But another long ride back to Ladymead with Lord St. Claire loomed, and she was in no state for it. She always felt fragile, like glass, after a practice in which her solo parts were rehearsed. Singing the holy songs in the sacred confines of St. George's left her weak and trembling, with a heart so open and full she was always afraid she would weep—or be shattered by an unkind word.
But when she joined the two ladies, it was to find a gravely attentive Lord St. Claire. He handed each of them into the carriage in turn with no lingering pressure or teasing words and was quietly deferential, treating each woman exactly alike. Her heart flooded with gratitude and relief as he politely turned his remarks to the maid and housekeeper after one quest-ioning glance at Celestine's drained, pale face.
She had a few moments to gather her wits as Mrs. Jacobs prosed on about the rehearsal, ending with an arch question to the man sitting opposite her.
"And now what do you think of our choir, my lord?" Her double chins quivered in expectation of his answer, as her beady eyes glared through the dimness.
"Quite extraordinary, Mrs. Jacobs, just as you said." His voice was quiet and serious.
Celestine stole a glance at him in the semidarkness. His noble profile was absolutely still for once, with no laughter or teasing looks being tossed this way and that, and no trace of sarcasm in his low, melodious voice. He was handsomer than any man she had ever seen—even more so, she thought, in his quiet reflection. His nose was straight, his chin firm, his lips . . . best not to think too much about his lips. She often found herself watching them when he spoke, relishing the fullness of the bottom one and the even white teeth behind it.
"I ... I was especially moved by Miss Simons's solos," he continued, gazing straight ahead. "They were . . ."
"Ever so nice she sings, don't she? Though her voice is so very high, ain't it?" That was Elise, buoyed enough by the practice that she ventured an opinion even in such exalted company.
Lord St. Claire sat in silence for a moment before he spoke again. "I have heard many vocal performances; Miss Simons was right when she said that earlier. But there was something about her singing that left me breathless. It was sublime. I was—transported. That is the only word I can think of to describe my feelings. I felt like the gates of heaven had opened and I was chosen to hear an angel sing. The moment will live in my heart for a long time."
His voice was absolutely serious. Celestine, in her vulnerable state, felt her tears well up and a lump form in her throat. She choked them back. Not now! she fiercely told herself. But they would come and she must ignore them. They flowed down her face, dripping off her chin and onto her gloved hands, which were twisted together over her reticule. She cloaked her sob with a quiet cough. Then, in the dimness, she felt a touch on her hand and a square of fabric, a man's large handkerchief, being pressed there. One swift glance told her it was Lord St. Claire, though he was not drawing anyone's attention to her emotionally fragile state.
What a puzzle he was, she thought, as she pressed the deliciously scented square to her eyes. The pressure on her fingers ceased and he left her to her recovery, engaging the other two in a conversation that needed no contribution from her.
She wept silently, he thought, withdrawing his hand after putting his handkerchief in hers. It seemed his one weak compliment had burst some dam of reserve and her tears had flowed just as his had in the still, resonant reaches of the church. He was touched beyond belief that mere words, a trifling commendation from him, could break her reserve.
Had he ever touched a woman that way? He was awed by the powerful sensation he had of holding her living, beating heart in his hands and keeping it safe.
He wished he could be of more comfort. If only he could put an arm around her shoulder and draw her head down to rest on his chest, she could weep unrestrainedly while he soothed her. He felt an odd tug in the region under his breastbone, as if someone had tied a string to his heart and pulled it gently. Was he ill? Was this awkward emotionalism the precursor to a bout of the grippe?
He wished to offer Miss Simons aid, and all he could do was keep the chattering maid and the self-satisfied housekeeper busy so they would not inquire after Miss Simon's silence. He would give her time to recover. And he would leave off his pursuit of her. She was worthy of his respect and self-control, at the very least. She would suffer no more at his hands.
Four
Justin rose earlier than usual the next morning and actually whistled while his man, Dooley, dressed him and tied his cravat. He felt cleansed, somehow, and had an earnest desire to see Miss Simons again so he could prove to her in the light of day that he knew exactly how to treat her and would embarrass her with his attentions no more.
It was too bad the little governess did not breakfast with the family, but of course that would be unheard of. Why was that, he wondered. She was obviously of good family, and if her fortunes had not been depressed she would have been an honored guest. Though not of elevated rank, her birth was sufficiently genteel for a marquess's table. But because she had somehow fallen on bad times and had been forced to the extremity of educating a gentleman's brats in his home, she was now beyond the pale.
He shrugged as he strolled down the wide stairs. Society's dictates were not for such as he to defy, they just were. Little Miss Chambly, last year's governess, had obviously not seen any impediment to attaching the younger brother of a marquess, but then she was a foolish little widgeon, blessed with more hair than wit. Whatever had possessed his sister-in-law to engage her for the education of her daughters he did not know. Perhaps she was doing a favor for someone in taking the girl on, or repaying a favor bestowed.
He was not the first aristocrat to entertain himself with a little dalliance with the hired help. His own father had on more than one occasion lifted the skirts of his staff. In fact, of Justin's own knowledge there was at least one child sired on the wrong side of the blanket. Somewhere out there, he had a half-brother or -sister.
He had never gone so far as his father, finding his lusty entertainment in the arms of willing widows and bored wives. He had only ever stolen kisses from the serving class, but for Celestine's sake, this time he would refrain from inflicting his gallantries. Justin paused in his descent. Since when had his favors been a penance to be endured? Yet the girl acted as though she was being martyred on the cross of his attentions. Justin shrugged off the faint feeling of ill-use and entered the breakfast room, a pretty little dining room decorated in yellow and peach.
Elizabeth was alone, her husband having already eaten and started on his day's business. The present marquess was one aristocrat who would not bed his hirelings, no doubt. August was too aware of his elevated position and had a stern morality that made Justin want to twit him all the more. He didn't know what it was about goodness that made him so wicked, but there it was.
"Good morning, my dear," he said before cheerily bestowing a salute on his sister-in-law's presented cheek. He pulled out the chair beside her and glanced at the newspapers neatly piled on the table for perusal, selecting one and taking his seat.
A footman glided silently into the room with more tea and served the nobleman unobtrusively, while Lady St. Claire made small talk about the cold weather and the possibility of snow before Christmas. When Justin had been served and had a full plate of eggs, kippers, and kedgeree in front of him, she nodded regally for Albert, the footman, to absent himself.
Her fixed smile changed to a scowl, and she turned and glared at Justin. "Now, you unprincipled bounder, I want a word with you." In her agitation she pointed her fork at him and jabbed it with each word, an unforgivable breach of etiquette and unlike Elizabeth to commit.
"And what have I done to deserve my sister's wrath?" Justin asked lightly, one elegant brow arched in surprise.
"You know very well! Maude, my dresser, could hardly wait to tell me what Mrs. Jacobs has been saying in the kitchen. She was all atwitter because his lordship had deigned to go to
choir practice with them. Choir practice? Really, Justin, what is your game? Is it Elise or . . ." Her lovely face twisted in a frown. "But it couldn't be Celestine! You promised not to pursue a flirtation there. Out with it! Who are you trying to bed?"
Justin did not have to pretend to be offended. He was—and justly so, he thought. Did his sister think he could do nothing without an ulterior motive? And when had he ever bedded her servants? "You've already stated it can't be Miss Simons, so it must be Elise, eh? Maybe I lifted her skirts and had her right there in the carriage in front of the governess and the housekeeper, as I am such a bounder! I invited them to join in but they declined. "
"Don't be vulgar, Justin!"
"Then don't be insolent." He threw down his fork and tossed his napkin on the table, then stood and strode to the door of the breakfast room. "I shall do what I want with whom I want, and I will not be hen-led like my dear, saintly brother! From now on, keep your elegant little nose out of my affairs, amorous or otherwise!" He slammed the door and headed for the stable, stopping only to have his man called to provide him with his crop and coat. He needed a good long ride to work off this latest indignity.
"Lottie, help Gwen with the paste. That's a good girl."
"Shall we do our play for all the comp'ny, Miss Si-mons?" Lottie asked, helping her little sister firm her tiny hands around the papier-mâché figure she was making.
"That will be up to your mama, my dear." Celestine watched the child and her younger sister, their hands white with flour paste, as they formed the paper into balls.
She knelt beside them for a moment and showed them how to give the ball a suggestion of a nose and chin, how to press in their tiny thumbs to make indentations for the eyes. She winced as she struggled back to her feet. It always took a few hours in the morning before her body would do as she commanded easily and without pain. This morning had been particularly difficult, and the cold of her room seemed to have seeped into her very bones. But she owed it to the girls to do her best not to let her physical limitations affect her work.
Gwenevere's round face was screwed up in concen-tration, and her tongue was pushed out through her teeth. Gwen was a special child, slower than Lottie had ever been, but with a sunny disposition and cherubic smile that melted the heart. Celestine smiled down at her as she wiped her hands off on her apron, giving her swollen knuckles a surreptitious rub to soothe their aching. If only there were something to take the pain away!
Lottie glanced at her, her expression serious. "Do your hands hurt you, Miss Simons?"
"Sometimes. But not always."
"What's wrong with you?"
Celestine smiled at the candor of youth. It was so much better than the sneaking side glances or disdain of adulthood. "It started when I was a child. My joints ache occasionally, and they get swollen. Not always. In the summer, you remember, they were fine. But the cold makes them ache, and there is nothing I can do about it." She looked down at her inflamed knuckles and slightly crook'd fingers, so ungainly looking, and remembered Lord St. Claire's gentle touch the night before.
What had happened to him between the time the choir started and the time they were finished? She had sensed a difference in his manner. It had none of his gallant raillery and more true gentility of spirit. He was more dangerous to her in that moment than he had been with all his teasing before then, for he became truly what she had dreamed of in a man—in those rare moments she allowed herself to dream of impos-sibilities.
And she had. She had been a young girl once, a girl with air castles and fairy dreams in her mind. But she was a woman now and knew the truth of the world. Women married for security, and men married . . . Why did men marry? For dynastic reasons, she supposed. Absently she helped the two little girls work as she sorted out her thoughts.
They married for money sometimes, if they were pulled about. They married to beget an heir. Marriage was an exchange of benefits, with each side trying to gain an equivalency in what they were offering. Even in her hopes of a match with Mr. Foster, she realized they would be making an exchange. She would offer him an ancient and unblemished family history and would make him a good wife and helpmeet in the village. In return, he would offer her security and a home of her own, and perhaps children if they were lucky.
But sometimes . . . sometimes when she allowed herself to dream she longed for that rare union of two hearts—two souls that upon meeting sang a sweet song of love together. She had yearned for the pulse-quickening, earth-shattering delirium of true love, the tender emotion the poets described. She believed in it fervently and completely. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. She was no idiot; she had long known men favored a pretty face, which she did not possess. Women with that valuable commodity could look higher and expect more from a match, with or without love.
Her thoughts drifted back to the previous evening in the carriage with Lord Justin. His gentle, thoughtful action in providing her with a kerchief, as simple as it was, was the most gallant she had ever experienced. She had wanted to lean on him as she wept, and had had to physically restrain herself from laying her head on his shoulder. Wouldn't he have been surprised if she had? she thought with a rueful grimace.
"What play shall we do, Miss Simons?"
Lottie's high treble disrupted her thoughts, and Celestine forced herself to pay attention to her charges. It was all fairy dust, her dreams, the lightest spun sugar— pretty to look at but dissolving at the merest touch. Love and marriage had nothing to do with her, and she must not expect it even from Mr. Foster. He was likely just being kind in his attentions to her.
"I don't know yet, dear. Shall we clean up the schoolroom and ourselves and go look for a good one from the bookshelves?"
It was dark in the room, the morning sun having risen high enough to desert the east side of the building and so the schoolroom. The governess was sleeping, Justin thought, peeking around the door. The schoolroom door swung in on well-oiled hinges, and he could see Miss Simons, her head back in the ratty, overstuffed chair that was drawn up to the fireplace. A tiny fire was almost out in the grate, and she sat curled up with a pile of books on the table beside her and one on her lap. The two girls were downstairs with their mother, practicing at drinking tea in company in preparation for the houseful they would have over Christmas. Elizabeth insisted they do that occasionally with her to accustom them to polite society and the expectations of adults.
He closed the door quietly behind him and walked across the room, wincing when a floorboard creaked under the faded carpet. She was sleeping, or she would have heard him and opened her eyes. In repose, her plainness was all too evident. Her hair was a mousy brown and pulled back in a severe bun, too big for her fragile neck. A few tendrils had escaped and curled around her face. Her skin was pale, but her complexion was freckled, an unforgivable blight, and her mouth was too big for fashion, though her lips were rosy and would no doubt be satisfyingly soft to kiss.
He smiled down at her, thinking how surprised she would be if he did just that. Her figure was slight, and the worn gray dress she wore did nothing to enhance it, probably hiding any attributes she did possess. She was a schoolroom mouse, the perfect governess, likely to tempt neither master nor servant to take liberties with her. What a sad life for a woman of so much intelligence and gentle wit as he had found her to possess in the hours he had spent with her.
After Elizabeth's intolerable accusations that morning he had ridden for two hours in a blind rage that contrasted sharply with the tranquility he had thought he had achieved. His sister-in-law was an interfering harpy, and her demand for absolute control over those in her sphere was disturbing—worse than disturbing! It was demonic! Why should a governess not have a life of her own, the chance to savor the joy and sweetness other women took for granted? Was it evil to offer Celestine Simons a few stolen moments of romance?
He thought not. She might not agree right now, but he felt sure that if she knew her job to be secure, sh
e would sing another tune entirely. Her fear of him originated in her need for this paltry position; release her from the fear and she would welcome his attentions. He knew when a woman responded to him, and had felt the suppressed longing radiate in waves from her. He would help her free that hidden core of passion.
He would see that no ill befell her. There was no good reason why she should not enjoy his considerable skill at lovemaking, but to overcome her scruples without telling her that little secret; now that was a challenge worthy of him. She would be grateful, eventually, when he taught her how sweet stolen kisses could taste. It would give her something to dream about in her spinsterhood. And perhaps Elizabeth would learn a salutary lesson from the experience; she would find that one could allow one's dependents the freedom to live a little, and no harm would come of it. Together he and Celestine would strike a blow for all of the meddling marchioness's household.
He knelt beside her and noted again her hands, folded together in her lap. The knuckles and joints were swollen and he wondered if they were painful—if she suffered. Her expression in sleep was smooth, with no hint of suffering, but she was really not old enough for lines of pain to have etched themselves permanently . . . yet.
That would come, no doubt. In ten years, even less, she would be even more faded and would have pinched lines between her brows, under her eyes and around her generous mouth. Soon even her limited attractions would have faded away, leaving a sad little songbird whose feathers had lost their luster. He felt a tiny pang at that moment and wondered if he had eaten something that had disagreed with him, for that small twinge was persistent, and he could only think of indigestion as its cause.
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 5