A Spinster's Luck

by Rhonda Woodward

  A mischievous smile raised a dimple at the corner of Celia’s mouth. She tried to imagine how they would respond if she said, “I have no tolerance for your arrogant and heartless uncle. And even if I did, he would raise a disgusted brow if a mere governess were so familiar as to join him for tea.” No, that would not do, she thought with a mental shake of her head. Especially with Henry. He would never stop asking questions until he was satisfied with the answers. Celia knew something had to be said, and since Imogene didn’t seem inclined to offer a response, the job was left to her.

  “I am sure your uncle would like to spend some time with the two of you without me tagging along.” It was as good a response as any to offer, she thought as she put away the hairbrush.

  Henry gave Celia a level gaze with his surprisingly mature blue eyes. “Mother is always there at mealtimes when Uncle Drake visits,” he pointed out logically.

  What could she say to that? Celia wondered in dismay, looking around the cozy nursery for a clue. At thirteen, Henry would not easily be fobbed off with evasions. Imogene, Henry, and Peter stood in the middle of the room, staring at her expectantly.

  With an inward sigh, Celia decided to be straightforward with her charges. “Henry,” she began carefully, “it just would not be seemly for me to join you and your uncle at mealtimes. After all, I am not a member of the family, and your uncle is the Duke of Sev—”

  “Yes you are too family!” interrupted eleven-year-old Peter. He looked at his mother and older brother with wide brown eyes, not understanding how Celly could say such a thing.

  “I am the Duke of Harbrooke,” Henry said, and for the first time in his young life he sounded like it. “Mother and Grandmama are both duchesses. You always eat with us unless Uncle Drake is here.”

  “Such a fuss over nothing.” Imogene, seeing this conversation was not progressing well, stepped forward. “Celia just means that she does not know Uncle Drake, and he, of course, does not know her. Really, we can’t expect him to love Celly as we do. Besides, the only time Celly gets a chance to read or sew is when you two are otherwise occupied. My goodness, I did not realize how selfish you two have become! Uncle Drake is waiting for you. Now run along, and I shall be down presently.”

  This seemed to satisfy Peter, but Henry still frowned, though neither one said anything as they left the room. Both women sighed in relief as the door shut behind them.

  “My, you’ve been having a time of it, haven’t you?” Imogene observed as she seated herself before the fireplace and watched Celia pick up the boys’ discarded clothing.

  “Yes, rather.” Celia laughed, a lovely, trilling laugh that usually elicited an answering smile from those who heard it.

  Celia looked at the duchess, her expression changing to chagrin. “My goodness, Henry sounded like a barrister! Can you imagine what the duke would say if Henry had dragged me to tea?”

  Celia envisioned the duke sneering down his perfect, aristocratic nose and ordering her from the room for being so presumptuous. Not that she had any desire to be included. In fact, for the last ten years she had been successful at avoiding any contact with the duke on his visits to Harbrooke. She had paid close attention to his habits, when he rose and retired, which parts of the house he rarely visited, all so that she could avoid the imposing man. Granted, Napoleon had aided her, for the duke had been much away because of the war, but it was still disquieting when he did arrive. The whole house became unsettled. The maids and footmen bustled about nervously. Even the cantankerous cook strove for unusual perfection in the normally delicious meals she served.

  “I cannot imagine that Drake would say anything,” the duchess replied. “This is my home, and Drake is too well mannered to censure me for who sits at my table. Besides, Celia, you are my dear friend and it would be natural for you to dine with me.”

  Imogene had never understood Celia’s marked aversion to her brother. She always suspected that Celia knew that years ago Drake had been critical of so young a girl caring for the boys. Even so, she never pressed Celia on the subject, out of respect for the sensitive girl’s feelings.

  “What a dear you are!” Celia exclaimed, crossing the room to sit next to the duchess. “It is just that we are all so familiar and used to one another here at Harbrooke that we forget that the duke is used to town manners. I am sure it would offend his grace’s sensibilities to be forced to dine with the governess,” she reasoned.

  “Oh, twaddle! You aren’t really the governess anymore; you are more of a companion to me. As for Drake’s sensibilities, I believe he gave those up long ago,” Imogene opined dryly.

  Celia made no response, and the duchess could see that she was not going to budge. She never had. And it was unlikely that she would now.

  Changing the subject, she told Celia, “Jarvis rode over today. Edna has taken a bad turn and he is hoping that you will go over to Harford Abbey and sit with her. Evidently she is giving Jarvis and the servants fits again.”

  Celia’s eyes flashed to the duchess in surprised concern. Harford Abbey was a musty old manor house built on the ruin of an ancient abbey some three miles away. Edna Forbisher was the local eccentric, a recluse who had not left her house for over thirty years. Local gossips liked to claim that old Miss Forbisher had been crossed in love in her youth and had never recovered from her broken heart.

  There was some truth to that supposition, but Celia felt she knew the full reason: Edna Forbisher could not stand the company of most people. She was headstrong, intolerant, and in bad health. It had just been easier for the woman to grow old staying at home alone than to deal with the local populace.

  Celia’s mother had taken her to visit Edna many years ago. At first, the odd old woman had rejected the kindness of the good vicar’s wife. Slowly, though, Celia’s mother had won her over, and Edna became grudgingly grateful for the company.

  Celia made her first visit alone to the frightening old woman’s home a few months after her parents’ deaths. Somehow it made her feel closer to her mother to continue to do something they had shared. After a while, she came to enjoy her visits with the peculiar woman and the dark, faded beauty of Harford Abbey.

  “I had planned to visit her the day after tomorrow, but of course I will go in the morning if Jarvis thinks she’s that poorly,” Celia said, a concerned frown on her brow. Edna must be ill if her butler came all the way to Harbrooke to see if Celia would visit.

  “I don’t know how you can abide that gloomy place. It would fair give me the shivers, even in the light of day,” Imogene said, emphasizing her point with a good shudder.

  “It’s not so bad when you’ve been there a few times. The house reminds me of an old woman who was once a great beauty. You can still see vestiges of her loveliness in unexpected ways,” she said thoughtfully, sadness touching her lovely eyes.

  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 pri
zed 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.

  Chapter Two

  The 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 h
is 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.