A Spinster's Luck (3 page)

Imogene looked at her friend with some surprise.
“You really are fond of the place and old Miss Forbisher, aren't you? It's not just a duty to you.”

“Oh, no, I look forward to my time with Edna. She wasn't always this way. Once, she led an interesting life.”

And it was sad—sad to be old and lonely with no family. Knowing that her friend would strongly disagree, Celia did not tell Imogene that she felt an affinity with Edna Forbisher. Celia knew she could very easily end up the same way as the old woman.

That evening, Celia had her dinner on a tray in her room, her usual practice during the duke's visits. After several hours of unaccustomed inactivity, Celia soon tired of her pretty cream and blue room. Setting aside a pair of stockings she was darning, Celia rose from the chair by the fire, deciding to seek a book from the library before retiring.

Avoiding the duke had never proved a difficulty. She would just take the servants' stairs and ask one of the maids for the duke's whereabouts. If he was not in the library, she would dash in, choose a book, and be back in her room in a trice.

All went according to plan until she stepped from the library, holding the prized book.

“Ah, just the person I was hoping to see,” came a deep voice from down the hall.

Celia froze in terror, feeling as if she had been caught trying to steal the crown jewels. Why did she always have this reaction to him? she wondered, annoyed at herself for reacting so. It was as if she were ten years younger and he still had the power to throw her out.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, your grace?” she asked, turning toward him with a quick curtsy. Celia was a tall girl, but she still had to look up to see his face. She saw that he was dressed for dinner in a coat of Spanish blue superfine, well molded to his broad shoulders. His waistcoat was a cream-colored brocade picked out in blue thread, and his beige trousers hugged his muscular, well-defined legs all the way to the ankles. He wore his dark hair slightly long and styled in the fashionable
windswept mode. She could not help perceiving that he evidenced the epitome of manly elegance.

Celia always found the duke's appearance a bit jolting, for his face proved a masculine version of his sister's countenance. She noted a square jaw with a slightly cleft chin, a straight, aristocratic nose, and darkly fringed hazel eyes. A small, jagged scar marred the high plain of his right cheekbone, but she thought it suited the rakish air that surrounded him. His smile was dashing, she knew, for she had noticed it once when she had chanced to see him playing with his nephews in the garden.

Despite the languidness of his stance, Celia sensed something assessing in his eyes. It occurred to her that beneath his polished and urbane exterior, his grace was a formidable man.

“May we speak in the library?” He gestured toward the room, pleased that coincidence finally presented him with the opportunity to take a closer look at the young figure that had intrigued him earlier in the day.

“Of course.” She stepped past him to stand in the middle of the library, feeling curiosity surface through her fear. Why in the world would he wish to speak to her?

The duke walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, facing her. He scrutinized the young woman before him. Her gown was a dark gray-blue and very plain, without even a ribbon to relieve its severity, but the color showed to advantage her very pale, ivory complexion.

Earlier, at the pond, he had thought her quite slim, but now he noticed her subtly voluptuous figure. His lazy gaze traveled up to her faintly flushed cheeks. He saw the perfect oval of her face, and her cheekbones, high and smooth. She was beautiful. But her eyes were what made the breath catch in the duke's chest.

They were the most arresting eyes he had ever seen, and he was a man who had looked into the eyes of many beautiful women. They were large, dark-lashed, brownish, and slightly aslant at the corners. Even in the poor light of the fire he could see green flecks in the irises.

He wondered how he had ever missed this lovely creature. How had half the men in Kent?
And what the devil was I going to say to her?
he asked himself vexedly.

Staring down at the book in her hands, Celia struggled to quell the nervous trembling of her fingers while waiting for the duke to speak.

After a moment, as the duke still had not spoken, she glanced up and met the full force of those hazel eyes and instantly found it difficult to breathe correctly. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never been alone with a man in the whole of her life, nonetheless one as imposing as the Duke of Severly.

This was all rather daunting for Celia, because even in quiet Harford, the duke's reputation was well known. She had heard it said that all of London proclaimed him a famous whip for having beaten Lord Alvanly's record from London to Windsor with his matched grays. Rumor had it that Gentleman Jackson considered the duke his best pupil, and that if he had not been a duke, his grace would have made an imposing pugilist. Even his own sister said that he casually wagered enormous sums of money on the turn of a card, and won more often than not.

Imogene and her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of Harbrooke, discussed in hushed tones, and with much concerned shaking of heads, the duke's reputation for having broken more than his fair share of hearts.

Celia knew that someone as sophisticated as the duke could only find her the dowdiest of bumpkins, and decided that that must be why he looked at her so oddly. Gazing at him expectantly, she waited politely for him to speak as she sought to hide her trembling.

Recalling himself, the duke began, “Er … Miss … Ahh?”
Oh, famous
, he thought,
I can't even recall the dashed girl's name.
He could not very well call her Celly, as the boys did.

A hint of a dimple appeared in the left corner of Celia's mouth. “My name is Celia Langston, your grace,” she supplied quietly, her lashes lowered to her cheeks.

“My apologies, Miss Langston. How remiss of me not
to recall the name of my nephews' governess,” he said, giving her the slightest bow of atonement, accompanied by a smile that had set more than one lady's heart aflutter.

To Celia, who had long been accustomed to thinking of the duke as a monster, the smile appeared menacing. Her skittishness increased, and she glanced at the double doors, desperately hoping someone would enter.

The duke noticed her distress and wondered at it. He couldn't positively recall ever speaking to the girl, nonetheless giving her a distaste of him. He frowned. In truth, he could not recall giving
any
female a distaste of him.

Walking over to one of the bookshelves, he said, “I wish to discuss Henry and Peter.” He noticed the frown that instantly marred her delightfully arched eyebrows. “They are getting older and I am concerned. I want to know if you feel they do as well as they should in their studies.”

In her surprise at his words, Celia forgot her nervousness. He did not know if his nephews, of whom he was guardian, were prepared for school or not? Celia thought he should be ashamed for not taking a better interest.

“Yes, your grace, it is my opinion that Henry and Peter are doing very well. They are both intelligent boys with a desire to learn, and a curiosity about the world around them. Their tutor, Mr. Drummond, is quite pleased. You have no reason to worry about them academically.” She stood very straight and her tone was defensive, as if he had implied an insult.

The duke, who had been a successful strategist during the war, knew when it was wise to retreat. Somehow he had gotten off on the wrong foot with the lovely Miss Langston. He could not explain her abrupt manner toward him, but he did know when to cut his losses.

“Thank you, Miss Langston; that is my opinion also. I did want to confirm it with you, as you are their governess and are with them regularly.”

Celia's ire immediately deflated. To give him his due, he had always taken great interest in everything concerning
the boys. Maybe he just needed reassuring, she reasoned. Either way, the encounter had not been so horrid, and it appeared she would be able to escape momentarily.

“I understand, your grace,” she said quickly with a curtsy. She waited for his dismissal and looked at the scar on his cheek, since she found it impossible to meet his unsettling gaze.

With a slight inclination of his head he wished her good-night, and Celia hoped she did not appear rude in her haste to leave.

T
he next morning, after the boys ran off to the stables with lumps of sugar for Blackwind, Celia entered the breakfast room a little later than was her habit. Knowing the duke normally broke his fast early, she wanted to be certain that she would not encounter him again.

She stopped short as she entered the breakfast room. For there sat the duke, leisurely reading the
Times
across the table from Imogene, who looked up and gave Celia an I'm-just-as-surprised-as-you-are look and shrugged.

This is the outside of enough
, Celia thought in frustration, forcing the frown from her face with difficulty. How vexing to come across him twice in as many days. She had weathered every one of his previous visits to Harbrooke without having to say so much as a good-morning to him.

When the duke glanced up from his paper, he saw Celia standing just inside the room. He rose from his chair politely, his gaze surveying the dove-gray gown she wore. It was as severe as her gown of last evening, but again, its sobriety could not detract from her beauty. He thought her remarkably pretty with the morning sunlight beaming in from the French windows, picking out deep golden highlights in her brown hair.

She curtsied deeply, but not before the duke noticed her discomfiture.

“Good morning, Miss Langston,” he offered with a slight smile and an arched brow.

“Hello, Celia. Come have your toast,” directed the
duchess quickly, for she knew Celly would turn and flee if not prevented.

Lifting her chin, Celia said, “Good morning, your grace, Imogene,” and allowed Grimes, the butler, to seat her.

The duke noticed that Celia had not greeted the duchess formally. Now, as he watched them enjoying their toast and hothouse fruit, a suspicion grew.

He noted the casual way Imogene chattered to Celia about domestic affairs and the way Miss Langston responded just as naturally. This was all very curious, he thought with a frown. He had visited his sister as often as the war and his own affairs had allowed and had never come across the girl, except in passing. But here they sat, conversing as if they were the best of confidantes. If this was so, his thoughts concluded, how had he never come to hear of it?

As he watched Miss Langston's graceful form, he could not help observing that she seemed uncomfortable in his presence. It was obvious in the way she refused to look at him. Could it be possible that she had been purposely avoiding him all these years? His first inclination was to dismiss this thought as absurd. He turned his attention to their conversation.

“Are you sure you will not take the carriage, Celly? It's almost three miles to Harford Abbey, and the days are still chilly,” said the duchess.

“Thank you, but I always enjoy the walk. If I may, though, I would appreciate the carriage tomorrow when I go into the village,” Celia requested as she spooned strawberry preserves onto a slice of toast.

“Of course. Shopping or the lending library?” the duchess questioned after taking a sip of hot chocolate.

“Both. My quarterly arrived, and I believe Finchley's has some new fabric. Is there anything I may get for you while I am there, Imogene?” Celia was very relieved that the duke was reading his paper, so she would not be forced to converse with him. He must be a slow reader, she thought in passing, noting that he had not turned a page since she sat down.

“If Finchley's has the latest edition of the
Lady's Magazine
, I would like to have a look at that,” the duchess responded. Imogene loved looking at the latest fashions and saw no reason why she should not dress fashionably even if she did live quietly in the country. Besides, the villagers expected it of her.

“Have Cook make up a basket for you to take with you, Celly. I know that Edna will keep you all day and not even offer you a decent meal,” Imogene chided. Glancing at her brother, she saw that he had laid aside his paper to lounge back in his chair and openly attend to their conversation.

“You've heard me speak of Edna Forbisher, haven't you, Drake? She is our local oddity. Why, the only one allowed in that dank old house of hers, besides a servant or two, is Celia,” she revealed with an impish smile to her friend.

“Yes,” Severly replied, thinking Celia was even lovelier this morning than she had been last evening in the library. “I know of your local eccentric. Philip and I used to try to sneak up to the house, but her old butler always chased us off. Philip said she was quite mad,” the duke commented.

Celia's head snapped up at his last comment. She was forced to look at him because she could not let this assumption pass.

“Oh, no, Edna is not mad at all,” she exclaimed, turning to address the scar on his cheek. It's just that when she was young and making her come-out in London, she liked a certain gentleman very much, but he preferred someone else. I believe he kept Edna on a string, so to speak, until he had secured the affections of this other young lady. Edna has never been in robust health, always wheezing at the slightest exertion, and her possessing a lofty temperament added to the shame of it all. When she returned home she just could not bear the pitying faces, the questions, and all the fuss and bother. So she stayed home and read her books,” Celia explained with an expressive shrug, feeling that this was a weak clarification of Edna's state of sanity. She wondered if someone like the duke could understand Edna's behavior.