Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  To her surprise, his words sounded genuine. But then she shouldn't be surprised, knowing Celestine as she did. Her niece had a rare, luminous quality and quiet good­ness many people found engaging—not that she would have expected someone like Justin St. Claire to appreciate her niece's subdued charm.

  "Not 'ma'am,' Justin. We were friends once, were we not, when you were a young sprig just down from Oxford and I was a society matron? Much has changed, but not that." She tried to see below the exterior, beneath the shell he seemed to have covered himself with in the meantime. When she had first met him, as Elizabeth's new brother-in-law, he had been an open, engaging young man, full of high spirits and energy. Too many years in London had made him brittle and, according to rumor, a hardened roué.

  He grinned at her. "Please don't remind me of my callow youth, Emily. I cannot believe I was ever that young."

  "You were an entertaining sort, even then. You've al­ways had the ability to enjoy the foibles of society and laugh at them."

  "Damned funny, half of it is, if you do not mind my language."

  "Don't censor yourself for me. I lived with Baxter for too many years not to have heard all the possible curse words, and a few he invented as well." She turned away from the memory of her husband, who was traveling somewhere in Europe, and kept her focus firmly on the task at hand. It hurt too much to think of Baxter. "I was speaking of Celestine."

  "You were. To what end, you have not said."

  "I have an end in mind, but just hear me out first. My niece is very special. I think she is beautiful, but then, I am biased. I know the world sees her freckles and mousy brown hair and how her hands get when she is suffering a relapse."

  Justin frowned and looked down at his own square, broad, strong hands. "What is wrong with her, ma'am— Emily—if I might be so bold to inquire?"

  "Rheumatism. She had a fever when she was young, and her joints became inflamed. Since then she occasion­ally gets these outbreaks. They have worsened as she has gotten older. She suffers in the cold weather so much! Some mornings I know it is pure torture for her to rise from her bed, though she would not thank me for telling anyone that. She is very private. She had an outbreak last winter as well, but I saw some improvement while she stayed with me last Christmas through my insistence on hot bathing every morning and a liniment my house­keeper swears by. But I am afraid that, left alone, Ce­lestine does not take care of herself properly."

  "Why not?"

  Emily pursed her lips, frowning as she gazed unseeing at the wall. "She is accustomed to helping others, and I believe she feels she shouldn't spare the time for her own needs. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot get her to spend the time on herself she needs. And now, as a governess, she will wear herself to a shade taking care of the little girls. No governess gets a hot bath every morning and an adequate fire in her room. She is there to serve, and Celestine will always do her duty."

  "Is she fit for the job? Why did she not stay with you, Emily, if you don't mind my presumption? Surely she would be better off not working at all? I am sorry for my plain speaking, but it seems obvious to me."

  Emily sighed. "To me also. Do not think you have of­fended me, for it is exactly what I wished. I wanted her to stay with me, and I would have settled money on her if she would have allowed it, but she resisted. I think the lure of working with children makes her so adamant about working as a governess. I have none and never will, or I probably could have convinced her to stay."

  "So why not arrange a suitable marriage for her?"

  She made an impatient gesture. "Surely you are not such an innocent after all those years on the town. You are four years my junior but have the advantage on me for London Seasons. You know what Society is like. I am sure an eligible connection could be formed if she would allow me to settle money on her, but she will not take it and I will not force her. She has the right to self-deter­mination. I am afraid, for the marriage mart, she has not sufficient personal attractions . . . she is not . . . that is to say, her attributes are all internal."

  "A nugget of gold wrapped in plain broadcloth." Justin's voice was quiet and his gaze averted to the win­dow. His expression was pensive.

  She stared at him curiously. He was so different some­times, and she had the feeling there was a strong, good man within him he did his best to ignore. It was such a waste, in her estimation, but by London standards he was only doing what was expected of him.

  But was it possible he did see Celestine's attributes and honor them? "You do have a way with words on occasion, Justin. I could not have expressed it better. Her faults are all to her own detriment. She is too self-effacing. She will not consider herself when there is the welfare of others at hand. She is too modest about her accomplishments, which are numerous, and too ready to see her faults, which are few and superficial."

  "She is a paragon of virtue, in other words," Justin said, with a hint of disdain in his voice. "Much like my saintly brother."

  Emily gave him a sharp glance. Something had changed in his attitude again, and the curtain of cynicism had descended and was firmly in place. She had meant only to point out the innocence of her niece, her inability to fend off advances she would not expect.

  "She is not perfect—no human is. But she is loving and kind and sweet, and I love her very much." There was a bit of defiance in her own voice, Emily realized. She frowned. What an exasperating man Justin St. Claire could be—sometimes quite human, then changing like a shadow in the night into a pattern card of the frivolous London beau. Elizabeth had confessed in a long conver­sation the previous night that she despaired of his ever settling down, and in the meantime his escapades with widows and wives, actresses and opera dancers, were em­barrassing to the marquess, who was a rising star in the House of Lords.

  "Familial love—it does you credit, my dear," Justin said. "But I still fail to see where all this is leading."

  "I noticed your behavior in the parlor yesterday after­noon," Emily said, with more steel in her voice than she intended. She shifted on the sofa to look him directly in the eye. "You were flirting with her, and I want to know what your intentions are."

  Justin's eyes widened in incredulity. "You are asking if I intend to court your niece?"

  His sarcasm was painfully obvious. Emily, afraid she had botched the whole job rather badly, hurriedly said, "No, of course not! I just want you to know she is a complete innocent. She has no idea about flirtation and men's ways. She has never been . . ." The growing anger on his face stopped her.

  "And I taint her with my evil ways, is that it?" His voice was bitter, his well-formed mouth twisted into a scowl.

  "Of course not, you idiot." Emily sighed in exaspera­tion and folded her plump, soft hands together in her lap. She stiffened her back. She must have her say, no matter how irritated he was getting. "But surely you must have seen how flustered she became when you merely brushed her hand with yours, or gazed at her in that way you have. You are engaging in a game with an innocent who does not know the rules. I am asking you to leave her alone!"

  Justin rose stiffly, his resentment evident in the way he held himself. "I assure you, Lady Delafont, I have no in­tention of harming your niece or tampering with her in any way! Her precious innocence will remain intact so she can die a virtuous old maid, as you clearly wish. I would not dream of seducing her into my bed and tainting her with my foul body! Now, if you will excuse me, my sister wishes me to entertain the other guests!"

  Justin strode out of the room and through the hall, shouting at a footman to inform the grooms he wished his horse saddled. It was the outside of enough to be virtually accused of intending to bed the woman's sallow, plain niece! Emily Delafont's mind had clearly been poi­soned by Elizabeth and her poor opinion of him. He needed fresh air. He needed to get out of the constrain­ing presence of Ladymead. Too many more run-ins like this and his riding would be much improved through bruising practice.

  He allowed his valet, Dooley, who had appeared at his su
mmons, to aid him with his coat, waving him away with a curt command when he was done.

  Of all the idiotic . . . what did Emily think he was plan­ning—to seduce the poor, plain, naive thing? In all his years on the London Season he had never taken a young lady's reputation away from her. He may have dallied with her affections—if young ladies of the ton had any genuine feeling in the first place, which he doubted—but he had never gone over the line.

  Yet now he was cast in the role of an evil seducer of pure young maidens and plain old spinsters.

  He strode out into the brisk, frosty air, ignoring the call from his sister and brother to join them with the young Misses Stimson. He would bolt rather than do the pretty to one of those simpering, vapid misses. He almost ran back the stables and mounted Alphonse, taking the reins from the groom and trotting away over the frozen ground.

  A far hill beckoned and he leaned forward, urging Al­phonse, who was fresh and eager, to gallop. It mattered not that he wasn't dressed for riding. All that mattered was working this latest affront out of his system. Fifteen minutes of bruising riding worked out the worst of his fury, and he slowed to a canter as he crested the hill and looked out over the valley where Ellerbeck nestled, snug against the bosom of Eller Rise, as the low hill was called.

  He thought of his own neglected estate not far from Ladymead. To his own mind, it was even prettier than his brother's house—smaller and more intimate—but it al­ways seemed cold and lonely when he went there to con­fer with his bailiff and estate manager, so he was seldom in residence.

  Perhaps Elizabeth was right about one thing. Maybe he should start looking around for a wife to start populating Questmere, his home, with little St. Claires. Somehow the thought of children did not frighten him half so much as the notion of a wife. Children he knew how to deal with, but a woman—a wife—would require a level of in­timacy he had never achieved with anyone, unless he planned to follow the usual tonnish pattern and marry a young chit, get an heir upon her, and leave her home while he returned to London.

  It was not, for some reason, an appealing thought. Someday he would marry, but he would be damned if he would fall in with Elizabeth's plan to consider the Stimson girls or the van Hoffen chit, who was arriving on the mor­row, as a possible spouse.

  He would go to the London Season this spring with the intent to look around and choose a wife, a girl with some conversation, some beauty, and no pretension. No simpering airs for him. He wanted a woman who could love him—not just his money and title and estate, but him.

  Was that possible? Was there such a woman in the world? In his experience the whole mating ritual of the London Season was as cold-blooded as choosing a brood mare to mate with a stallion. You examined a girl's blood­lines, looked her over for physical flaws, made sure the seller, her family, wasn't hiding any faults of tempera­ment, and then you made your offer. If it wasn't accepted, you moved on to the next.

  A few of his friends had succumbed to the entreaties of their families, especially those who were eldest sons and needed to beget an heir. Some seemed relatively happy, but most were carrying on much as they would have when single, only with an avidity and desperation that hinted at a home life not to be tolerated for any length of time.

  With no pressing need to breed an heir, he saw no reason why he should tie himself down too early. And he would not be hen-led! He didn't want a doormat for a wife, but he also didn't want a harridan like his sister-in-law.

  He trotted down a hill, noting he was heading for the church. He remembered the feelings he had in the dark two evenings before as he listened to Celestine's beautiful voice in the chill dimness. One pure, sweet moment of truth had been visited upon him in the gloomy confines of the chapel. He yearned for that susceptibility, that frag­ile, heartrending instant of raw emotion he had experi­enced, even though it had left him feeling exposed and chafed as though by a biting wind. His wife, when he chose one, should sing like that, he thought. If she could do that, she could cut through to his very soul and lift it, as Celestine had done that night.

  He dismounted and tied the horse to the gate, then strolled up the walk to the church, an old structure of gray stone covered in leafless ivy. The family had attended service just that morning, but he had not accompanied them. He went to the side door they had entered the night of the choir practice and found himself alone in the church. He shivered.

  What had he felt that night? A peculiar sort of melan­choly had swept over him. That was why he had wept at the sound of the governess's voice, and it explained the odd connection he felt to her, the openness of heart he had experienced in the carriage. That was the only way he could account for his protectiveness toward her, his desire to pull her to him and soothe her worries.

  What had Emily said? That Celestine took on other people's burdens and never minded her own. But then, Lady Delafont was biased. He had to admit, though, in light of Emily's glowing recommendation of the girl, he was more curious about her. He had been intent on flirt­ing with her, amused and maybe challenged because it was so difficult. Now he was genuinely curious.

  Not that he would heed Lady Delafont's warning to stay away. What right had she to determine his actions? Absolutely none. She was as bad as Elizabeth, maybe worse. She acted like he was evil and would taint the saintly Celestine, or corrupt her with his attentions. Eliza­beth was just worried about having to turn away another governess and find a replacement. She despised anyone or anything that challenged her absolute control in her household.

  Why did everyone make such a fuss about a little harm­less flirtation? He didn't intend to bed her. He liked older women as lovers and preferred beauties, not plain little spinsters. She would probably lie beneath him like a log, and he preferred a wilder ride. If he undressed her and touched her body with knowing hands, hands that had aroused many a woman, she would likely shudder and make him feel like a lecherous fiend.

  Or would she gaze at him with passion flaming in those huge, luminous eyes, and open her luscious mouth under his? He shook his head and snorted in amusement. That was the second time he had thought of her in that man­ner, and it was quite ridiculous. One had only to look at her to see she was not formed for passion, but for good­ness and contemplation—piety, good works, sainthood! He liked an earthier type to bed, preferably experienced.

  Of course, that would never do when he chose a wife. He would not want a passionate little wench for a wife, because he had no intention of sharing her with anyone else. When a woman was his, she was his, for however long the affair lasted, and a marriage was intended to last for a lifetime. He wouldn't want a wife if he would always have to wonder with whom she was lying.

  A noise alerted him that he was no longer alone.

  "Ah, Lord St. Claire, how nice to see you again. We missed you this morning." It was the vicar bustling cheer­fully up the aisle, papers in hand.

  "Hello. I was enchanted by the beauty of the church when I visited for choir practice, but I am afraid I slept in this morning—missed the service. So I made free to come in now to look around." Justin held out his hand and shook the vicar's. The man had a respectable grip, and was just deferential enough for their difference of rank.

  "Marvelous, sir. I must say I believe it a charming build­ing," he said, glancing around with pride. "Though to someone who has seen the Abbey or St. Paul's, it does seem a trifle small." There was just the hint of pretension in the man's voice, and he spoke with the air of one man of the world to another.

  "Yes, well, they are hardly meant to be compared, are they? But each has its charms. I am looking forward to your Christmas presentation. Miss Simons has a lovely voice, do you not think so? She is a valuable addition to your choir."

  "Most definitely," the vicar said, blinking a little at the rapid change in subject. He continued, though, very quickly. "Miss Simons would be a valuable addition wher­ever she went, I believe." His tone was proprietary. "I confess, I shudder to think of her ever leaving Ellerbeck. In fact, I have t
hought of making her residence here a more permanent sort."

  Justin caught the side glance from the vicar, and won­dered whether the man was warning him off or checking for approval. Warning, he decided. The reverend seemed too sure of his own good fortune if he should speak, and Justin supposed his own attendance at the choir practice was odd enough to set tongues wagging.

  "More permanent? You mean hiring her as your house­keeper? Do you think that is really proper? I hear she is from an excessively good family." Mischief lit the noble­man's eyes, but the vicar, without a humorous bone in his body, was appalled.

  "Of course I did not mean that, my lord! I would never . . . oh, I believe you jest, sir! I mean to ask the young lady to be my wife. I have been observing her for some time and she conducts herself with just the sort of self-effacement and humility I would wish in a wife. And I have heard her family is good, though I believe she is in reduced circumstances. I have no need of a dowry, as I have an independent income in addition to your brother's generous allotment. I have reason to believe the lady would not be averse to my paying court."

  Contempt welled in Justin's heart. On the outside all deference, the vicar was really an upstart, a popinjay of the worst sort. He was evaluating Celestine's worth for his hand! It was ridiculous. She had more than one title in her family background. What did he have?

  But the vicar had good reason to be confident, he feared. Celestine was not averse to him, and could prob­ably be persuaded to think she was very lucky if he deigned to marry her. According to Emily, she did not think much of her own worth and would be grateful for the opportunity to marry and have children of her own. She would work herself to the bone trying to be worthy of the honor of being the vicar's wife, and he would ex­pect it of her, never giving a moment's thought to her condition and how she should have some care herself.

  The thought disturbed him more than he liked to think. Celestine Simons was a gentle soul—good with chil­dren, responsible, caring. Other people were first in her thoughts always, it seemed. Would the vicar ever appre­ciate her true worth? Did he love her, or was he just think­ing about damned bloodlines and family history?