Magical Weddings (2 page)

The invitation for Celia to join Lady Stone’s house party arrived at mid-day, and the few hours from then until the family sat down to dinner were the happiest Celia could ever remember. She was so absorbed in sorting out which gowns she would take, and her maid was so occupied with laying them gently into Celia’s trunks, that they both forgot about dinner until the gong sounded.

Though Celia scrambled into the nearest frock and rushed downstairs, she found the parlor empty. She considered tiptoeing back up to her room and asking her maid to bring her a tray–but she couldn’t honorably expect her mother to make excuses to Uncle Rupert for a wayward daughter. So Celia took her courage in both hands and strolled into the dining room, where the footmen had already started to serve the soup.

She’d been foolish to hope she could slip into her chair without being noticed. Her mother whimpered as Uncle Rupert’s tight-browed glare came to rest on Celia. To make matters worse, directly across from Celia’s customary place sat her cousin Simon, present at the family table for the first time in a full week. The moment she appeared, he rose and flourished a bow in her direction.

Of all the times for Simon Montrose to remember his manners.
Celia couldn’t recall the last occasion when he’d treated her so politely, and of course now he’d done it only to draw attention to her gaffe. She could tell by the dimple which only appeared in his left cheek when he thought he’d got the best of her.

“I’m sorry to be late, Mama. Beg pardon, Uncle Rupert.” She sank into the chair the footman held, unfolded her napkin, and cast a limpid look across the table at Simon. “Thank providence our guest is–”
Nobody important
. “—only family.”

Simon Montrose’s gaze flicked over her. “Fortunate for you, Silly, that there was no need to make yourself presentable this evening.”

Celia felt color surge into her cheeks. He needn’t be rude, even if the frock she’d so hastily seized was one she hadn’t worn since last year–when she’d still been in the schoolroom and her figure hadn’t been quite so developed. And to use that dreadful nickname, too–the one he’d invented when she was six and he was ten, on the very day they’d met for the first time. Both families had been visiting Uncle Rupert…

Let slip how much it annoys you, and he’ll never call you anything else
. “Uncle, did Mama tell you of my good fortune?”

“She had just informed me that you felt unwell. Yet here you are, all smiles.”

Celia tried not to grimace. Mrs. Overton’s nerves made her hopeless at telling the smallest of social fibs, but she must not have considered the consequences of a tale like that. If Celia was truly unwell tonight, she could hardly hop into a carriage tomorrow to ride off cross-country to a party.

Uncle Rupert tasted his soup and pushed the dish aside, with a curt gesture to the butler to bring the next course. “I suppose by
good fortune
, you’re referring to this fandango about some festivity or other.”

“Yes, Uncle. Lady Stone has invited me to join her house party. It’s a wonderful opportunity, for she–”

“Lady Stone. Isn’t she that meddling old gossip we met last year in Tunbridge Wells?”

Celia took a deep breath. “That wasn’t at all what I was going to say, Uncle. She’s invited a group of young people to a house party to celebrate the wedding of her niece, and she’s being so kind as to introduce me to them.”

“Young men, you mean,” Rupert said repressively.

Mrs. Overton looked taken aback. “But of course, Rupert. How is Celia ever to marry, if she doesn’t meet suitable young men? It is so kind of her ladyship to act as a sort of fairy godmother and include our girl. And at a wedding, too!–It’s magical how such an event turns a gentleman’s thoughts to his own future. I understand Lady Stone’s nephew will be there–he holds the title now, you know. And she mentioned a viscount, as well as a baron or perhaps two.”

Celia cut gently across the guest list. “Mama’s right, Uncle. How else am I to meet eligible men? Since you are reluctant for me to have a Season in London…”

He snorted. “Waste my blunt on frills and fripperies and the hire price for a house in the City–when the London swells would see only that you’re the great-niece of a tradesman? I think not.”

The
ton
would be more likely to view Uncle Rupert as a vulgar mushroom than as a mere tradesman, for the one indisputable fact about Rupert Overton was that his ventures into trade had made him astonishingly rich. “That is true,” Celia said quietly. “But I’m also the granddaughter of a baron.”

“Coming over all hoity-toity about it, are we? I’ve not noticed the connection to a title doing either you or your mother any good these last twenty years, missy.”

Celia had to admit Uncle Rupert had a point. The baron who had sired Celia’s mother had disowned his daughter when she married into a family which made and sold cloth–and so far as Celia knew, Mrs. Overton had never heard so much as a word from her family since.

Noting the way her mother’s lower lip trembled at the reminder, Celia changed the subject. “As I was about to say, Uncle Rupert, if a London Season is out of the question, then Lady Stone’s house party is by far your best opportunity to get me off your hands and married. You keep telling me that the young men I meet at the assemblies here are far beneath my touch.”

“And so they are. Haven’t seen any yet with ambition or good sense. And not a one with so much as a pair of coppers to rub together, either, which is why they cast their gaze toward my fortune. But the only man you need is right here.” Rupert waved his fork toward Simon.

Her cousin? Of course he wasn’t serious, to imply that she and
Simon
…

Celia couldn’t help it. She giggled.

The dining room went silent. The butler, who was pouring her wine, seemed to freeze. Not even the clink of a spoon broke the spell.

Celia’s gaze slid toward Simon. For a moment, she thought he looked annoyed–but then he gathered his customary calm and helped himself to pheasant from the platter the footman offered.

Finally Rupert spoke. “Find the idea amusing, do you, that you’re to marry Simon?”

Celia cleared her throat. “Well, yes, I do. I mean, you’ve hinted it often enough, sir, but you can’t possibly be serious.”

“And why is that?” Rupert’s tone was ominous.

“It’s the sort of arrangement that must have seemed logical when we were children–keeping the family money all in a lump, and so on. But as it turns out, we simply don’t suit.” She sent a look across the table at Simon, pleading. “Tell him!”

Simon cut a bite of pheasant. “I confess, Uncle, this is one of a mere handful of occasions in my life when I find myself in complete agreement with my cousin. I can think of no option less inviting at present.”

Celia’s mouth dropped open.
I didn’t ask you to make me sound like an antidote!

“Considering your options, are you, my boy? Would one of those options be Lady Hester Billings?” Rupert said shrewdly. “Oh yes–I know you’ve been nibbling round the manor house, entertaining yourself with the earl’s daughter. You’d better be cautious there.”

A flicker of color rose in Simon’s lean cheeks.

“Lady Hester?” Celia said. “Simon, are you daft? Lady Hester would
never
—”

“No more daft than you, Silly–thinking you can snap up a title in a few days at a party.”

“Children,” Mrs. Overton protested faintly.

“Oh, yes,” Rupert murmured, “
now
I see evidence of the strain of blue blood each of you sports. A sharp tongue and a sense of being better than your fellows–those qualities must have come from the titled sides of your respective parentages, for they surely didn’t arise in the Overtons.”

Hair stirred on Celia’s nape. Rupert, she had long ago learned, was most dangerous when he turned to sarcasm.

Mrs. Overton fluttered a small, plump hand. “But that’s only because you’ve never been in a position to get to know these people, Rupert.” Celia winced and tried to catch her mother’s eye, but Mrs. Overton carried straight on. “I have. And I’m persuaded Lady Stone will present only suitable young men from excellent families, ones who are worthy of my beautiful Celia.”

“Titled idlers with nothing to do but drink and gamble away their days and nights! You’re not doing your daughter’s cause any good, ma’am. I’m of a mind to forbid her going.”

Celia wanted to melt into a puddle and sob, but she knew better than to show weakness. “Uncle, it would be too rude of me to refuse the invitation now. The guests are to begin gathering tomorrow, and the wedding is next week. Surely it can do no harm for me to meet new people.”

“You’ll send word to her meddlesome ladyship that your plans have changed, and you and Simon will start planning
your
wedding.”

Simon said quietly, “No, Uncle Rupert. We won’t. You cannot dictate who we marry–neither Celia nor I–nor when.”

Relief flooded through her. Simon had stood up for her–had
defended
her! For a moment she stared at him in wonder, even fancying that the candlelight falling on his dark hair glittered like the helm of a knight of old.

She caught his eye and smiled, hoping he would read her apology in her expression. Lady Hester wasn’t such a bad sort, really. A young woman in her position was bound to be overly fond of herself. And she was reasonably pretty. A man who found Lady Hester appealing wasn’t
necessarily
daft, especially if one considered the business contacts which could rise out of such an acquaintance. Just as long as Simon didn’t let himself believe that the daughter of an earl might actually marry a nobody.

Rupert ate his roast mutton in complete silence, as if he hadn’t heard Simon’s declaration. Even Mrs. Overton seemed to belatedly realize speaking wasn’t safe.

When at length the plates were removed and the sweet brought in, Rupert said, “’Tis true I cannot force you to stand at the altar and take vows. But neither can you expect me to admire or support this quest. If you believe that in only a few days you can capture a title —”

Celia said lightly, “Every girl dreams of being a duchess, Uncle, but I’m only hoping to meet a pleasant, gentle man. Someone I could grow fond of.”

She didn’t realize she’d let her gaze rest on Simon until he raised a cynical eyebrow at her. “In contrast to present company, you mean?”

“You needn’t take it personally. I wasn’t talking about you.”
Not exactly, anyway.

Rupert cleared his throat. “If the time comes when this
pleasant, gentle man
of yours asks what you will bring him as a dowry, Celia, don’t count on me to step up with an offer.”

Mrs. Overton gasped. “You cannot mean you would disown your niece, sir?”

“Celia is the one who disowns her flesh and blood–the family which raised her, fed her, and schooled her–when she announces that only among the aristocracy can she can find a man who suits her.”

Celia suspected that pointing out the lapses in Uncle Rupert’s logic would be as fruitless as trying to explain her meaning to Simon.

Rupert’s gaze came to rest on her so intently that Celia wondered for a moment if she had a bit of haricots verts stuck between her front teeth. “You maintain that you can return from this visit betrothed to a gentleman who carries a title?”

Celia opened her mouth to argue that she’d said no such thing. Honestly, if Uncle Rupert was going to get his nose out of joint, couldn’t he at least take care to get the details correct?

She understood her uncle’s ire, of course; he was offended that the two young people under his guardianship had both so firmly–and perhaps not very politely–put paid to his long-held notion of creating an Overton family dynasty.

Across the table, Simon said mildly, “You know, it
did
sound as if that’s what you expect to happen, Silly. You show yourself at the wedding, the men fall into line, and you select one as easily as you just chose the apricot tart over the trifle.”

Celia glared at him. “You’re a fine one to talk, Simon. I suppose you believe all you need do is declare yourself and Lady Hester will start to assemble her trousseau.”

“We were not discussing me. Would you care to make a wager on your chances?”

Mrs. Overton’s eyes grew round. “Really, Simon dear, you cannot
wager
on such things!”

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” Rupert said, “if he’s willing to take the risk. Celia seems very certain of herself. Perhaps you could fund your dowry with your winnings, miss, since I’m not willing to do so–as long as the stake Simon offers is high enough to satisfy your fancy husband.”

Celia finally managed to get her voice back. “I suppose if I’m not willing to accept the wager, Uncle, you expect I shall give up the house party, stay here, and marry Simon?”

“
Not
an option, Silly,” Simon murmured. “I think you’ve hoisted yourself pretty far up your own petard.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t considering the possibility. I was only asking whether Uncle Rupert has withdrawn his objection to me going to the party.”

Rupert said judiciously, “It would hardly be fair of me not to allow you the sporting chance to win the funds for your dowry.”

Simon frowned. “I wasn’t thinking of dowry-sized stakes, Uncle.”

“Oh?” Celia mocked. “Perhaps you’re having second thoughts about the wisdom of offering a wager?”
Stop it. You’d have to be a lunatic to bet with him. Just pretend he didn’t say it–any of it.

“Oh, I’ll win–but I want to be assured you can pay me. How far can you make your pin money stretch?”

The butler brought in the port, and Mrs. Overton stood up. “This discussion is finished. Celia, we are leaving the gentlemen.
Now
.”

Celia rose reluctantly to follow her mother.

“I’ll consider throwing in an apology if you pull off the scheme,” Simon added. “A public apology for thinking you couldn’t do it.”

“Now that,” Celia snapped, “is an incentive I’d find difficult to refuse!” She stormed out to follow her mother down the long and drafty hall to the drawing room.