Friday turned misty by late afternoon. By then Celia felt almost sick with anticipation for Lady Pembrington’s little ball. To distract herself, she sat on her bed trying to read The Haunting of Hinchley Manor, her hair in rag curls. After staring at the first page for a full quarter of an hour without reading a word, she set the book aside and rang for Dora to draw her bath. She decided she would rather start getting ready early than endure this interminable feeling of expectation.
After her bath, Celia wrapped herself in a luxurious dressing gown of purple satin and walked to a comfortable chair by the fireplace. Hesitating a moment, she came to a decision. After she directed Dora to request her grace’s presence, Celia went to the rosewood bureau and retrieved the red leather jewelry case Mr. Whitely had given her the day he brought her the sad news about Edna.
Moments later Imogene entered, a look of curiosity in her hazel eyes. “Getting ready so soon?”
“Yes”—Celia sighed—“you know how long it takes me to decide what to wear. Though, I did not ask you to come here to help me with that decision. Imy, I am finally going to open Edna’s jewel case.”
Imogene gasped and sat down quickly in a chair by the fireplace. “Finally! I don’t know how you’ve resisted this long,” Imy said excitedly, and leaned forward for a better view.
After a moment’s pause, Celia sank into the chair next to Imy’s and slowly lifted the lid, then inhaled sharply. Imy forgot herself so much that she actually whistled. The deep, velvet-lined case held a kaleidoscope of jewels. Ropes of pearls in all lengths, bracelets of varied precious stones, at least a dozen rings, and a myriad of earbobs, necklaces, and brooches met their wondering gazes.
“It looks like a pirate’s treasure,” Celia whispered, her greenish brown eyes wide with astonishment.
“I can’t believe my eyes.” Imogene gasped.
Lifting out different pieces, Celia marveled at the fiery glitter of the precious stones, enjoying their weighty coolness in her hands. After passing a few handfuls of jewelry to Imy, Celia picked out a few more pieces and noticed something else beneath the jumble.
“Look, Imy, a diadem too! How did Edna ever keep all this a secret? I would have worn something different every day if I had been her.” She shook her head, amazed at the sapphires and emeralds in her lap.
“Try on the diadem, Celly,” Imy urged, continuing to sift through the pile of jewels with girlish pleasure.
Celia did, and Imogene helped her on with a diamond collar also. The young women fell about laughing at the absurd picture Celia made with her rag curls and wrap. Half an hour later they were still trying on and admiring the jewels, like two little girls playing dress-up.
Celia discovered an exquisite set of diamond-and-topaz earbobs with a matching brooch and bracelet. Instantly, she decided Imy must have them because they complemented her beautiful eyes so well.
“Oh, no, Celly, do not start giving away your jewels. Besides, I have enough of my own,” Imy protested, laughing.
“But nothing like this! They match your eyes, Imy. Please allow me the pleasure of making them a gift. Anyway, you know I could never wear topaz; the color does not suit me,” she cajoled, an impish light in her eyes.
“They are lovely and unusual.” Imogene hesitated, then looked to her friend. “Thank you, Celly, I would love them.”
They embraced; then Imy pulled back to look at her friend. “I’m so happy for you, Celly. I know you grieve for Edna, but I’m so glad that she has given you this new life. I confess that I shall enjoy London so much better now that we can share it.”
Celia bit her lip to hold back the emotional tears that pressed against her eyes as Imy moved to the door.
“I must leave you now or I shall never be ready on time. Thank you so much again for the lovely jewels, Celly, dear; I’m quite bowled over,” she said on a light note.
Standing in the middle of the beautiful rose and gold room, covered in jewels and with more jewels strewn across the chair and bed, Celia said, “So am I,” an ironic smile touching her well-defined lips.
Seated at her vanity table an hour later, Celia watched in the mirror as Dora put the finishing touches on her hair. Celia had been surprised at the jumpy little maid’s skill, considering that just a week before she had been a belowstairs maid. It had always been Dora’s dream to be a real lady’s maid, she had informed her new mistress, and so she had diligently tried to learn all that she could. She had gone so far as to practice hair arranging on the other housemaids.
Celia encouraged the little blonde to talk, and learned that Dora’s cousin Sophie, a lady’s maid to the fashionable Lady Kendall, had kindly guided her on a few things. But not even Sophie had been elevated to lady’s maid this young, Dora told Celia proudly. She was very proud of her new mistress, too. So pretty and kind, and Dora knew Miss Langston would be the perfect subject on which to practice her skills.
Celia felt the gown she had finally decided to wear was breathtaking. It was made of a deep violet silk with silver ribbons threaded through the little puffed sleeves that revealed the tops of her shoulders. Another silver ribbon was threaded underneath her bosom in the very fashionable Empire style. Dora had wound a silver ribbon through her golden brown curls and now stood back to judge her work with critical eyes.
On the night of her first ball, Celia wanted everything to be perfect. She fussed nervously with her new jewelry, changing it at least ten times, still not satisfied.
“If you’ll excuse me, miss, but I thought the little diamond earbobs and the plain diamond brooch and bracelet were the most becoming. Simple, like, if you take my meaning, miss.” The little maid loved looking at the ladies’ magazines that the duchess and Miss Langston left lying about and had developed a good eye for style.
Again, Celia donned the jewels Dora had suggested and, after gazing at herself carefully, felt Dora had hit the right note. “Very good, Dora. You are right. I would just be gilding the lily, so to speak, to add anything else. This dress is lovely enough.” She stared at her reflection and knew without vanity that she had never been in better looks. Not too ramshackle for a spinster of nearly six and twenty, she thought with some satisfaction. Her eyes were dark with excited anticipation, and the flush in her cheeks gave her an added glow. Dora then produced a box of very fine French powder and a chamois. Tapping the chamois into the powder, she gently pressed it against Celia’s nose, forehead, and chin.
“You don’t want to shine, miss,” cautioned Dora, circling Celia to judge her handiwork from all angles. She felt more than satisfied with her beautiful mistress.
“No, indeed, Dora. Thank you so very much for making me feel so pretty. You really are a wonder,” she said admiringly to the blushing maid.
Dora was saved from trying to respond by the entrance of the duchess, radiant in a pale, glimmering yellow gown accented by the topaz-and-diamond jewels Celia had given her earlier.
“Oh, Imogene, you’re so lovely.”
“Pish, tosh. This gown is quite old. But you, my dear, are breathtaking. If you don’t have a dozen beaux by the end of the evening I shall wonder why,” she stated positively.
After Celia collected her silver shawl and reticule, they left the room and went downstairs to the blue salon. The duke was already there, standing by the mantel, gazing into the fireplace.
Celia’s breath caught in her throat. Even in evening clothes he still managed to be so handsomely masculine. His black coat hugged his broad shoulders and the color brought out the gold in his hazel eyes. He wore a neckcloth of such intricately tied folds that she was convinced it must have taken his valet an hour to perfect it. A large emerald nestling in the folds of his cravat was his only adornment.
Imogene had been quite pleased when her brother had informed her that he would escort Celia and her to Lady Pembrington’s ball. Imogene had informed Celia earlier that Severly believed this was an excellent opportunity to ease her into Society before their own ball. Again, Celia had been surprised by his thoughtfulness.
“Here you are, and only a few minutes late. But I would have waited the whole evening for such exquisite beauty as this,” he said with a slight teasing smile.
His eyes came to rest on Celia and he could hardly comprehend that this beautiful, sophisticated young woman was the same one whom he watched skip stones with his nephews. His eyes met hers briefly as they left the salon.
Imogene chatted excitedly as they rode in the duke’s well-sprung town coach, pulled by four matched bloods, with the Severly crest emblazoned on the doors. Celia was grateful for Imogene’s incessant prattle, as the feeling of nervous anticipation that had plagued her all day suddenly started diluting into nervous dread. The duke was seated across from Celia, and she gazed at the emerald in his neckcloth as it blinked at her in the lights of the passing lampposts. She wondered what in the world she was doing.
She was a governess, for heaven’s sake. Celia knew she was only a country bumpkin trying to pass herself off as a lady of quality. By the end of the evening she was sure she would be considered an antidote by all and sundry. Celia’s palms became clammy and she felt the blood pounding in her ears as the carriage moved swiftly through the shadowy streets of London. Surely this was the most cork-brained plan ever to be contemplated—to introduce a spinster governess to the crème de la crème of London Society?
Before Celia could ask the duke to have the carriage turned around, the coach stopped. A footman in green livery opened the coach door and placed wooden steps on the ground; then Severly was helping her from the carriage. They were walking up the steps of a mansion that was brilliantly ablaze and obviously crowded. A crush of people surrounded her in the large foyer, the mass slowly moving forward to ascend the stairs to the ballroom. The plethora of brightly colored gowns and the scent of overblown flowers rendered Celia breathless in the oppressive warmth of the high-ceilinged room.
This was Lady Pembrington’s little ball? she wondered, gazing about in alarm. There must be three hundred people crowding up the stairs.
Panic seared through her veins as she heard the sonorous tones of the majordomo announcing the guests.
“His grace, the Duke of Roxbury.
“Lord and Lady Hampton.”
On and on it went, his voice clearly carrying throughout the assemblage. In a very few moments, Celia would be handing her card to the majordomo and hearing her name almost shouted out.
It was too much! Fear fluttered in her chest as she looked around the densely populated room for a way to escape. Why did she ever think that she wanted to go to a ball? What could she possibly say to all these people? This was horrid!
With her heart pounding fiercely, Celia began to edge away from the crowd, instantly concocting a hazy plan to hide in the cloakroom until the ball was over.
“You may call that particular shade of purple your own, Miss Langston, for no one else could look so well in it as you,” Severly’s deep voice rumbled just above her right ear. Some of Celia’s distress had transmitted itself to the duke and he wondered what to do. The chit was obviously panic-stricken. Celia turned to look up at the duke with terrified eyes.
“How kind of you, your grace.” She made a heroic effort to keep the tremor from her voice.
Severly smiled slightly into her troubled eyes. She was quite lovely, he thought distractedly. The candlelight from the enormous chandeliers brought a fiery shimmer to her golden brown hair, which smelled of lilacs, he noted. Her skin reminded him of the petal of a magnolia, the most exotic and rare flower in his vast hothouse at Severly. He felt his hand rise of its own volition to stroke her velvet cheek.
Shock blazed through his body. What a nine-days’ wonder that would be! The Duke of Severly taking a liberty with his own guest in public. He must catch hold, he told himself harshly. Celia Langston was not a light-skirt, nor even an experienced woman. The only course for a lady like Celia was marriage, and marriage was definitely not in the cards for Severly. He enjoyed variety and freedom too much to ever get caught in the parson’s mousetrap. But if he continued in this senseless manner, Imy would soon be haranguing him to offer for the girl, if only to save her reputation.
Yet his eyes still inexplicably held hers.
Celia could not look away from the expression in his glittering gaze. It seemed almost a physical touch that reached deep into her being and settled somewhere around her heart. His presence, the very broadness of his shoulders, and the glittering gold of his eyes blocked out the noise, the music, the world, and left only them.
Someone jostled Celia from the side and begged her pardon. The frozen moment shattered around her and left her feeling confused and disordered. Dazedly, she turned her gaze from Severly’s and ascended a few more steps. How close she stood to the majordomo now.
Celia mentally gave herself a shake, and her practical governess’s mind told her not to be a ninny. The duke was being kind. She had nothing to fear this evening; she was an independent woman now, not a governess. Hadn’t she always dreamed of wearing beautiful gowns and dancing at a ball? Imogene would be close at hand, so all would be fine, she told herself sternly, forcing the image of the duke’s enigmatic eyes gazing so deeply into hers from her mind.
With a lift of her chin she gracefully ascended the last few steps and handed the majordomo her card.
“Miss Langston.”