Magical Weddings (4 page)

“I’m certain I can manage with what I brought,” Simon murmured.

“Gentlemen always dress for dinner at Rockhill,” Jane warned, and then apparently decided to leave that battle for the footman to fight. “Miss Overton, you’ll be in the lavender room, just this way.”

As they strolled on down the quieter of the two corridors, Jane eyed her. “Is your cousin really as much of a rough diamond as he seems?”

“Worse,” Celia said.

But it might be amusing to take Simon at his word where the young ladies were concerned. It would be a bit of a challenge to draw their attention to him, of course. Simon was Simon, after all. But if there was a swarm of young women pestering her cousin, he’d have to leave Celia alone while he fended them off.

She might as well start right away. “But despite his unkempt edges, he truly is a gentleman.”
At least, he can act like one when he tries.

Two young women came out of a nearby bedroom and stopped to inspect Celia. Jane said, “Miss Prudence Carew, and Miss Dimity Carew, may I present Miss Overton?”

The sisters bobbed tiny curtsies. “Oh, yes,” one of them said. “Lady Stone told us you were coming. Your uncle is the cotton-weaver.”

“Dimity,” her sister warned.

Celia smiled. “Not quite, though he owns a few factories where others weave cotton–often into fabric just as fine as what you’re wearing.”

“Oh, well,” Dimity said with a shrug. “It’s very much the same thing. Jane, what was Lady Stone thinking? But then of course, she hired
you
, so I suppose we can’t expect—”

“Come along, Dimity. We’ll be late for the rehearsal.” Her sister tugged Dimity along the corridor and out of sight.

Celia noted the slight flush which had risen in Jane’s cheeks and didn’t bother to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice. “
Charming
young ladies.”

Jane smiled and continued down the corridor to a tall, heavy door. “Unfortunately for you, you’ll be just next door to them. They’re sharing a room so they can chaperone each other.”

Inside the lavender bedroom, Celia’s maid was unpacking the trunks, exclaiming over the way dresses had shifted and creased as they traveled.

“If you need anything at all,” Jane said, “the housekeeper will be happy to help. Or come to find me. I’m at the end of this corridor on the left. Dinner is at eight; I’ll come and fetch you tonight so you don’t have to walk in alone.”

****

When Celia saw the gauntlet which waited for her in the drawing room a few minutes before eight o’clock, she was grateful to have Jane at her side.

They were apparently the last to appear, and the silence stretched out as everyone in the drawing room paused to study Celia. The assessing looks seemed to analyze her pale blue gown, the wealth of chestnut hair piled atop her head, her mother’s strand of pearls, her dainty shoes, her delicate Brussels-lace fan. The Carew sisters looked disgruntled–perhaps because they couldn’t find fault with her. Celia was once more grateful that despite her years of living retired from the
ton
, Mrs. Overton had maintained a lively sense of both fashion and good taste.

The two Miss Carews were decked out in perfect imitation of the virginal debutante. Each wore flowing white muslin trimmed with satin ribbons–one dress accented in yellow, the other in pink. The dresses were simple enough, but Celia, as the niece of a former cloth merchant, knew quite well that fabric so fine and delicate would have cost very nearly as much as silk.

Lady Hester, apparently released from the rule of wearing pastels because she had already finished her first Season, was dressed in a lush dark green fabric that draped around her as intimately as a whisper. Her hair was arranged in an artfully-tangled coiffure which made it look to Celia as if she’d just gotten out of bed. The bride, Lady Stone announced, was dining with the family of her betrothed, at their estate nearby.

As for the gentlemen, Celia thought she recognized a modified version of Lady Stone’s beaky nose. She had nearly decided that the unfortunate man attached to it must be Lord Stone until she remembered that the new peer must have been related to Lady Stone’s husband instead. So he couldn’t have inherited her nose.

There were also a couple of younger men, one of whom had a hairstyle as elegantly messy as Lady Hester’s. Celia looked past the two of them and her gaze caught on Simon, who appeared refreshingly normal in comparison.

He was the tallest of the gentlemen, and his raiment was the simplest–with only a fanciful bit of embroidery on his waistcoat relieving the stark contrast of black coat and white linen. If that was a borrowed set of evening clothes, Celia concluded, the footman pressed into service as his makeshift valet must be very skilled indeed.

Lady Stone raised her glass. “Now our little party is complete, and we all have nothing to do for the next few days but have fun and get Imogene safely married. Come here, Celia, and let me introduce you.”

Though the drawing room had seemed crammed with people, by the time the dinner gong sounded a few minutes later, Celia thought she had everyone straight. The gentleman with the beaky nose was Lord Lockwood, and the one with the messy hair was Baron Draycott. It turned out that Lord Stone had been standing off in a corner wearing an abstracted air. In fact, he looked as though he wasn’t quite certain what all these people were doing in his house, much less whether he was supposed to be enjoying himself. The last gentleman, Celia recognized when she took a closer look; though she’d never been face to face with him before, everyone in the neighborhood knew Lady Hester’s brother, Viscount Billings.

“We’re going to ignore etiquette rules,” Lady Stone said cheerfully. “Jane has it all planned so at dinner each evening, you’ll be matched with different partners. Line everyone up, my dear.”

Celia found herself partnered with Lord Lockwood. Close up, he was clearly the oldest of the party–she’d guess he was at least forty, and as he bowed before her, she noticed the patches where his scalp showed pink through his thinning mousy-brown hair. Simon appeared to be taking note as well; he caught her eye and shook his head a fraction. She remembered him saying,
We must hope that he retains his hair and a reasonable number of teeth
, and clenched her jaw as she laid her hand on Lord Lockwood’s sleeve.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched as he offered his arm to one of the Carew sisters–who seemed not to see him. “My lady,” she whined. “I thought you said I could…”

Lady Stone cut the girl off before she could finish her sentence. “Nonsense, Dimity. You should have been taught to take turns and share your toys years ago.”

Celia couldn’t quite smother a smile at the idea that Simon was going to get exactly what he deserved for pushing himself into the party–being condemned to spend a couple of hours in company with that young woman.

“You look quite pleased with your circumstances, Miss Overton,” Lady Hester cooed under her breath as she laid her hand on Baron Draycott’s arm. “Though perhaps you shouldn’t be. Lady Stone is so fair-minded. Why, it’s almost as though she were handicapping a horse race by giving a head start to the very weakest runners.”

****

Miss Carew eventually unbent and began speaking to him, though Simon didn’t fool himself that she had suddenly found him charming. Perhaps she was too bored to be silent any longer. He was relieved when Lady Stone finally signaled the end of dinner and the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

The butler set the decanters on the table, cleared the last of the crumbs, and departed. Across the table Baron Draycott leaned forward on his elbows and said confidentially, “Did I hear Lady Stone say Miss Overton is a close relation of yours, Montrose?”

“A cousin, yes, but not very close. We have a great uncle in common, no more.”

Draycott nodded. “Ah. That would be the weaver, I suppose?”

Simon tried not to show his annoyance.

“Don’t fly off into the boughs,” the baron said quickly. “I admire a man who can make something of himself. Especially when it lets him fund a dowry for a girl as pretty as that one.”

Pretty? Yes, Simon supposed Celia was generally considered to be pretty, now that she’d grown up. At least, the young men back in Leicester seemed of one mind in considering her to be more than acceptable. Simon’s own tastes ran more toward Lady Hester’s style of dark and exotic beauty, but he prided himself on being fair-minded about it. Celia’s skin was gloriously smooth and soft–the perfect peaches and cream that every English girl longed for. Her features were regular, her smile could be delightful, and her hair had somehow turned from the ordinary brown of her childhood to something that looked gold or red or something else entirely, depending on the light.

As though he’d read Simon’s mind, Draycott mused, “I wonder how long her hair is. And what do the ladies call that color?”

“No idea.” Celia complained sometimes about how heavy it was, and Simon supposed it must be a nuisance, piled on top of her head like that. Back before she’d become a proper young lady, Celia’s hair had flowed well past the middle of her back–though she’d usually worn it in two lush, fat, long braids which had fairly begged to be tugged.

“She’s presentable enough, too,” the baron went on. “Has a pleasant manner, doesn’t put on airs or thrust herself forward. There’s no sense in
me
marrying someone who expects to be treated like a duchess, for it won’t happen.”

Not if it depends on her husband acting like a gentleman.

“Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being a baroness,” Draycott went on defensively. “The title was good enough for my mother. It’s just that some girls are too high in the instep to settle for what they consider a minor title. Lady Hester gave me quite a set-down just this afternoon, in fact, and all I’d said was… well, it doesn’t matter. A gentleman doesn’t gossip where ladies are concerned.”

“Indeed,” Simon murmured.

“Oh, yes. No sense in you looking in that direction, either–Lady Hester, I mean–since you’ve no title at all. I was just saying it stands to reason that Miss Overton would be more understanding about the matter. Granddaughter of a baron herself, I believe Lady Stone said? She’d no doubt be flattered if I offered for her.”

Simon couldn’t stop gritting his teeth long enough to answer, though he wasn’t quite certain why. Surely he wasn’t feeling grim for Celia’s sake, or worried about her future–even though this little worm of a baron seemed to shop for a wife with less concern than he’d spend on choosing a new coat from his tailor.

His reaction must be because Celia was apparently already well on the way to winning her bet. Draycott might hold only the lowest of the nobility’s ranks, but he did fit the terms of her wager. Why hadn’t Simon been more careful to specify what it would take for her to win?

The baron went on hastily, “Not saying I
will
drop my handkerchief there, so don’t you go running off to tell her, mind!”

“Of course not.” Simon let a faint note of irony creep into his voice. “A gentleman doesn’t gossip where ladies are concerned.”

“What? Oh, you’re mocking me. Very amusing. At any rate, there’s plenty of time. Nearly an entire week.”

“Yes,” Simon said maliciously. “Only a fool wouldn’t be able to make a determination in four or five days whether a female was the sort one wanted to spend a lifetime with.”

Draycott nodded. “Exactly. And even if Lady Hester is unavailable, there are still the Carew sisters to consider.”

Simon wondered if the baron saw any distinction between the two Carews. If it wasn’t for the different colors of their ribbons, he wasn’t certain he himself could tell them apart. “Still in the running for your hand, are they?”

“Well, of course. One of the richest families in the country.”

“Lady Stone said their grandfather is an earl?”

“True, but they don’t have the same airs and graces about it that Lady Hester puts on. Much more down to earth. Take the dresses they’re wearing tonight, for example–they’re so practical they’re almost plain. A man could grow fond of a female with such simple tastes.”

Simon bit his tongue to keep from enlightening the baron about the cost per ell of that particular grade of muslin. The man probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Draycott leaned closer. “Just between you and me, old chap–what’s Miss Overton’s dowry like?”

At the moment? Non-existent.
Simon refilled his port glass. “A bit premature to start that investigation before you even know whether you’re interested.”

“Nonsense. Of course Lady Stone wouldn’t include any girl who didn’t have a respectable portion, but it’s never too early to find out how matters stand. I’m guessing ten thousand?”

“Then you would be surprised.”

The baron’s eyes lighted. “
More
?”

Simon tired of the game. “A word to the wise, Draycott. Celia might be willing to accept a baron, considering her grandfather’s rank, but our great-uncle has much higher plans than that for her. He told me just last night that he expects her to snare an earl at least.”

Draycott snorted. “That’ll be worth seeing.”

Simon shrugged, doing his best to look mysterious. He wasn’t stretching the truth, for Uncle Rupert had uttered exactly those words over their port–and even though Simon was pretty certain Uncle Rupert had been exercising his bent for sarcasm when he said it, what the baron didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. This popinjay, basing his interest in Celia purely on the amount of her dowry, deserved to be smacked down.

Lord Stone lingered over his port and appeared in no hurry to rejoin the ladies. Baron Draycott eventually said, “Stone, old top, shouldn’t we make a move toward the drawing room before the ladies get tired of waiting for us and toddle off to their beds?”

Lord Stone cast a look at the carved-plaster ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. “The harpies will be lying in wait no matter when we arrive.” He drained his glass. “Gentlemen?”

Simon had mixed feelings about leaving the safety of the dining room to join a covey of ladies who were on the hunt for husbands. Regardless of the way he’d tweaked Celia, he had no intention of finding himself leg-shackled by the end of the week.