Lois Menzel (4 page)

Anthony placed his free hand over Celia’s where it lay on his arm. She glanced up at him.

“It’s pleasant,” he said, “having time alone like this.”

Being reminded that they were, in fact, quite alone left Celia tongue-tied.

After a few moments Anthony spoke again. “I had a brief conversation with your mother this morning after breakfast. Did she tell you about it?”

“No. Should she have?”

He shrugged. “I thought she might have said something.” He stopped and turned to face Celia, taking her hands in his. “I told her that as soon as I have returned you both to London, I intend to travel to Yorkshire to ask your father for your hand in marriage.” As he gazed down at her upturned face, he detected a hint of a smile mixed with pleased surprise. Taking her firmly by the waist he pulled her to him, planting a warm kiss full upon her lips.

Experiencing her first kiss ever from a man, Celia was shocked by the sheer intimacy of the act. The softness of his mouth on hers sent chills racing to the very tips of her toes. Drawn by the strength she sensed behind the gentleness of his touch, she involuntarily leaned toward him, and he tightened his hold on her.

When he finally drew away, she kept her hands lying along his forearms, not willing to allow the glorious moment to pass. As he smiled at her and spoke, she focused her eyes on the fine, sensual lips that had given her such pleasure.

There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “I suppose I may assume from your reaction that you would welcome my suit?”

“I should like it, sir, above all things.”

“Until such time, then, as I can speak with your father, I shall consider us unofficially engaged. And it would please me if you would call me Anthony.”

Some minutes later the couple retraced their steps to the carriage and began the return trip to Walsh Priory. Part of this journey was accomplished in companionable silence. Anthony was delighted that Celia had accepted him, for he was as certain as he could be that she was the perfect woman for him.

For her part Celia was having difficulty believing her own good fortune. She had previously permitted herself to dream—to hope. But this was no longer a dream. He had proposed! She had accepted. Her father’s permission was the merest formality. How jealous all her London friends would be when they learned that she had attached the young, handsome, wealthy, and personable Mr. Graydon. She could hardly wait to see their reaction!

And then there was that one final glory that would be hers. The Earl of Walsh was not long for this world; she had seen that for herself. And though she wished him no ill, she truly felt that it would not be long before he traveled on to his final rest. When that happened, she—Celia Demming, youngest daughter of a Yorkshire wool empire—would be the Countess of Walsh.

Celia was drawn from this glorious reverie when Anthony slowed his horses to acknowledge a rider approaching from the opposite direction.

“Celia, here is someone you must meet.” He uttered her name casually, as easily as if he had used it all his life.

Just hearing it thrilled her. It sounded so possessive. She struggled to focus her thoughts on the rider ahead. It was a young woman near Celia’s own age, mounted on a handsome brown hack. The young lady’s habit of dark blue wool was neither fashionable nor new, but it had been cut with skill and showed her slim figure to advantage. As she came closer, Celia could see that her dark hair had been braided and pinned up beneath her hat. Large brown eyes peered out from a comely, smiling face.

“Anthony,” she said as she reined in her horse and Anthony stopped his pair. “Your mother told me you were home. Somehow I keep missing you.”

She paused then, giving Anthony an opportunity to introduce his companion.

“I had been meaning to call on you. Allow me to introduce Miss Demming. She is staying at the Priory.” As the two young women nodded and smiled, Anthony turned to Celia. “This is Miss Ursula Browne; her father is rector of Little Graydon.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Browne,” Celia said. “I have heard Lady Walsh speak of you.”

“She told me you have been stopping every day,” Anthony added. “I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

Ursula shrugged this thank-you off as she said, “Your mother is a saint. It is no trial to spend time with her. But I must bid you good day, for I am late. I was due at the children’s home ten minutes ago. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Demming.” Then, with only a nod, Ursula urged her horse past the carriage and into a canter as she hurried on her way.

“What a lovely young woman,” Celia commented as Anthony set his horses in motion.

“Is she?” He seemed to consider for a moment before he said, “Yes. I suppose she is. I cannot say that I ever noticed.”

“Have you known her long?”

“Since she was eight or nine years old.”

“Well, then, that explains it, does it not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Should she be riding alone?” Celia asked, amazed that any young woman would be permitted to ride unescorted.

“She always does. She will come to no harm. Besides, the rector does not employ a groom.”

“Surely there is some stable lad who could go with her?”

“Probably. But Ursula would have no patience with that. She is a headstrong girl, accustomed to having her own way.”

Celia made no reply. Her mother had always insisted that headstrong girls were destined for self-destruction, and she could not conceive of what it must be like to “have one’s own way.”

That evening at dinner, Celia blushed becomingly when Anthony announced their unofficial betrothal. Both Mrs. Demming and Lady Walsh voiced their approval and concurred that a spring wedding would be just the thing.

“It is our custom to have a house party for the shooting in November,” Lady Walsh added, directing her remark at Mrs. Demming. “You and Miss Demming must come. And Mr. Demming, too, should he care for it.”

“What a kind invitation, Lady Walsh,” Lavinia said, “but indeed we cannot accept. Two of my daughters are increasing, and I have promised to be with them during their confinements. Melinda is expecting her child in mid-November, and Sophia, soon after Christmas.”

“Then you must allow Miss Demming to come to us,” Lady Walsh persisted. “She and Anthony would then have an opportunity to become better acquainted, and she could meet some of our friends and other members of the family.”

Mrs. Demming did not commit herself to this plan, but later that evening when she and Celia were alone, she asked how Celia felt about the invitation.

“I should like to come. It is lovely here, and Lady Walsh is correct. I do not know Mr. Graydon—Anthony—all that well, and it would allow us more time together. If I go back to Yorkshire now, I probably would not see him again until the wedding. And another thing, Mama. It gets rather lonely for me at home now with everyone else gone.”

“My only concern is that you should be properly chaperoned, Celia.”

“Lady Walsh will be my chaperon, Mama. And did she not say her sister will be here, too? Then, there will be the wives of the gentlemen who are invited for the shooting.”

“But what of Mr. Graydon, Celia?”

Celia did not pretend to misunderstand. “He has been a perfect gentleman, Mama. Have you forgotten how wonderfully he behaved when I fell down the stairs? I will always be grateful to him for his delicacy on that occasion. I trust him completely, else I would not have agreed to wed him. But if you will allow me to come, I will be careful to remember all you taught me. I will guard against any situation that might be considered even the least bit compromising. I solemnly promise.”

Celia held her breath while she waited for her mother’s decision. The previous winter in Yorkshire had seemed to last forever. To spend even part of this winter in Buckinghamshire would be a wonderful reprieve.

“Very well,” Lavinia said. “We will go back to London tomorrow as planned. Then, after Mr. Graydon has formally called upon your papa, and if your papa approves, we will permit you to accept Lady Walsh’s invitation.”

Celia smiled inwardly. Her mama had already made up her mind, and her papa always deferred to his wife in matters concerning their daughters.

Celia returned to London and allowed herself to be swept into the current of her social calendar while she waited for Anthony to visit Yorkshire. What few whispers still circulated concerning her tumble down the stairs were forgotten entirely when the news of her engagement to Anthony Graydon began to circulate among the ton.

When Anthony called to offer her a ring that he and his mother had chosen together from among the family heirlooms, she cried. All the years of hard work: the French and deportment lessons, the hours of practice on the pianoforte, the endless fittings and hair dressings—all the sacrifice had paid dividends she had never anticipated. Her future now seemed brighter than she had imagined even in her most fantastic dreams. She had never been so happy in her life.

In the early days of November, Lavinia Demming headed west to settle herself into Melinda’s home in Cornwall while Celia accepted her betrothed’s escort to Walsh Priory. This time she had packed all the clothes she had with her in London and had taken her mother’s maid as well. Lavinia insisted that no one could dress Celia’s hair as Wylie could, and besides, she would not need Wylie while she sat about Cornwall waiting to become a grandmother for the fifth time. Celia and the maid occupied the coach while Anthony once again rode alongside. This caused Celia no small amount of concern, for the day was chill with a strong wind blowing.

“Surely you should ride inside with us,” she suggested when she became aware of Anthony’s plans.

“I won’t be cold.”

“But if it should start to rain, you could catch your death.”

Her genuine concern for his health caused him to smile indulgently at her. “If it should begin to rain, I promise you, I will come inside. Does that content you?”

She had agreed but still watched him anxiously whenever she caught a glimpse of him through the window. She and Wylie were warmly supplied with heated bricks at their feet and a thick fur rug over their legs.

Lady Walsh seemed to be watching for them, for no sooner had they entered the hall than she was there full of delightful news. On the previous day while she was sitting with her husband, he had turned his head to look at her and had recognized her.

“He looked directly at me and said, ‘Frances, is that you?’ I was that flabbergasted I could not think what to say for a moment. Then, of course, I said it was me and how did he feel? He said he felt tired but wanted to know where you were, Anthony—and Wexford. I told him you were in London, but expected today. Then I told him that Wexford had gone with the army to deal with Bonaparte, and when he looked troubled, I said that we had soundly beaten Boney, and he was exiled forever. He seemed delighted at that, said I should send both you and Wexford to him as soon as you arrived, and then he drifted off again. I wanted to tell him about your engagement, but I had no chance. Today he does not know me, but surely that was a good sign, don’t you think?”

Both Anthony and Celia agreed that this was indeed wonderful news. Then, while Lady Walsh rattled on in much the same vein, Celia took her arm and walked with her to a sofa in the drawing room. Anthony directed the footmen to unload the baggage coach while the butler was sent for tea.

The drawing room was predominantly blue, quite large but made comfortably warm by a wood fire burning on the hearth. When Anthony moved toward the fire, Celia was convinced that he had been chilled by his ride. Lady Walsh had progressed into a discussion of her family. “My oldest sister died several years ago; she is the one who left her estate to Anthony.”

This was news to Celia, but she pretended only polite interest.

“My younger sister, Mary, is arriving tomorrow. She is totally idle, but so good-natured one cannot help but like her. Our other guests do not arrive for several days, so you will have plenty of time to settle in.”

Celia soon went upstairs to change for dinner. There she found Wylie directing two chambermaids in the unpacking of various trunks and portmanteau.

“What dress will you wear for dinner, Miss Celia?” Wylie asked as she folded delicate under-things and stowed them into a large oak chest near the wardrobe.

Celia opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, feeling silly. She had no idea what she should wear. In fact, she realized with a sense of shock that she had never been asked that question before. As Wylie repeated the question, Celia put her off. “We will dress my hair first. I will decide on a gown later.”

Since she had already finished washing, she sat down in her chemise and stays on the bench before the dressing table and regarded herself in the mirror as Wylie removed pins and brushed out the burnished curls.

Celia suddenly felt cold and realized her hands were shaking. She gripped them together on the table to still them. Always self-assured and confident in the past, she was suddenly afraid. Wylie had asked a simple question; surely Celia could answer it. What should she wear? A quiet dinner in the country with only the countess, Anthony, and herself. What would be appropriate? She had dozens of dresses. Which would best suit the occasion?

She could wear the dark pink muslin—or was it too light for such a cool evening? The green wool, then—though it was rather simple for her first night at Walsh Priory. What would Lady Walsh wear, she wondered? She had no idea.

Was it really possible that in all her years of training she had not learned how to dress herself? It was true. She realized now that she had never once made a decision herself about what to wear, or how to dress her hair. Even her jewelry and accessories had been chosen by her mother.

Her hair was finished now, neatly arranged and shining. She rose from the bench and addressed Wylie with as much assurance as she could put into her voice. “I don’t know what I feel like wearing tonight, Wylie. Why don’t you pick something from those things that are already unpacked?”