Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  "Don't be ridiculous!" he said, brusquely. "Lead the way, Miss Simons. I only want to be of service to you, you know."

  "Oh, very well," she sighed. She dared not catch a glimpse of Lady St. Claire's face, and she hastened to precede her tormentor from the room and up the long staircase. Her cheeks burned and her movements felt jerky and inelegant, so very aware was she that he was behind her and watching her progress, no doubt When they got to the third floor and then the room Gwen shared with Lottie, Celestine turned, one hand on the porcelain knob. "I'll take her now, my lord. I'll put her to bed for a little nap and make sure Elise knows."

  His blue eyes sparkling, he put one finger to his lips. "Shhh. She's already asleep, and transferring her would just wake her up. Open the door, if you please."

  He was right, of course. Gwen was asleep on his shoul­der, one thumb in her mouth. Celestine did as she was bid and followed him in as he glanced back at her. The room was decorated in pastel shades of green with cream accents, a pretty, restful room with a small chamber off of it for Elise, the children's maid.

  "Which bed?" he asked.

  "Which . . . oh, which bed is Gwen's!" She flushed guiltily, aware she had been too conscious of his strong form and masculine scent to remember he wouldn't know which bed was the little girl's. Such inattentiveness was unlike her, and she couldn't imagine what had gotten into her. She was normally so sensible. She pointed to the one near the wall and rushed over to it, pulling down the heavy brocade cover.

  St. Claire, with a gentleness astounding in such a nor­mally careless man, laid his niece down on the bed, and Celestine pulled up the covers. The governess then tucked the little girl in, smoothed back an errant curl, and kissed Gwen's forehead.

  She rose to find St. Claire's eyes on her. She straight­ened and started to move past him.

  "Wait," he whispered, laying one hand on her arm. "Why do you always run away from me?"

  "I don't . . . run." She gazed toward the door with longing. The warmth of his hand burned through the light fabric of her sleeve. Why did she suddenly feel so breathless?

  "Yes, you do. You run. And avoid me whenever I come near you. Am I so hideous?"

  The question caught her by surprise and she looked him full in the face, straight into his glinting eyes, bright with humor and warmth. He moved closer to her, and she felt her free hand creep to her bosom over her pounding heart. "Hideous? Of course not, you are ex­ceptionally . . . you know you are very ..."

  "And you stammer in my presence." His voice was deep, with a seductive timbre. "Am I so frightening, my dear?" he continued.

  Every sense in her body was alert, aware of him. He was warm and strong and smelled of spice and tobacco, with a hint of fresh outdoors. She was so close that when she glanced up, she could see the faint dark shadow of whiskers along his strong jaw. She didn't think she had ever been this close to a man in all her years—or maybe it only felt that way—and it was arousing disturbing sen­sations. Her heart pounded, her blood coursed hot through her veins, and her breath was coming in short gasps.

  "No, of course not, it's just . . ." She sighed, pulled her arm from his grasp, and moved past him out to the hall. He was impossible. And impossible to hate, although she had tried, knowing his actions could lose her her position. Why did he have such a profound effect on her when she knew him for what he was, a heartless flirt who had cost the last poor girl her position with the St. Claires and apparently did not care?

  He caught up with her, gently closed the door behind him and took her hand in his. She gasped and pulled it away, hiding it behind her with the other, twisting them together in her skirt.

  "I ... I must go," she said, and ran down the hall to her own room, closing the door.

  Justin heard the faint scratch of her latch being fas­tened and chuckled to himself. She tried to pretend in­difference to him, but she was not indifferent. Far from it. It was like Eve and the serpent, he thought. She was sorely tempted by him, and he had only to name the time and place for her to succumb completely. Women were so very predictable.

  * * *

  It was her evening off at last, and Celestine dressed carefully for choir practice in the village church. She donned her second-best dress, a lavender muslin with a fine lawn tucker and pale green ribbons. Then she slipped on her best gloves and fit her bonnet, hideous as it was, on her neat brown hair. Mr. Foster would be there, and she liked to look her best. She flushed faintly at the turn her mind had taken. It had not escaped her notice that the vicar was uncommonly polite to her and went out of his way to secure her company if he was able.

  Was she hoping for marriage, perhaps? Yes, she sup­posed she was. Marriage, a home, and a family to look after would be the pinnacle of her dreams. Was it too high to look, to think the vicar of Ellerbeck might choose her in marriage? Not at all, she told herself stoutly, as she was of very good family, landed gentry of probably higher rank than Mr. Foster. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her background, even if she had sunk to paid employment. She stood in front of the scarred mir­ror, straightened her bonnet, and caught sight of her large, gray eyes.

  "Oh, Papa," she whispered, caught as she always was by her resemblance to him, at least in the eyes. Poor Papa. Toward the end he had seemed to be all eyes, large and gray and luminous, as he lay, wizened and emaciated, in his bed of pain. And then on that last day, in his fevered agony, his eyes had looked sunken but, oh, so peaceful when at last he said, "Celestine, I see the angels!" and had expired.

  Brushing an errant tear from her freckled cheek, she did the one thing that always cheered her and took out the fine gold locket with the two miniatures, one of her mother and one of her father, and pinned it to her dress. She couldn't afford a chain for it, but it would be pinned over her heart, where it belonged.

  With a deep breath, she straightened her sleeves, donned her gray pelisse, worn at the cuffs but still ser­viceable, and descended to the front hall to await Elise and Mrs. Jacobs, the housekeeper. Their one weekly in­dulgence was choir practice, and going out the front to the carriage was a concession to practicality, that being the easiest place for the coachman to pull up.

  Albert, one of the footmen, bowed to her. "The rest are already in the carriage, miss. Coachman said to hurry; he don't like the cattle to stand in this cold weather."

  Celestine bustled out, down the front steps, and took the groom's arm as he helped her up into the coach. Inside were Elise, Mrs. Jacobs, and . . . Lord St. Claire!

  "My lord," she breathed, forced to take the seat beside him, as the housekeeper and maid shared the other seat with their backs to the horses.

  His wicked grin in the dim confines of the carriage rattled her nerves. What was he doing? Why was he there?

  "Miss Simons. I felt a desire to hear the choir at prac­tice for the Yuletide festivities I have heard are the high­light of the year in Ellerbeck."

  Elise giggled and the housekeeper beamed beneficently on the younger brother of her employer. Such conde­scension on his part was an enormous compliment.

  "Surely you have seen the Christmas pageant before. I am informed it is performed every year," Celestine said, her voice sharper than she had intended.

  "Ah, but you are wrong, Miss Simons. Oh, perhaps in my youth, but I did not spend much time here as a child. My father received the title when I was thirteen and al­ready in school. We often traveled to my maternal grand­mother's for Christmas, so no, I have not seen the Ellerbeck festival."

  "But do you not spend every Christmas here?"

  "Almost every one," he admitted. "But I have not at­tended the Christmas pageant in years."

  "We are honored by your presence, my lord," Mrs. Ja­cobs said, ponderously.

  "Surely our little choir is not worth your notice, sir, not when you have no doubt been in boxes in London and heard the best sopranos, the most accomplished of tenors ..."

  "I think our little choir is quite fine," the housekeeper said, bridling at the implied criticism. She ha
d picked up an elaborately genteel accent from Lady St. Claire's maid, though she didn't always remember to use it, so she pro­nounced 'quite' as 'quaite' and 'fine' as 'fane'. She dropped it as her defense of the local choir became more boisterous. "Mr. Jenks, the choirmaster, why he's bin to London himself and heard some o' that foreign rubbish and says give him an honest English voice any day!"

  Celestine flushed. "I did not mean to insult our in­trepid band of singers, Mrs. Jacobs."

  After that, Celestine stayed silent, gazing out the win­dow at the darkened landscape touched by faint moon­light, listening to the nobleman's fulsome praise and Elise's giggled responses offered as counterpoint to Mrs. Jacobs's heavy courtesy. She pondered the man's actions in accompanying them. What could he be about? Was he so starved for something to do that he considered a choir practice entertainment?

  They all disembarked at the church, their male com­panion helping each down from the carriage. He held Celestine's gloved hand just a fraction longer than nec­essary, and his warmth penetrated through the material.

  She turned to him, undecided about his motives, and gazed up at his smiling face. "No matter what Mrs. Jacobs says, you must know our little group is nothing special to hear." She glanced up the dark walk, where Elise and the housekeeper were already entering the vestibule of the church. She must not hang back too long with Lord St. Claire, or it would surely be noted. "You would have been better off staying at Ladymead and asking Lady St. Claire to favor you with a tune on the piano. She has a lovely voice."

  "Ah, but this evening jaunt has other joys Ladymead doesn't boast," he said, pulling her closer to him. Celestine could not make out his meaning, nor the teasing tone in his voice. She was sharply aware of the heat that emanated from him and the spicy scent of his hair pomade. He smelled and looked absolutely delicious, and she was sure he knew it. Though she could not sum­mon the energy or desire to pull away from him, she attempted to ignore the way he squeezed her fingers gen­tly and then put his hand in the middle of her back as they moved toward the church. She was horribly con­scious of it, though, the warm pressure causing a flood of pink in her pale cheeks.

  She had never thought herself susceptible to masculine good looks, but it seemed she was as silly as the greenest girl. Was it just his looks that made him so desperately attractive, or was there something more she was sensing? Was that why women everywhere fell for a handsome rogue, because they convinced themselves there was something more under the attractive facade? Or did hand­some men learn early how to use their appearance to influence and seduce women?

  They followed the others in through the side entrance, through the dark, echoing hall, to find the rest of the choir already assembled. Murmurs and a rustling of dresses greeted the marquess's brother, but the choirmas­ter, a rotund little martinet, called for order and imme­diately told them the program of rehearsal. Celestine forgot everything but the music, the best part of the eve­ning for her.

  She mounted to her position, closing out all other thoughts but the program. At least in this she could find peace. The whispering died down, and Mr. Jenks brought the little choir to order. Then they started.

  Justin sat in the chill darkness in the family seat, a high-walled box that allowed him to see the choir, illuminated by smoking tallow candles only, but not the rest of the church behind him. Soon, the assembled voices filled the air and he sat back to listen. The governess had been right. The choir was not any different than a hundred country choirs in a hundred country churches.

  Celestine. That was her name, though it didn't really suit her. It should be appended to some gloriously angelic little creature with flaxen hair, rosebud lips, and heavenly blue eyes. She was not that, nor would she ever be.

  She would suit Jane or Mary or Ellen, plain, honest names to go along with her looks and personality. Why was he expending so much effort and so much time to awaken her interest? Boredom? Pique? It seemed the more she put him off, the harder he tried. It was no longer just to spite his sister-in-law, but for the challenge the governess represented.

  He gazed up at the choir, housed in an intricately carved section of seats to the right of the altar. Just then, the chorus of voices hushed to a gentle croon. A clear soprano solo took over, and Justin was amazed to see it was Celestine who sang, her high voice fluting through the darkened chapel and soaring to the heights, echoing in the empty church. Her face was a study of rapture, eyes closed and mouth mobile with the angelic tones she was creating.

  Celestial. At least her voice was that, if her appearance wasn't. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the heavy English oak of the St. Claire box. With a voice like that she belonged in a chorus of angels, and there he was, trying like the dark angel, Lucifer, to pull down that delicate, fluttering creature for his own needs.

  He would enslave her heart, seduce her into acquiesc­ing to caresses that could possibly lose her position, though such was not his intent. He didn't want Elizabeth to let the girl go. But that was what had happened to the Chambly chit. Just for that one moment he sickened him­self. Why could he not leave the poor creature in peace?

  The words of her song, an ode to the Christ child, faded from his consciousness, leaving only the light, clear tones soaring to the heights of the vaulted ceiling, tug­ging his long-fallen heart along. As it followed Celestine's glorious voice to the upper reaches of the church, his heart opened to questions long suppressed. Where was he going in life? What did he really want from an exis­tence that often bored him with its endless social round?

  He waited for an answer, clear and lucid, to flutter into his heart and nestle there like a trusting dove. He wanted an answer, needed an answer, but the only one that came was that he had absolutely no idea what he wanted from life. He had never given it a second's thought in all his misspent years. Beyond the moment, which consisted of seducing a new mistress, attaining a young girl's trust, winning a bet or a game of cards, or downing a fine bottle of Bordeaux, he didn't know if there was anything he wanted from life.

  There was certainly no need for him to have a purpose. His brother filled the post of marquess with great dignity, intelligence, and stolid worth. August had an heir in Gus and a spare in Bertie, making Justin a useless adjunct to the family—an unneeded twig on the family tree. Oh, he had his own estate, Questmere, only fifty or so miles from Ladymead, as a matter of fact, but it was capably looked after by a bailiff and would descend to Bertie if anything should happen to him. He visited it only occasionally on his way to or from Ladymead to make sure everyone was happy and healthy, which they always were.

  He could go his own merry way for the rest of his life and it would affect absolutely no one. He knew that Au­gust was getting impatient with his dilettante's life and was pressuring him to find a young lady from the ton to grace his table and his bed and start producing little St. Claires, even though he was already doing a splendid job of that himself. But it seemed a useless sort of time filler to find a young lady for whom any husband of sufficient birth would do and start siring more tiny aristocrats to populate the ton.

  He frowned, impatient with himself. But his mind toiled on as the beautiful voice soared and swooped, echoing against the high, vaulted ceiling. Questions with no answers. Questions with unsatisfactory answers. Had anyone in his whole life ever needed him? The young ladies he squired during the Season needed him to lend them countenance as they gracefully swayed to the waltz. They needed him to collect their fans for them when they for­got them in the box after the opera. They needed him to court them so they could marry well and not disgrace their families. Needed him? Any other man of sufficient birth would do.

  It was all so much refuse—litter on the winding road­way of a long and boring life. The years ahead stretched out into one long, intolerable highway of tedium and for­gotten dreams, years spent frantically playing at being busy as he moved from house party to London Season to country gathering, with or without a family of his own.

  He sighed and s
tretched out his long legs, the organ music filling the quaint church with seasonal carols. For some reason he thought of Celestine, her luminous gray eyes gazing at him with a tormented expression on her sweet, serious countenance.

  Luminous? Sweet? Yes, she had those qualities, and likely more. He was doing her a disservice by trying to engage her interest when there could be no ending for it but hurt feelings on her part and empty triumph on his. Somehow in the sacred atmosphere of St. George's, his heart, that long-silent organ of feeling, whispered he was being thoughtless and cruel, callous to a young woman who must need her position very much. For a young woman of birth and breeding to descend to the rank of a governess, there must be a certain amount of desperation.

  It would not do. He must not torture her. She was vul­nerable to him; he felt it in the very marrow of his bones, and he had been a seducer long enough to know. He felt a trembling deep in his chest as Celestine's lovely voice filled the cool darkness once more. It occurred to him he held her very fate in his large hands. Tears sprang to his eyes. Horrified by his weakness, he pulled a handker­chief from his pocket and swiftly wiped away the telltale moisture. He was becoming maudlin.

  But for those few minutes in the dark, it almost seemed he could hear the sound of angels in her voice, the sweet celestial sounds of heaven, the world beyond St. Peter's jealously guarded gate. The imagery was irresistible. He was a supplicant outside that gate, on his knees, begging for entrance. A stern man in white robes asked him the dreaded question: "What have you done in your life that is worthy of entrance here?"

  If he never added anything to the plus side of his ledger, at least he would not add this one thing to the negative side. If he did not do another good thing in his life, at least he could say to himself he had left Celestine Simons, virtuous governess, heart-whole. He would leave her virgin heart in peace to find happiness with the vicar, perhaps, or some other worthy, dull, honest man who would make her a good husband.

  Celestine lagged behind a chattering Elise and a smugly satisfied Mrs. Jacobs as they walked down the short hall to the great gothic-arched wooden doors. Even her con­versation with Mr. Foster, brief as it was, had been carried out in a distracted state, not with her usual calm serenity, and the vicar had felt her distraction. He had frowned and bid her good evening coolly.