A Spinster's Luck
Authors: Rhonda Woodward
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A SPINSTER'S LUCK
A Signet Regency Romance
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Signet edition / December 2002
InterMix eBook edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2002 by Rhonda Woodward.
Excerpt from
A Hint of Scandal
copyright © by Rhonda Woodward.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-57371-6
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Version_2
Prologue
1806
S
ilence reigned throughout the cavernous darkness as the thin young girl slowly descended the great oak staircase. Again, sleep's gentle touch eluded her, and she hoped a mug of milk might aid her to slumber. As she reached the first landing, she paused. Could someone be there? Tilting her head to the side she listened intently, trying to probe the dense blackness. Her breath expelled in her relief. The sinister noise was only the
swish, click, swish, click
of the massive pendulum clock a few feet away.
Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, she extended one hand searchingly before her. Vaguely, she recalled the kitchen being located down a long passage to her left. Cautiously, she proceeded, unnerved in the dark and eerily quiet house.
“Drake, my dear brother, you cannot be so heartless! Celia's parents have been dead for just a week.” The girl froze upon hearing her name and the anger in the Duchess of Harbrooke's usually gentle voice.
“Be reasonable, Imy; the chit is little more than a child,” came the irritated reply. Realizing the voices were coming from the library, Celia moved silently and tentatively toward the door that was slightly ajar. She recognized the deeper voice as belonging to her grace's brother, the Duke of Severly.
“As you know, before he died, Philip gave me half guardianship over your sons,” he said. “I take this responsibility
seriously, and I do not like the idea of a child having charge over my nephews.” The duke's tone was emphatic. Celia's breath suddenly felt trapped in her body. With trembling fingers she clutched the edge of a hall table to steady her legs.
“Celia is sixteen, Drake, which is not infantile. Her father was the vicar of Harford, and when my dear husband died, he and his wife were of great comfort to me. Celia is a good and intelligent girl. I like her, and so do the boys. Celia is an orphan now. Having her live with me and the boys is the best arrangement for us all.” The duchess's voice sounded stubborn.
“Sixteen? I hesitate to give a child so much responsibility. Can you not find someone like our old nanny, Crawfie, to care for the boys? Someone more mature, more trustworthy?” His deep voice portrayed intolerance and impatience.
Terror filled Celia's heart as she suppressed an anguished gasp with a clutched hand pressed to her mouth. They were going to send her away! Where could she go? Would she end up in a workhouse?
Oh, Mama, Papa, why did you leave me?
Celia restrained herself from crying out in her fear and loneliness.
Standing petrified, she listened to the argumentative tones, oblivious to the faint chill seeping into her skin from the cold stone floor.
“Drake, you know Crawfie is too old to take full charge of the boys, but she will still be here to help. Besides, I have no desire to be away and leave them under the supervision of someone else. Do you think I will go back into Society just because my year of mourning will soon be completed? No, I am very content to stay here at Harbrooke.”
“I can see that you are determined in this, Imy, but if I ever feel the girl is not doing a proper job of caring for Henry and Peter, I shall press the issue.”
“Everything will be fine; you will see. Let us not argue on this any longer,” Imogene said wearily.
“Of course, dear sister, get some rest. I shall stay and read a little longer.”
Celia heard her grace's steps coming toward the door. With a quick turn, she lifted the skirt of her bed gown and fled back down the hall, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold stone. She did not slow her flight until reaching the sanctuary of her little room on the second floor.
“Why does he hate me?” Celia wondered aloud in anguish, clutching the bedpost as if someone were trying to wrench her from it. “What have I done?” Tears rolled down her thin face. How the duke terrified her with his mean, hawklike face. At this moment she believed he could be the devil himself. Celia crawled into her feather bed and buried herself under the covers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed fervently that the duke would leave Harbrooke very soon and never return.
1816
A
chilling wind pierced the air, but the day was bright and there was the sparkle of moisture from a recent rain on the expansive parkland surrounding Harbrooke Hall. This proved an irresistible lure to Drake, the fifth Duke of Severly, and his steed, Blackwind. The duke decided he was enjoying his visit to Harbrooke Hall, his sister's residence in Kent. Or to be more accurate, it was the home that now belonged to his young nephew, Henry.
Harbrooke Hall brought to his mind many happy childhood associations. Indeed, this very stretch of field, leading to a wooded area to the east, reminded him of when he and Philip Harbrooke used to slay dragons and challenge highwaymen with stick swords. With a quick movement of his heels, he guided Blackwind across the field into the copse of wood, a nostalgic smile touching his handsome face.
Many years ago, before death and war had invaded his peaceful life, Drake and his family had often visited Harbrooke. One particular holidayâa lifetime ago, it seemedâstood out in his mind.
On an exceptionally fine spring day, he and his friend Philip had swaggered about the estate in their doeskin breeches and spurs. They had been drinking themselves silly and making absurd wagers with all the cockiness only young men on term break from Oxford could display.
Imogene had been just a slip of a thing, but already showing signs of great beauty. Philip, to Drake's disgust, had been casting sheep eyes to the girl who would soon become his wife. During luncheon, to their mothers' mutual horror, Philip challenged Drake to a steeplechase. Knowing the challenge was intended to impress Imy, Drake, willing to help his friend show off, had accepted with alacrity.
Drake would never forget that wild ride through the cool gloom of the evening, hearing the thudding of the horses' hooves and feeling the wind whip his cheeks.
Philip, several yards ahead, had thundered into this very wood, hoping for a shortcut. Drake could still see his fair head and hear his whoops of excitement. Drake reined in his horse, cautious for not knowing the terrain as well as his friend. Philip's horse fairly flew over the hill, leaving Drake well behind.
A moment later Drake heard a loud noise and Philip's distressed cry. He shouted Philip's name, terrified that his friend had broken his fool neck. As he crested the ridge, his horse stumbling in its haste, Drake came upon Philip up to his neck in a duck pond. Then Drake's horse, not being fond of water, had pulled up abruptly, pitching its rider over his head. Drake had landed quite near Philip, sailing face-first into the shallow murkiness.
After righting himself, he brushed a lily pad from his shoulder. Drake gave Philip a disgusted look. “I am certain this is not the way in which you intended to impress my sister,” Drake said to his soaked and muddy friend.