It was obvious to all that the young earl had gone to great expense to entertain the easily bored beau monde. So far, it was proving a rousing success.
Rowboats bobbed on the man-made pond for the Corinthians to show off their athletic prowess. Even the dandies tried their hand at the archery ranges set up on the velvet green lawn, and the ladies especially enjoyed the swings and the gypsy fortune teller.
Servants dressed in old-fashioned country garb circulated amongst the guests, serving an impressive alfresco luncheon. There were even braziers set up for those who might find it a novelty to cook their own food.
Earlier that morning, as they were setting out for Chandley in the duke’s open, shiny black landau, Celia was determined to ignore the duke. Now that she knew him to be an unrepentant libertine, she could not possibly find him attractive, Celia decided, tugging on her kid gloves with more force than necessary. Even so, she was annoyed that her thoughts so frequently dwelled on him. After Imy was settled across from her, Celia waited impatiently for the duke to join them, ready to display her new disregard for his presence.
To her chagrin, the duke rode up next to the landau astride his horse.
“Blackwind has become restive with these tame trots in Rotten Row. I shall meet you at Chandley,” he informed the ladies, tipping his beaver hat. After a brief glance to Celia, he spurred the horse with a flick of his heel and was off at a fast trot. Celia watched his broad back until he disappeared around a bend, leaving her more confused than ever.
“What a lovely day for a ride to the countryside,” Imogene opined as the coachman guided the team from the drive to the main road.
“Indeed, the earl could not have picked a better day,” Celia agreed a little absentmindedly.
The landau rolled along at an impressive speed. Imogene kept glancing at Celia, who seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.
“A letter from the boys came in the post yesterday. Peter thanks you for your letters and hopes you’ll keep writing, even though he hasn’t written back.”
Celia laughed. “How like Peter. I hope they are enjoying their visit with their grandmother.” Celia adjusted the angle of her parasol to keep the sun from her face.
“They are. No doubt Alice is spoiling them terribly. But no matter; it is only for a couple of months.”
The two young women fell silent for a time as the landau left the outskirts of London and entered a country lane.
“Celia,” Imogene began suddenly, “are you enjoying your stay in London?”
Noting the tone of concern in Imy’s voice, Celia pulled her thoughts from her musings and looked across to her old friend.
“Enormously,” she stated earnestly. “Sometimes, I still cannot believe that this has happened. If not for your care and guidance, where would I be?”
Waving away Celia’s gratitude, Imogene said, “I am pleased you are enjoying yourself. I, for one, am having a bang-up time watching you lead your beaux such a merry chase. And isn’t it fun to be toasted the most fashionable young lady in London?”
Celia made a self-deprecating face. “That is only because I gave Mrs. Triaud her head. I certainly had no idea what is considered the mode in London.”
“Maybe so, but if you weren’t so poised and pretty it wouldn’t matter what you wore.”
“Thank you very much, Imy. And what of you? It has not escaped my notice that Major Rotham is often at your side.”
Celia watched Imogene’s cheeks grow pink. “I confess that I do enjoy his company,” she said, suddenly finding the surrounding terrain of great interest.
Once they reached the estate, Celia’s new friends surrounded her and she threw herself into the gaiety full force. The number of gentlemen who paid court to her, including their host, soothed and gratified her pride. And it pleased her that she had given the enigmatic duke very little thought, at least for a while.
The day was lovely, if a bit warm, but Sir Richard Pembrington proved to be very obliging by continually bringing Celia cups of the tart and refreshing punch. She smiled at him sweetly, wondering if her opinion of him could be mistaken.
Soon Celia began to feel as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and led her band of admirers a merry chase across the Earl of Chandley’s perfectly manicured lawn.
Viscount Delford approached Celia and playfully challenged her to a game of horseshoes. Celia obliged him with an impish grin.
“Pray lead the way, my lord,” Celia said, taking the arm he offered. They moved to the horseshoe pit, a flat, grassy area a little away from the rest of the activities.
A footman raised his eyebrows in surprise as he handed the lady her first horseshoe. Evidently, the notion of a lady playing at horseshoes was novel enough to draw a crowd around the two participants. Viscount Delford bowed to Celia, saying, “Ladies first.”
Celia took her time before throwing, touching her hankie to her brow for a moment. For some reason she felt a bit light-headed. Swinging the shoe back and forth a few times, Celia squinted at the distant stake, trying to measure the distance. The crowd was extremely quiet.
She tossed the shoe underhand and watched it fly across the lawn. The distance was good, but the throw was too far left of the stake for Celia to be satisfied with her first attempt.
Delford did not fare much better, but then, he seemed more intent on flirting with Celia than making a good throw. That was until her aim improved with each try. She beat him by barely an inch and he insisted on the best of two out of three.
Celia thought him a very good sport when she bested him again. The little crowd cheered, and, with a smile, she dropped a curtsy to the bowing viscount.
Pleading fatigue, Celia walked back to the other guests and sat on a swing fashioned like a swan. A few swains jockeyed for the privilege to push her, but Celia became dizzy and begged them to stop.
Despite her resolution to put the duke out of her mind, Celia found it impossible to ignore him completely. She noticed him everywhere—winning the trophy at archery, holding a crowd of society’s notables engrossed with one of his entertaining stories, and just looking breathtakingly handsome.
She turned away when she saw Lady Kendall, dressed in an exquisite confection of pink gauze, move to his side and stay there. Sir Richard brought Celia another cup of punch and soon she felt better.
For his part, the duke was also finding it an effort to keep his eyes from constantly straying to Celia. He thought she looked utterly charming in her chic, spring-green dress with its sprigged pelisse and her bonnet tilted at a fetching angle. He smiled sardonically at how artlessly she handled her entourage. In fact, he found it dashed annoying that Celia seemed to be enjoying all the attention, even flirting in return.
He also couldn’t help noticing how often that pup Pembrington was at her elbow. He turned from his conversation with Leticia to look across the lawn to his sister, standing with Rotham and Lady Sefton by a sundial. Severly noted that Imy kept glancing at Celia with concern as she became bolder and more flirtatious. Not that Celia’s admirers seemed to take exception to her comportment, he thought cynically.
He continued to socialize, but kept an eye on Celia.
A little while later, the duke moved to lean against a large oak tree. From here, he had a very good view of Celia. Soon, to his annoyance, Letty approached arm in arm with Lord Petersham.
“Severly, you must see milord’s latest trinket,” Letty called to the duke.
“I would be delighted,” the duke said drolly. He usually found Lord Petersham a diverting sapskull.
Lord Petersham was showing off his newest bejeweled snuffbox when Severly caught sight of Celia making her way to the pond in a mode that was suspiciously like a prance. This put the duke very much on alert. When she started skipping stones, Drake adroitly disengaged himself from Lord Petersham and Letty. With feigned casualness he strolled across the lawn to join Imy and Major Rotham.
“Oh, Drake, what shall we do?” Imogene whispered to her brother anxiously,
twisting her beribboned parasol around and around. “David has just informed me that one of the punch bowls has been contaminated with spirits! That scoundrel Pembrington, who I’m sure is the culprit, has constantly been at her elbow with a full cup. Celly is obviously unaware of what she’s been drinking.” Glancing back at her friend, the duchess continued, “If Celia continues to act the hoyden, she will never get her vouchers for Almack’s. Countess Lieven has not taken her eyes from Celia in the last five minutes.”
Drake did not answer his sister immediately, as he continued to assess the situation with an enigmatic expression across his handsome face.
“Celia is unused to spirits,” Imy said in a hiss, using Major Rotham as a screen from the other guests. “No wonder she is behaving in this uninhibited way. How can we intervene without calling more attention?” Imogene looked up at her brother anxiously.
Coming to a decision, Severly turned to his sister with a grim smile. “We shall join in the fun. It is a fine spring day and there is no harm in kicking up our heels a bit,” Drake reasoned, watching Celia clapping excitedly as Chandley’s stone skipped several times.
A moment later, Celia was scrambling around the water’s edge, encouraging her admirers to help her find a suitable stone. Drake gritted his teeth as he saw a number of other guests turn their full attention to Miss Langston’s antics.
Westlake joined them at that moment, saying with a wicked grin, “Our Miss Langston certainly has a good arm.”
“Yes, and we’ve decided to find it charming,” Drake told his friend pointedly. “Rotham, let’s join in. After a bit, Imy, you come and persuade Celia to go to the gypsy’s tent with you,” he directed, starting toward the crowd by the pond.
“I’ll go with you,” Westlake offered helpfully, falling into step with his old friend. “I hear she’s taking wagers that no one can outskip her stones.”
“Good lord,” Drake said through clenched teeth.
Celia was extremely surprised, a moment later, when the duke suddenly appeared at her side. Peering up at him, Celia wondered why there seemed to be two of him. Following several deliberate blinks, he settled into one, and Celia smiled beatifically.
“Would you care to try your arm, my lord Duke? I have just found the loveliest stone and will let you have it, if you think you can beat six skips.” She held out the rock just a little too far to the right of him.
Severly took the stone, relieved to see that she was at least steady on her feet.
“Thank you, Miss Langston. It is indeed a fine stone,” he said, hefting the rock and taking a couple of steps closer to the pond. With a powerful yet graceful flick of his wrist, the duke sent the stone sailing across the surface of the pond.
“Good show!” said Rotham.
“Was that nine or ten skips?” someone in the group questioned.
Celia looked up at the duke with admiration. “What hidden talents you have, your grace. I would never have guessed.” She was almost flirting with him, she realized, but found she didn’t care.
“There is much about me you don’t know, Miss Langston,” Severly said. Celia wondered at the stern note in his voice.
Because the Duke of Severly had sanctioned the rock skipping, soon a number of gentlemen were trying their hand, laying wagers and having a rousing good time.
“Celly, you must have your fortune told. Come with me now,” Imy urged, pulling Celia by her elbow away from the fun.
Celia resisted her at first, but Imy continued to drag her across the lawn to the brightly colored tent.
Pushing aside the canvas that covered the tent door, Celia entered cautiously, blinking several times against the low lighting. She saw in the corner of the tent a small, wrinkled old woman sitting on an ornate red velvet chair. Looking around, she saw that the walls were draped in dark velvet. Celia also noticed a sweet, musky smell hanging in the dimly lit tent and closed her eyes as a curious, dizzy feeling came upon her again.
“Come in, come in.” The old woman’s voice was a raspy whisper. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?” Imogene said in an awed tone.
Celia only snorted inelegantly, and then placed a hasty hand over her mouth, surprised by her own uncharacteristic behavior.
The crone, wrapped in a black shawl, fixed her beady gaze upon Celia.
“So, you do not believe that Maria can tell the future?”
“Well, I beg your pardon, but no, I don’t,” Celia said a little breathlessly. She found the tent oppressive and wanted to remove her bonnet.
Never taking her eyes from Celia, the old woman gestured for her to come closer. After glancing at Imy, Celia took a few steps nearer the wizened old woman.
“Let me see your palm,” the crone demanded.
Wishing she didn’t feel so muffle-headed, Celia hesitantly held out her hand, palm up.
Imogene drew closer as the old woman squinted a moment over Celia’s palm.
“Mmm … I see two paths before you. You must chose wisely. Long life, great wealth, and happiness, or despair and solitude,” the old gypsy muttered as she continued to peer at Celia’s palm.
Considering the vagueness of these statements and how easy it would be to guess that she was wealthy, Celia was not impressed and pulled her hand away, disappointed.
“Will she find love?” Imogene asked quickly.
Celia paused, frowning at Imy before looking back to the strange gypsy woman.
Pulling her shawl closer, the old woman cackled hoarsely. “She already has it, but her stubbornness may cause it to die.”
“Oh, Celia,” Imy exclaimed, looking at the old woman with awestruck eyes.
“Imy, you can’t possibly believe any of this!” Celia cried. “Even I could make better predictions. And I don’t even claim to be clairvoyant.”
“You will see that Maria is right,” the crone interjected, pointing a gnarled brown finger at Celia. “You may lose what is most precious to you through your own stubbornness.”
Suddenly, Celia wanted nothing more than to be away from this stifling tent and strange old woman.
“Will you read my palm?” Imy requested eagerly.
“Sit, sit,” the gypsy directed, indicating a chair next to hers.
Seeing that Imy was caught up in having her palm read, Celia slipped from the tent. A wave of dizziness came over her again, leaving her feeling unsteady. Looking around for a place to sit, she saw that the great house was close by and decided to go in and rest for a while instead of joining the other guests.
A maid spied her and curtsied as Celia entered a spacious drawing room from the garden.
“Is there a place I may rest, please? I am feeling a little overcome by the heat,” Celia explained.
“Yes, miss. Please come this way.”
The maid led her to a charming anteroom and offered to bring her some refreshment.
Celia thanked the maid as she removed her bonnet and pelisse before seating herself on a comfortable little settee.
How long she sat there, she did not know, and found she did not care. It was much cooler inside, and if she did not move too quickly her head did not swim so dreadfully. It was actually a relief to be away from everyone.
“There you are. I was just about to become worried that you had wandered off to challenge someone at darts or had gotten lost in the maze.”
Celia looked up swiftly and saw the duke standing in the doorway with an amused smile on his lips. She jumped up in surprise and immediately wished she hadn’t. The room spun in a dizzying fashion. She hoped she was not becoming ill.
Severly moved swiftly to her side, catching her elbow as she swayed slightly. He watched her closely, recognizing all the signs of being slightly disguised. His grin widened.
“Are you well? Pray, Miss Langston, be seated.” He helped her to the settee.
His unexpected presence so unsettled her that she could not look at him, and consequently occupied herself with carefully arranging her skirt and fanning he
rself. A definite flush stained her cheeks.
“Thank you, your grace, I am quiet well. But I admit I feel it is a bit warm in here, don’t you?”
Severly sat down next to Celia. “No, but I expect you do. How many cups of punch have you had?”
Celia continued to fan herself and look around the room vaguely. “Two or three, I believe. Everyone has been fetching me cups.” She turned to the duke and gazed at him quite boldly, very aware of how handsome and strong he looked. In fact, there seemed to be something different about him. A hazy glow seemed to surround the duke. The blood pounded in her wrists and temples, and Celia wondered why she felt so muzzy.
“More like four or five,” the duke said archly.
“Four or five what?” Celia asked, her eyes fixed on the scar on his cheek, and she thought that it was most attractive.
“Cups of punch, Miss Langston,” he explained patiently.
“Oh, yes, cups.” Celia had no idea what he was talking about and continued to gaze at his face, admiring his strong jaw and angled cheekbones.
Setting her fan in her lap, Celia reached out a gentle hand and lightly touched the scar on his cheek. The duke was suddenly very still.
“How did this happen?” she asked, looking at him with soft brownish green eyes. It seemed perfectly natural to Celia, wrapped in her warm golden glow, to be sitting quite alone with the duke, touching his cheek.
Severly captured her hand and silently cursed Pembrington. He brought her hand up and lightly brushed her fingertips over his lips. “In Spain.” His voice was almost stilted. “I don’t recall exactly how, there was so much happening. A gash on the cheek went unnoticed at the time.”
“It’s really rather nice,” she complimented him as she met his intense gaze.
Celia’s heart thudded wildly as he leaned closer to her, still holding her hand.
“I feel very strange,” she said faintly, unable to look away.
“You are utterly entrancing.” The duke’s voice was a husky rumble.
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