire standing in the lane, looking after her with a befuddled expression.

Upon arriving at the hall, Celia was greeted by Grimes and Mrs. Potts. It quickly became apparent by the butler's formal demeanor that the servants of Harbrooke Hall would no longer treat her in the easy manner of old.

Obviously, they had heard of her unexpected inheritance, Celia thought as she removed her bonnet and pelisse.

“I've come to see my old room,” she said breezily moving toward the sweeping staircase. I shall be packing my belonging and taking them back with me to the abbey.”

Grimes bowed deeply at her words. Celia raised her brows at this uncharacteristic gesture.

Determined to ignore his formality, she smiled and continued to her former room.

She worked steadily for some hours, relieved to have a purpose to occupy her mind.

After some time, there was a knock on her bedroom door. Not looking up from her task, she said, “Enter.”

The butler opened the door and asked if he could be of help.

“Yes, Grimes, you can have a footman deliver these trunks to Harford Abbey,” Celia instructed Imy's butler.

“Very good, miss. May I have a tray with a light repast brought up to you?” the dignified butler questioned.

Seated at her old desk, in her old room at Harbrooke Hall, Celia smiled wanly up at Grimes. No, thank you, I am perfectly comfortable.”

“Very good, miss,” he said again, leaving her to her task.

Smoothing back a loose tendril of hair, Celia sighed and resumed going through a large cedar chest containing old clothing and a few precious things left to her by her parents.

Now, as she lifted green silk from the chest, Celia realized it was her mother's old gown that she had altered and last worn at the dinner with Imy, Major Rotham, and the duke. It had been decided that night that they would go to London for the Season.

Could it have been only a little more than six weeks ago? she wondered with a bemused shake of her head. A world of change had occurred since then. Recalling that evening now, she realized that it was that night her opinion of the duke had begun to change. She held the gown tightly against her bosom.

“I will never get rid of this dress,” she whispered to herself aloud, unwilling to examine her reasoning.

In truth, every memory she had of the duke seemed like a dream. Had she imagined it all? she mused, smiling sadly as she refolded the gown. Had she also imagined that look in his eyes, that day at Chandley, which even now made her heart beat faster? No matter how she scolded herself to be sensible, she could not forget what had transpired between them.

Soon, she forced herself to become absorbed with packing all the items she had accumulated during her years at Harbrooke Hall.

While sorting through a pile of papers, she paused and told herself, almost desperately, that things had worked out wonderfully. She was sure Imy and Major Rotham would soon wed, and it was better for her not to be underfoot. It was also wonderful that Harford Abbey was close so that she could still see the boys.

But if everything had worked out so wonderfully, she mused miserably, why did she feel so awful? She chided herself again, as the duke's handsome face immediately came to mind. Would she have had preferred not to discover that she loved the duke? In her heart of hearts she knew, as shameless as it was, she would always savor the memories of dancing with the duke, of being in his arms with his lips on hers. No. She sighed. She would never regret her feelings for Severly.

The duke was in the past, she told herself firmly. After wiping her hands on the oversize apron she wore to protect
her dress, Celia opened another drawer and was in the midst of removing old letters and other memorabilia, when one of the upstairs maids entered the room bearing a paper-wrapped bundle.

“Hello, Mary,” Celia said as she rose from the stool, glad to be distracted from her depressing thoughts.

“What have you there?”

“Beggin' your pardon, miss, but Mrs. Potts thought you might want to take your pretty cloth with you to Harford Abbey.” The maid offered the package to Celia, who accepted it with a puzzled frown.

“Cloth? I don't believe I have any new cloth,” she said as she untied the heavy twine wrapped around the brown paper holding the package together.

As the paper fell away, Celia gasped in confused disbelief as a bolt of violet-blue velvet appeared. After some moments of incomprehension, she realized the fabric was the same velvet she had admired the last time she had visited Finchley's in the village. It had been much too dear for her then. That was the day the duke had walked her back to Harbrooke Hall, she recalled instantly.

She stroked the soft material with shaking fingers, trying to understand how it had come to be here.

“Where did this come from?” she whispered to the maid, not taking her eyes from the fabric.

“His grace's man said it was for you.”

Celia's hand froze on the velvet. Mary must have meant her grace and said “his” by mistake. It would be just like Imy to be so thoughtful and make a gift of the exquisite cloth. But how would she have known that Celia had desired the material?

“His grace?”

Mary looked at Celia quizzically. Well, the Duke of Severly, of course, miss.”

“When …” Celia cleared her throat and began again.

“When did his grace's man say this was for me?”

“In March. Before they left for London. Johnny, his grace's tiger, gave the parcel to Mrs. Potts, saying that his grace had sent him into the shop to purchase the fabric you had been looking at right afore he came in.
but Johnny didn't know what to do with it, so he gave it to Mrs. Potts. She forgot to give it to you before you left for London. “Tis very pretty cloth, miss.”

Something began to well up deep inside of Celia. The beginnings of a radiant smile started at the corners of Celia's mouth as she picked up the folded fabric. “Yes, Mary, it is very pretty cloth. Thank you very much for telling me this, and for bringing me the fabric,” Celia said sincerely to the maid.

“You're welcome, miss,” Mary said as she bobbed a slight curtsy.

“I must return to Harford Abbey immediately. Would you be so kind as to have a carriage brought around?”

“Very good, miss,” Mary said, and left the room.

Celia's head was spinning with a multitude of conflicting thoughts. The duke must have seen her through the window at Finchley's as the proprietor had shown her the material. That was the only explanation, she thought as she pulled off the apron, quickly forgetting about the contents of the cedar chest. Why had the duke purchased the fabric? Should she write to him? No, her fevered brain protested. She must speak to him.

It seemed to take an interminable time to reach Harford Abbey. When they finally rounded the drive, Celia did not wait for the coachman to help her from the carriage. Dashing into the foyer, she began calling for Matthews and Dora as she ran up the stairs toward her rooms.

“Heavens, miss, what is wrong?” Matthews called out in alarm as she lumbered after Celia.

“Nothing is wrong,” Celia called behind her as she almost ran into Dora on the landing. “Oh, there you are, Dora. Come, you must help me pack. We must leave for London before first light.”

“We must?” Dora squeaked, following her mistress into her room. “Is something wrong, miss?”

“No, Dora, everything is fine. At least, I think it is!” Celia put her hands to her head and laughed out loud. “No, I don't know if everything is fine or not, but I'm going to find out.”

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, seated at her desk in the newly refurbished library, Celia impatiently dashed off notes to the vicar and her solicitor in preparation for her journey back to London.

She steadfastly refused to examine her emotions, or why she had this overwhelming desire to question the duke about the velvet. She would not even allow herself to think about what she would say to him once she returned to London. All she knew was that it was vitally important to discover why the duke had purchased the fabric.

At that moment, Jarvis opened the grand double doors. Celia laid her quill down and turned to her butler curiously. She was immediately struck by his flushed and nervous countenance.

“His grace, the Duke of Severly,” he announced, much too loudly for the quiet room.

This statement had the effect of a cannon's discharge upon Celia. After one shocked, frozen second, she jumped up and ran to the other side of her desk, just as the duke's tall frame strode past her butler to stand in the middle of the room.

A squeak of trepidation escaped Celia as she saw his thunderous expression. She stared at him in shock. He was devastatingly masculine in his fitted buckskin riding britches and dusty black Hessian boots. His chiseled features looked harsh and his long hair a little windblown. Celia's reeling mind could not accept that he was standing in the middle of her library. Her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings. She didn't know where to look.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His tone was abrupt. His piercing hazel eyes impaled her where she stood.

Casting him a quick, startled glance, Celia could only stand mutely. Considering that he was the one who had unexpectedly appeared in her home, Celia thought this question odd. After a false try, Celia gathered her courage.

“I live here, your grace.” She hoped her tone was cool.

“Devil take it, Celia. You know what I am speaking of. Why did you leave London? Your abrupt departure has only caused more speculation,” he charged, yanking off his gloves and tossing them onto a nearby table.

Celia could not look at him. His presence was so overwhelming, so unexpected, it left her trembling. She tried to take herself in hand. A moment ago she wanted nothing more than to be in his presence and ask him about the violet bolt of fabric. Instead, “I have found I do not care for London, your grace,” was all that she could manage.

“Really,” he said archly, taking a few steps closer. “I was under the distinct impression that you enjoyed dancing, shopping, and going to the theater. Was I mistaken?”

Wishing he would not bark at her in such a harsh manner, Celia felt indignation overtaking her shock at his unexpected appearance.

Clenching her hands together, she said, “I did enjoy those things for a while.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Celia, if you run off like this, everyone will think you have a reason to be ashamed. You should have stayed and stared them all out of countenance.” His tone had gentled slightly.

Celia shook her head. “I care nothing for what is being said. After all, it is not far from the truth.”

His hazel eyes surveyed her pale face for a moment. The room was very quiet. “If you do not care, why did you leave?”

Celia turned away from him completely, too ashamed of her weakness to face him. She shook her head mutely again, unable to answer his question.

“Was it because of me?” he prodded harshly.

He knew! Mortification spread through Celia's body. If only the Oriental rug would open up and swallow her. What a fool he must think her. Had her love for him been so obvious?

“Yes,” she whispered honestly.

“So it meant nothing? That moment upon the stairs?
That day at Chandley's? You were just playing with me?” His tone was so icy she shivered.

Casting a look over her shoulder, Celia stared at him with confused eyes. What on God's earth was he speaking of? His words made no sense to her.

As she turned to face him, her befuddled senses finally noticed that something was different about the duke. Her eyes searched his face. He had always been so supremely confident, and on occasion even a little arrogant. The expression on his face now seemed out of character.

Did she detect a hint of vulnerability beneath his angry words? She could not account for it. Playing with him? He loved the countess, she acknowledged painfully. All the
ton
knew he had been her lover for years.

“I do not understand. I would never play—” She spread her hands in confusion.

“Do not be coy, Miss Langston,” he cut in sharply. “I was quite in your thrall. You should be pleased with the feather in your cap. It is plain. The moment you captured my attention you grew bored and ran off,” he said brusquely.

“Are you daft?” Celia gasped, looking up to gaze at the duke as if he had taken leave of his senses. “You completely ignored me at Almack's. You are in love with the Countess of Kendall,” she informed him, as if he did not know this common fact. “You are the only reason she can tolerate her deplorable life with her old husband.”

Severly's well-muscled body stood tensed. “I beg your pardon?” he questioned with a raised brow.

“Lady Kendall was forced to marry the old earl while you were away at war. She is the only woman you have ever loved,” she stated quickly and impatiently.

“Who the hell told you that?” he questioned, watching her beautiful, confused face closely.