Lois Menzel (2 page)

“It is Celia, sir, and I do not think your question bold.” She glanced up into his face and found his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

“ ‘Come my Celia, let us prove . . .’ ”

Clearly puzzled by the rejoinder, she asked, “Excuse me, sir?”

“It is a line of a poem—by Ben Jonson. Do you know it?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“It is a fine name. It suits you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Several moments passed in silence before he spoke again. “You dance delightfully, Miss Demming.”

“Thank you, sir. I am pleased that you think so.”

“Do you realize that each time I speak, you thank me?”

“Each time you speak you compliment me, sir. It is only proper that I thank you.”

“And do you always do what is proper, Miss Demming?”

He was teasing her and was therefore surprised when she answered with perfect gravity. “I try very hard to. Sometimes I fail. It is not always easy to decide what is proper.”

“Would you consider it improper for me to ask how old you are?”

He was amused when she considered a moment before answering. “I think your question is rather more indelicate than improper, sir.”

“Dear me. I am such a clod. I had not intended to be indelicate, nor to have you think ill of me.”

“I think you are curious, Mr. Graydon, and I will strike a bargain with you. I myself have a curious nature. I will tell you what you wish to know, if you will share the same information with me.”

“I agree,” he said.

“I turned twenty, sir, in July.”

“I will be seven and twenty in November.” As the final bars of the music played, he asked, “Do you go to the Rutledges’ soiree next week?”

“Perhaps” was all she said before he returned her to her mother and took his leave.

Nothing could have exceeded Lavinia Demming’s delight when Celia revealed the salient points of her conversation with Mr. Graydon: he had complimented her again; he had asked if she would be at the Rutledge party the following Tuesday. These were wonderful tidings—wonderful tidings, indeed. Mrs. Demming already had an invitation to the Rutledges’, but if she had not had one, she would have moved heaven and earth to acquire it.

Marriage into the Graydon family would be a victory in itself, but if Lord Wexford had indeed perished at Waterloo, then young Anthony would be the new earl one day and Lavinia’s youngest child would be a countess. She could scarcely believe her good fortune.

On Tuesday night Lavinia selected for Celia a sea-green gown embroidered with gold thread. It was a color that complemented Celia’s dark green eyes and brought out the red tones in her hair. Although Lavinia already felt the situation with Graydon was promising, she was always prepared to hedge her bets. He had first noticed Celia in green, perhaps green would please him again.

Celia’s sister Amelia and Amelia’s husband, Sir William Lane, were also present on Tuesday night. Celia was partnered for nearly every dance. When she sat with her sister and mother during the intervals, she said little.

Finally Amelia commented, “You are very quiet tonight, Celia. Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m sorry,” Celia responded. “Am I being dull?”

“Celia had hoped Mr. Graydon would stand up with her tonight,” Lavinia answered quietly. “But we have been here more than two hours and . . .”

“Maybe he has not come,” Amelia suggested. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” Celia replied, “but he specifically asked me if I would be here tonight, so naturally I thought
he
would be.”

Mrs. Demming assumed an offended air. “I pray he is not trifling with you, Celia. I will think much less of him if he is. I do not care for it in the least when gentlemen—” She stopped speaking suddenly, and her demeanor changed from one of haughty disapproval to pleased surprise.

Celia looked up to see Mr. Graydon making his way toward them. Her fit of the sullens fled, to be replaced by a rebirth of hope.

Earlier in the evening she had danced with Mr. Prescott, who had ever so slight a paunch and an unquestionable bald spot, Sir Ralph Hazelwood, charming but over forty, and Lord Button, wealthy but humorless.

Compared with these gentlemen, Anthony Graydon was perfection. His black evening coat set off his broad shoulders superbly, and his satin knee breeches did little to hide the strong muscularity of his legs. His curling brown hair, far from showing any sign of thinning, had been ruthlessly brushed into perfect order. His young, rakishly handsome smile was genuine and focused directly upon Celia. When he asked for her company in the dance and her mother nodded approval, Celia placed her small hand in his very large one, her heart thumping uncomfortably within her breast.

As she watched her daughter waltz with Mr. Graydon, Lavinia preened. If Mr. Graydon could be brought up to scratch, this match would be her greatest victory.

Nearly an hour later both Demming ladies retired upstairs to refresh themselves. After Lavinia was satisfied that Celia’s slightly dance-tangled curls were once again perfect, they descended the stairway together. When they had come halfway down, Celia noticed Anthony Graydon standing at the bottom of the stairs in conversation with several other gentlemen. Perhaps he had been watching for her, for he looked up at that moment and smiled when he saw her.

Celia thought of all the trips she had made up and down the stairs at her home in Yorkshire with a heavy book on her head. “Keep your chin up, Celia,” her governess would say. “And under no circumstances sway your hips. Most unladylike, to be sure.”

With hard work and determination, Celia had mastered the balanced book both on the floor and on the stairs. Now Mr. Graydon would be the fortunate recipient of her hard-won poise, her practiced grace. She smiled, parting her lips to allow her perfectly straight teeth to show slightly.

Then, in the twinkling of an eye, she somehow misjudged the next step and was caught off balance. She made a desperate grab for the balustrade, but it was beyond her reach. She had time only to notice a startled look of dismay on Mr. Graydon’s face before she tumbled headlong down the remaining ten steps, landing in a heap of arms, legs, sea-green flounces, and exposed petticoats directly at Mr. Graydon’s feet.

While Mrs. Demming stood frozen with shock on the stairs, a quick-thinking Anthony bent swiftly to twitch the hem of Celia’s gown over her exposed ankles and frilly white undergarments.

“Are you all right, Miss Demming?” he asked. “Such a nasty fall!”

His tone held genuine concern, but Celia did not hear it. Quickly pulling her legs beneath her, she accepted Mr. Graydon’s support to rise to her feet. She was aware that all talking in the hall had ceased and all eyes were upon her. She felt in that instant that she must surely die of shame.

When Anthony once again asked her if she was all right, she mumbled, “I am well, sir, thank you. Please excuse me.” With her eyes downcast, she moved as quickly as possible toward the cloakroom, wanting only to escape the scene of her disgrace.

Mrs. Demming followed her daughter. As she passed Anthony, he said, “With your permission, Mrs. Demming, I will call in the morning to be certain she was not hurt.”

“You are very kind, sir,” Lavinia replied. “Good night.”

It was only after they had gone that he realized he did not know where they lived.

Late the following morning Anthony Graydon wasted no time in learning the direction of the Demming family. His source of information was Lord Roth.

“Is there a Mr. Demming, Roth?”

“So I understand, though I have never met the gentleman. His property is in Yorkshire, and I believe he prefers the dales to the smoky city. It is said that his flocks produce the best wool in the county, and he is rumored to be considerably wealthy. His four older daughters were handsomely dowered, and Miss Celia, so the gossips say, has an equal portion.”

“It is not Miss Demming’s fortune that concerns me at this moment. I cannot believe that so frail a creature did not suffer some injury from her fall last night. It was utterly appalling. It happened so quickly, there was nothing I could do. And all those stuffy matrons were standing about. No doubt their tongues are rattling today, eager to spread the tale of someone else’s misadventure. They live in Brook Street, you say?”

“Yes. Number seventeen.”

“I will call there directly after my stop at the War Office.”

“Since you are still going there every day, I assume there has been no word of Wexford.”

“No. But I refuse to give up hope.”

After hearing at the War Office the same tidings he had heard time and time again, Anthony called in Brook Street and found Mrs. Demming at home. She was alone when he was ushered into a handsomely appointed salon.

“So good of you to call, Mr. Graydon.”

“How is your daughter this morning, ma’am? Last night she said she was fine, but I cannot help worrying.”

“She has a few ugly bruises, I fear, but nothing more serious. No broken bones or anything of that nature.”

“I am relieved to hear it, Mrs. Demming, for I must tell you that I feel in some part responsible for this accident.”

“Goodness, sir! Certainly not!”

“Indeed,” he insisted. “I had caught her eye, and she was looking at me instead of minding her step. If I had not distracted her . . .”

“However that may be, sir, she was not seriously hurt. She is greatly embarrassed, but will overcome that in time.”

“I was hoping I could see her this morning,” he said.

“She decided not to come down today . . . but perhaps tomorrow . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, clearly an invitation.

“I will call again tomorrow, then, ma’am, if you are sure it is not an imposition.”

“We would be delighted, Mr. Graydon.”

When he had gone, Lavinia whisked herself up to Celia’s room. Celia was still abed, studying fashion plates.

“You will never guess who came to call,” Lavinia said as she seated herself in a chair near the bed.

“I am not in a mood for games, Mama,” Celia answered sourly. “If you would simply tell me, there would be no need for me to guess.”

“Very well. It was Mr. Anthony Graydon.”

Celia’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “You jest, Mama.”

“Certainly not. And he asked after you. What is more, he intends to return tomorrow to see for himself that you suffered no harm in your fall.”

“My fall? You should say my public disgrace. And he may save himself the trouble of stopping again, for I will not see him!”

“Of course, you will. You cannot hide in your room forever.”

“How can I show my face anywhere, Mama? Dozens of people saw me fall, and they must have given an eyewitness account to all their friends. I cannot bear to think about it. It is all too awful.”

“A few days at home to recover is understandable, Celia, but sooner or later you must enter society again. And if a few people should stare or whisper, let them. All will soon be forgotten.”

“I will not forget,” Celia cried passionately. “Not ever!”

On Thursday morning Mrs. Demming once more received Mr. Graydon alone, for nothing she could say would budge Celia from her bedchamber. This time he left behind a floral tribute for the young lady: a modest bunch of violet hearts-ease tied with a green ribbon. When Lavinia delivered this to Celia, she burst into tears. Wisely Lavinia decided not to tell her child that the gentleman insisted upon calling yet once again on the following day.

By Friday morning Celia was heartily sick of her bedchamber and ventured downstairs for an early breakfast. At precisely twenty-five after eleven, Lavinia asked if Celia would be kind enough to put on a shawl and go out into the garden to see if there were any chrysanthemums that might serve to brighten the sitting room.

A few minutes later Lavinia heard her butler admitting Mr. Graydon in the front hall. She walked there to meet him.

When the butler had left them alone, he said, “I hope you have been able to convince Miss Demming to see me, ma’am.”

“I must admit, sir, I have never known my child to be so obstinate as she is being in this instance. I assure you, she is not typically so. I actually believe that if she would speak with you, it would help her get past this terrible embarrassment she is feeling. She is presently in the garden behind the house. Perhaps we should join her there.”

Anthony followed her down a short hallway and out a rear door into a neatly landscaped garden with high walls and winding brick paths.

Celia turned when she heard the door closing, and then stood transfixed as she saw who accompanied her mother. If she could have run away, she would have, but they barred the only way back into the house.

In a light conversational tone, Lavinia said unnecessarily, “Look who has come to pay us a call, Celia—Mr. Graydon. I believe I will leave you to entertain him, for I really must have some of the Michaelmas daisies for the dinner table tonight.” She casually took the shears from her daughter’s unresisting hand, excused herself, and walked away, staying in sight but out of earshot. Anthony walked forward until he was standing within a few feet of Celia.

She felt herself blushing and dropped her gaze, steadfastly regarding the cut flowers in her hands.

“I have called three days in succession hoping to see you,” he said. “I wanted to assure myself that you had not been injured, but even more, I wanted to apologize. I believe it was my fault that you fell.”

This brought her gaze up to meet his. His face was full of concern, his eyes apologetic. “How could it possibly be your fault?” she asked.

“I caught your eye from the bottom of the stairs. I distracted you. If I have been the cause of any injury to you, I will never forgive myself. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. Coming down the stairs—you were so lovely. You
are
so lovely.”

Celia blushed anew, not so much affected by the words themselves as by the tone in which he uttered them. His voice was low and full, charged with emotion.

He reached to take her free hand and found it was cold and shaking. He enclosed it between both of his.