A Spinster's Luck (6 page)

They discussed plans for Major Rotham's arrival, and Celia told her of her stay at Harford Abbey.

“I would like to renew my plans to go to the village tomorrow, if you wouldn't mind,” Celia declared.

“Go right ahead, my dear. I'm sure you would like a little time of your own after spending the last few days in that gloomy house. Now I must go speak to Cook.”

As she walked from the village of Harford's only lending library to Finchley's shop, Celia felt a sense of well-being that had not been present for some days now. She also felt quite pleased with herself. Edna was better, the day was fine, and she had been able to completely avoid the duke yesterday. It had been easy too, she thought, allowing herself a satisfied smile.

March had arrived and the days were already becoming warmer. The ground was muddy only in low spots, so Celia had decided to walk from Harbrooke instead of taking the carriage to the village. Many people spoke to her as she meandered along the sidewalk, looking into shop windows.

Plump Mrs. Adelforth stopped to ask after everyone at Harbrooke, and as Celia responded, a black phaeton with scarlet wheel spokes caught her attention as it turned down the lane. From the corner of her eye, Celia watched the vehicle pass with a sinking heart, hoping the duke would not see her and stop.

After the phaeton reached the end of the lane, Celia sighed in relief and took her leave of Mrs. Adelforth. She would choose her fabric and leave the village quickly, lest she encounter the duke.

Severly had indeed noticed Celia's slim figure as she stood on the sidewalk. After a moment, he decided that the girl would probably have given him the cut direct if he had stopped and tried to address her. His finely shaped mouth firmed in a line of irritation as he tooled his horse down the lane. He was annoyed with himself for being so curious about his nephews' governess and
irritated with the chit for being so elusive. It was just his pride, he knew, that made him so interested in the girl.

After all, since reaching his majority, he had grown accustomed to the most beautiful women in London fawning over him. All things considered, he was not a vain man. It was just the way life had been for him. So for a governess to snub him was rather lowering to his address. Besides, he really could see no reason for it. On the rare occasions that he had ever spoken to Celia, he had been nothing but polite. It was dashed queer in his opinion, and he'd never been able to resist a challenge.

Pulling his horses to a stop and turning the reins over to Johnny, his tiger, he leaped with agility from the conveyance, and turned back in the direction he had seen Celia walk.

The humble villagers were soon agog at seeing the redoubtable Duke of Severly walking the quaint streets of Harford. The attention did not faze the duke's urbanity. Accustomed to causing a stir wherever he went, he strolled along the village street, nodding to those who had the temerity to address him.

As he passed the mantua maker's shop, he paused to take a pinch of snuff. He glanced in the window and saw Celia, her lovely hair covered by a plain and rather bedraggled poke bonnet, stroking a bolt of violet-blue velvet. The proprietor lifted the bolt for her closer inspection. Celia pulled her hand away and smilingly shook her head and said something to the man. He put the bolt of velvet back and produced a bolt of dark green muslin.

The duke continued on, entering the next shop to purchase a new tin of snuff. Emerging shortly thereafter, he signaled Johnny to bring the phaeton around. Stepping into the conveyance, he glanced back at the mantua maker's shop before urging the horses to a light canter.

A half an hour later, laden with her green muslin, Imogene's magazine, and books from the lending library, Celia left the shop with a last, longing glance at the beautiful violet-blue velvet. It had felt as soft as rabbit fur, she observed wistfully. Finchley's rarely carried such exquisite fabric, but it was far beyond Celia's touch.

Walking down the lane, Celia crossed Highstreet to enter the road that led home. A phaeton pulled up alongside her, and she quickly stepped off the road to let it pass.

“Good afternoon, Miss Langston. I see you've been shopping. May I convey you home?” a deep voice asked, and lazy hazel eyes smiled down at her.

Celia was speechless for a moment, completely startled by the duke's abrupt appearance.

“No, thank you very much, your grace, I enjoy walking.” She curtsied quickly and lifted her skirt slightly to aid her quick escape.

The duke stepped from the phaeton and gave his tiger a few instructions, then turned toward Celia as the phaeton left at a fast clip.

Staring dumbfounded at the retreating vehicle, Celia wondered if the duke had taken leave of his senses. Glancing warily at his sparkling black Hessian boots and Skeffington brown coat, she wondered how he planned to get home.

Giving her astonished face a devilish grin, he offered her his arm.

“I too would enjoy a walk.”

Celia almost broke out into a chorus of hallelujahs when the welcoming porticoes of Harbrooke Hall finally came into sight. The last half an hour had been agony for Celia, leaving her confused and even a little frightened.

When the duke had offered her his arm and taken her packages, she had seen nothing else for it but to go with him. As they strolled along the road, the duke spoke to her in a deep, almost teasing voice. He asked after her purchases, and offered in a tone of old friendship that he hoped she had not spent all her money on fripperies. He examined with great interest her books from the lending library.

“What, no gothics? I was under the impression that all young ladies read gothics voraciously,” he bantered, gazing down at her with an engaging smile.

To each of these inroads, Celia had been as stoical
and brief in her responses as possible. She wished he would go away and not look at her as if he found her amusing.

On his part, if Severly had not seen her behave in such a lively fashion with the boys and his sister, he would now be questioning her verbal capabilities.

After a few more fruitless attempts at furthering the conversation, they fell silent for a time. The only sound was their shoes crunching along the path. The duke wondered, with some exasperation, what to say next. And Celia prayed that he would walk faster.

“I am sure Imogene has told you that my friend, Major Rotham, will be arriving tomorrow?” Severly tried again.

“Yes, your grace.”

“We were in France and Spain together during the war. He took a lead ball in the leg and now walks with a bit of a limp. But for all that, no one rides to the hounds better than David.”

“He is very fortunate.”

“The last time I saw David was at his hunting box in Norfolk, over a year ago. Do you ever hunt or ride, Miss Langston?”

“No, your grace.”

“I see … er … well, I particularly wished to speak to you about Major Rotham's visit. I would be most appreciative if you would dine with us for the duration of his stay. It would save Imogene from being stuck with two bachelors, you understand.”

Celia almost choked. Desperately, she searched for a way to decline. She could think of few worse situations than being forced to dine with the duke. Glancing up at him quickly, she saw that he was waiting for her answer. To her great disappointment, she could think of no excuse to give him.

“Of course, your grace.”

The duke gave the conversation one more try.

“Thank you. May I ask how Miss Forbisher is recovering?”

“Very well, your grace.”

The duke stopped dead in the path. A momentary but
awesome anger flashed in his hazel eyes, making Celia catch her breath.

“Pray tell me, Miss Langston, have I offended you in some way? I find your behavior toward me quite odd and I cannot account for it. I have been trying to converse with you this past half hour and you are making it dashed—and purposely, I believe—difficult.”

Celia stepped back, shocked by this sudden attack. How dared he speak to her in this way, towering over her in that imperious manner? A latent but fierce temper made the blood pound in her ears, and the green in her brown eyes caught fire.

“I beg your pardon, your grace. I have been as civil as anyone could expect, considering that you have practically forced your presence upon me this afternoon.” Her voice was icy and her chin went up. For the first time she looked him in the eye.

The anger completely left the duke as he watched this transformation take place. A moment ago she had been placid to the point of blandness. Now he wouldn't be caught off guard if she took her packages back and threw them at him.

With throaty laughter and raised hands, Severly said, “Cry truce, Miss Langston. You are perfectly right. I did force my rude self upon your walk. But how else could I speak to you about dining with us?”

Suddenly, Celia was horrified by what she had just said. How had she dared ring such a peal over him? Her slightly unsteady hand attempted to cover the blush coming over her throat. It must be due to the familiar situation at Harbrooke Hill, she owned. Being as one of the family had given her too much assurance.

He did not appear incensed with her effrontery, Celia observed with relief. To her great surprise, amusement definitely glimmered in his lazy eyes.

Celia suddenly became acutely aware of the attractive cleft in his square chin, as they stood alone on the quiet country lane.

For the first time, Celia could see how the duke had gotten the reputation for being a heartbreaker. That
smile could almost make her forget what a selfish libertine he really was. Almost.

She didn't know where to look, and her heart began to beat a little faster. Suddenly, she recalled a tale she had heard many years ago about some poor woman making a cake of herself in public over the duke. It had been a nine-days' wonder, and Imogene had been much concerned that her brother was becoming a rogue.

And no wonder, thought Celia, giving the duke a quick, cautious glance. He was obviously a practiced flirt and intimidatingly handsome. Who could blame a silly woman for becoming twitterpated over him? she thought honestly.

But I am not a silly woman. I am an old maid, and the duke must be bored with country life
, she thought cynically as she looked at the scar on his cheek.

“Forgive my shrewish tongue, your grace. I can't think why I was so rude. I will be happy to make up the numbers at dinner,” she said in a quiet tone, avoiding his pointed question.

“Not at all, Miss Langston. As I said, I rudely forced my presence upon you,” the duke said gallantly, liking Miss Langston better when she was indignant rather than subdued.

As they resumed their walk, Celia had to prevent herself from picking up her skirts and running the rest of the way to Harbrooke Hall.

T
he ladies of the house lingered patiently in the blue drawing room while waiting for the arrival of Major Rotham. That particular room's chief appeal was that it afforded a view of the front drive.

Celia, observing Imogene sitting calmly on the settee, could not help but notice that she had taken great pains with her appearance. The duchess appeared exceptionally pretty in a lovely blush-colored tea gown with cream lace at the neck and hem and a cream ribbon threaded through her coffee-colored curls.

Imogene chanced to look up at that moment and catch her friend's appraising eye, causing a flush to rise to her cheeks.

“Well, I don't wish him to think I have completely lost my looks over the years,” Imogene said defensively.

“Indeed he won't, my dear Imy,” Celia soothed, knowing the duchess was feeling nervous in spite of her outward serenity.

“Oh, dear.” The duchess sighed with a shake of her head. “What does one say to an old beau in a situation like this?”

Having never had a beau, old or otherwise, Celia did not know what she could say to ease Imogene's discomfort.

The duke strode into the room at that moment and greeted the ladies. “I see David has not arrived yet,” he observed, pulling a watch from his pocket to check the time.

“No, not yet,” his sister said with a casual air, glancing out the window as if she had almost forgotten they were expecting a guest.

The duke sat down in an overstuffed chair opposite Celia. Again, she wore the dark blue gown in which he had first noticed her by the pond. Her hair was covered with a little lace mobcap that the duke thought looked quite absurd, considering how young and beautiful she was.

Feeling his eyes upon her, Celia refused to look up from her needlepoint. She still felt self-conscious after their encounter yesterday and did not know exactly how to behave with him.

“It will be good to see old David again. Imy, didn't you make his acquaintance during your Season? I'm sure I heard him mention it once or twice,” Severly asked his sister, who dropped her tatting at that moment.

“I … ah … we did meet in London. We met several times at different balls and soirees and such. I believe him to be a fine figure of a man.” The flush in her cheeks had become a definite blush, and Celia stared at her with raised eyebrows.
A fine figure of a man, indeed.
Imy was really doing the thing much too brown in Celia's opinion.

Suddenly, Grimes entered the room and announced the awaited guest. Only Celia heard Imogene's small squeak of trepidation.

As their guest walked past the butler, the duke crossed the room and the two men clasped hands firmly. “David! Good to see you,” the duke exclaimed.

Celia took that moment to look over the much-anticipated Major Rotham. He was near the same height as the duke, but of a lighter build. His complexion was a ruddy tan, his hair the color of wheat. His features were angular and engaging. He did possess a slight limp, but it did not seem to affect him unduly. Noticeably, he and the duke were of the same ilk. Both were athletically built men of sophisticated taste. There was an air about the two of them that told the observer that they had experienced much of what life had to offer.