Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  Justin bid the vicar good-bye and strode back out into the wintry sunshine. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, foretelling some unsettled weather to come. They were matched by the gloom in his heart. He felt pulled down, depressed.

  What was wrong with him? This was rubbish! He needed to sweat it out of his system, that was all. Alphonse still had not got the vigor worked out of him, so once out of the village, Justin gave the frisky gelding his head and they galloped up the hill to the crest and stopped to look over the other side, down at Ladymead.

  Perhaps he could accomplish two goals at once by flirt­ing with Miss Celestine Simons. He could frustrate Eliza­beth, always a goal with him. He could not abide a managing female, and she was the worst of that sort. Au­gust gave her her head, as she did not dare try to manage him, at least not in any way he noticed.

  At the same time, he could perhaps elevate Miss Si-mons's low opinion of herself. In his experience flattery, no matter how outrageous, always touched a deep need in a female to be appreciated. More than one young lady had come away from a flirtation with him with an over­blown opinion of her own attractions. He counted it a kindness to flirt with some of the young girls in their first Season. He knew himself to be attractive to them, and it did their self-esteem good to receive attention from him. If it stopped Miss Simons from allowing herself to be a doormat when she eventually married that vicar, what's-his-name, then he would have done her a good turn, in­deed.

  With a little glow of virtue, he trotted back to the La­dymead stables, and left Alphonse to a groom's care. He had a flirtation to continue. All in a good cause, of course. Or mostly, anyway.

  Eight

  The next day, the last of the house party arrived, a Lady van Hoffen, who had attained her tide through mar­riage with an aged European nobleman, and her daugh­ter, Grishelda. Grishelda was a plain young lady with an intelligent expression and a cool smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her mother was a buxom, beautiful red­head of perhaps forty years, flamboyantly dressed and eager to flirt with Justin, whom she knew from London.

  He wondered at his lack of interest. A whispered word from him would have her slipping from her chamber to join him in his bed that very night, a temptation he would not normally have foregone. The lusty widow was eager to wed her daughter to him, but would likely be just as eager to start an affair, and she might not find the two aims mutually exclusive.

  But something in him rebelled at her flirtatious glances and sly innuendoes. He caught the daughter watching him with thoughtful, intelligent eyes, and the knowledge that more than one person would know of their liaison made him squirm. He injected a frosty note in his replies to the lady and evaded her after that. She was a little too obvious for him.

  Outside the snow started, first coating the fells with a light dusting, then drifting into the valley where La­dymead nestled among copses. After the Sabbath pause, when much of the staff was given a half day off to attend evening services, life at Ladymead was back up to full bustle.

  Justin found he was expected to join in with whatever activities Elizabeth had planned, which that day consisted of conducting the young ladies on an extensive tour of the house, the conservatory, the library, and finally the gallery, with all the family paintings needing to be ex­plained. Justin, bored to flinders with the Stimson misses, was grateful that Lady Grishelda was an intelligent young woman who did not seem to believe every encounter with him must be spent in flirtation. How had she managed to escape the influence of her mother?

  Maybe there were women in the world who would make intelligent, conversable wives after all, Justin thought. Her demeanor was cool, though, without being haughty, and he was not sure she was the type of woman who could be heated up by passion. He couldn't imagine bedding a woman like that, one who would remain well-bred and chilly even in the bedroom.

  They walked together along the hallway.

  "I really think that is it, ladies," Justin said, pausing at the end of the hall near the stairs, and turning back to the two Stimson sisters.

  "Fustian. What is this door here?" the younger one said, putting her hand on a brass doorknob.

  "That is just to the upstairs rooms, the third floor."

  "And what are those," the elder Stimson sister asked, "the attics where you keep the ghosts?" She giggled.

  Justin smiled. "Nothing nearly so romantic, I am afraid. The servants' quarters, of course, the nursery, and the schoolroom."

  "Oh, is that where the little girls would be? Those dar­ling little creatures we have hardly caught a glimpse of so far?" said Miss Caroline, her childish simper firmly in place. She turned the knob and started up the stairs. "I have a great love of children!" she called as she danced up the stairs. "And I wish to visit them."

  "She hasn't been long enough out of the schoolroom that I should think she'd want to go back so soon," Justin muttered, drawing a smile from his companion, the sen­sible Lady Grishelda.

  Charlotte Stimson was already starting up the stairs be­hind her irrepressible sister, and Lady Grishelda shrugged. "I think we had best follow them up, or they are apt to cause havoc in the governess's domain, and I should hate to add to her burden."

  "Very true," Justin said.

  When he got to the door, Charlotte and Caroline were already in the schoolroom, fluttering around and cooing over the little girls, causing, as Lady Grishelda had pre­dicted, havoc.

  Lottie was in her element, preening for the admiring young ladies, her blond head turning this way and that as she spoke to the two young women, but Gwen was frightened by their noise and fuss and was clinging to Celestine's gray skirts. Lady Grishelda's calm, thoughtful eyes took in the sight and she crouched down to speak softly to the little girl, drawing her out so Celestine could attend to the Stimsons' unending questions and repress Lottie's spiraling spirits, which threatened to send the little girl out of control.

  Near a globe, a clustered bunch of holly and a sprig of mistletoe rested on the long table that served as a desk for the girls. Celestine had apparently been conducting a lesson on the origin of Christmas, since that was all Lottie or Gwen could be interested in at that time of year. They weren't formal lessons, really, just something to keep them occupied and out of trouble, she said, her calm, melodious voice cutting through the babble of chil­dren and Stimsons.

  Justin listened to her as she explained she had been speaking of pagan beliefs and the origin of the Yule log, mistletoe, and the reason for bringing evergreen boughs in to decorate with, when the company had burst through the doors. Caroline Stimson picked up the sprig of mis­tletoe on the table and twirled over to Justin, her muslin skirts belling out around her, holding it over her head.

  "Give you any ideas, Lord St. Claire?" She giggled again.

  Her older sister frowned and Lady Grishelda glanced up sharply from her murmured conference with Gwen. As a piece of flirtation, it was over the top for a schoolroom miss. Justin was most interested in Celestine's reaction, though, and when he saw her wide gray eyes fixed on his face, he smirked. Some devil in him induced him to mis­chief, and he had been given the perfect opportunity.

  "Why, Miss Caroline," he said, his eyebrows raised and his blue eyes glittering in the dim light from the window, "are you sure you should be tempting a known rake such as myself with your lovely countenance? Do you know what you are asking for?"

  The girl laughed, a high, brittle sound, as her cheeks reddened. Her elder sister frowned and snatched the greenery from her hand. "That's enough, Caro," she snapped.

  Lady Grishelda stood, her movement fluid and grace­ful. "I think we have interfered for long enough on Miss Simons's time." Her voice was steady and brooked no dispute.

  She would make a formidable mother and wife, Justin thought. If a man wasn't careful, she would likely have him reformed into a boring, steady old married man be­fore he knew what hit him—if she were even interested in marriage. Lady Grishelda emanated an air of stern practicality that seemed to preclude any of the soft
er feel­ings of love and desire.

  "I believe Lady St. Claire mentioned a game of battle­dore and shuttlecocks in the large salon," she said, her eyebrows raised. Her comment was directed toward the Stimson girls, who were a few years younger than she.

  The two Stimsons swept out of the room, leaving a puz­zled Lottie in their wake. They hadn't even bothered to say good-bye to her. Justin drifted from the room, but Lady Grishelda paused in the doorway. She said good-bye to the children, then looked up at the governess.

  "I am sorry, Miss Simons, that we interfered in that way. Your job is no doubt difficult enough at this time of year without the added stir of company in your domain."

  Celestine smiled into the woman's kind, pale blue eyes. "It is quite all right, my lady. Lottie, at least, enjoyed the break, and it was kind of you to soothe Gwen. She is not one for fuss and noise, I am afraid. Most people frighten the poor little dear, but you have a way with her."

  "May I visit without the accompaniment of the others sometime, perhaps when the children are at luncheon or otherwise engaged? I have some need of information you are particularly suited to give me."

  Celestine raised her eyebrows at this. "I, my lady? If I can be of any help, I am at your service, but . . ."

  Lady Grishelda smiled. "Believe me, it is nothing oner­ous. I am forming a school in our village, and I am taking a survey of every professional educator of my acquaintance as to curriculum. Your opinion would be valued."

  Celestine flushed with pleasure. It was a rare thing for her to be consulted on anything, and she felt a kinship with the plain young woman with the sensible manners. "I ... I would be honored to help, my lady. Though I have been a governess for less than a year, I used to help out at our school in the village where I was raised. It was one of the joys of my life and it was a very successful school, so I may have some insights to offer."

  "Splendid. I look forward to some rational conversa­tion," Lady Grishelda said, ruefully glancing back down the hall, where they could still hear the Stimsons' raised voices. "Until then," she said, and smiled her farewell.

  Justin awaited her outside the schoolroom. "That was well done, my lady," he said quietly, glancing back at Ce­lestine's smiling face and giving her a small wave. Ce­lestine's smile died and she looked away. Damn. That silly bit of horseplay with the mistletoe had offended her. Now he would have to make up lost ground.

  Lady Grishelda's calm demeanor cracked slightly as they strolled down the hall. "Those Stimson girls should have shackles! They have no sense that there are people in this world who must earn their living and who may not all appreciate a couple of little idiots bursting in on their day." She cast a side glance at Justin. "My apologies for the slight to your sister-in-law's guests, sir."

  "No apology needed, my lady. Our opinions in this matter coincide exactly. May I hope they always stay as closely aligned." He grinned at her.

  She narrowed her pale eyes and gazed into his with a puzzled expression. "I must say, sir, you are not at all what I expected when my mother spoke of you. And she did speak of you—at great and detailed length."

  They descended the stairs together at a stately pace.

  "And what were you expecting?"

  "A wolf, sir. An attractive beast, but dangerous, so I am told."

  Justin let out a shout of laughter at the young lady's forthright disclosure. "Ah, but perhaps I am just a wolf masquerading in sheep's clothing, my dear—the better to allay your fears."

  Lady Grishelda slanted him an incredulous stare. "Lord St. Claire, I am no simpering debutante, nor am I a fash­ionable impure. There is no need of flirtatious asides with me, you know."

  Justin grimaced. "Impaled," he said, his hand over his heart. "You have cut me to the quick, my dear. And I was hoping for a spot of intelligent flirtation this Season."

  Lady Grishelda smiled. "You shall look to my mama for that, sir. She will indulge you in any type of flirtation you like."

  Celestine remained distracted long after her visitors re­treated. The little girls were called for tea, and she tidied the schoolroom, then sat down with her sewing basket.

  Lady Grishelda embodied everything Celestine had ever thought a young lady of the ton should be. She was gracious and graceful, kind and intelligent and would be an admirable foil for Justin St. Claire's high spirits and rackety ways. This Christmas season would, perhaps, see the start of a friendship between them that, given time, could blossom into something more. She was just the kind of woman to settle him.

  Celestine sighed. She rather hoped so. It would do Lord St. Claire good to have someone serious to set his feet on a more mature, intelligent path. She ignored the painful little voice in her own heart that pleaded for no­tice, arguing she was that same type and perhaps with more appreciation for his lightheartedness, and firmly set her mind on her work. The elegant, attractive, and witty aristocrat was not for such as she, even if things were different and she had been blessed with beauty as well as wit. Her situation precluded an alliance with a man of his exalted position.

  And anyway she was not confident she would have the vigor to reform a rake. That would require a woman of unusual strength of character combined with a serious disposition and determination—Lady Grishelda van Hoffen.

  She yawned. She was so tired in the afternoons. She struggled to stay awake as she sewed some basic garments for the puppets, the heads of which were now drying on a side table along the north wall of the schoolroom. There were enough for six characters. She hoped that would be enough.

  Her eyes drifted shut and she slept, drifting immedi­ately into a vivid dream.

  She was walking in a grove of pine trees, their scent heavy on the cold breeze. She glanced down at herself and found she was cloaked in a red velvet cape trimmed in ermine, and she started. Where had she ever gotten such a fine garment? There was snow all around, but she knew, for some reason, she must stay right there and wait.

  For what?

  She wasn't sure, but she was to wait. Her breath came out in steamy puffs, and she could hear the trees creaking in the cold, weighed down as they were with a blanket of snow. Darkness was closing in. She should return home, or she would be trapped in the dark with a snowstorm coming.

  She heard a thundering of hooves through the forest and a great, black horse came into view, its rider clad in a black cape. He swung himself down from his mount and came toward her.

  "Justin," she whispered, gazing up into his handsome face. His expression was one of desperate need—desire, even. His blue eyes glittered like sapphires in the dim light.

  "Celestine," he said, and clasped her into his arms, holding her close. Then he bent his head and his lips touched hers softly, warm and reassuring in the cold breeze. "Come away with me, my love, and I will give you everything your heart desires. I will treasure you all the days of my life. I don't care what my brother says, or Elizabeth—I love you. Come away with me."

  Celestine's lips curved in a smile as she relaxed into a deep sleep, curled up in her chair in the darkening schoolroom.

  The evening was gloomy, with a howling wind that rat-tied the glass and blew down the chimneys. The company was gathered in the drawing room after dinner, the men drinking port and the ladies taking coffee. Small groups had formed and Justin restlessly moved from one to an­other, listening to the conversation and trying to avoid Lady van Hoffen's winks and grimaces.

  He was feeling irritable and out of sorts, and he didn't know why. He approached the hearth and gazed into the crackling blaze, swirling his drink in his stemmed glass. What in God's name was wrong with him? He had every­thing a man could hope for in life and more: wealth, title, health, family, and good looks to top it off. Enough women had extolled his manly virtues that he did not think it was vanity to believe himself good-looking. When he looked in his own mirror, he only saw the usual set of features arranged in the usual way, but women seemed to find his appearance pleasing enough. He would be a fool not to notice that and take advantage of i
t.

  All of that aside, why was he staring broodingly into the fire instead of flirting with the voluptuous widow who wanted to warm his bed, or even with the giddy, pretty Stimson girls? He glanced around the room. Charlotte and Caroline Stimson were at the piano. Their glossy dark heads were bent together as they worked out a duet. Eliza­beth sat with Dodo and Emily Delafont, and Mrs. Stimson listened in as she did some kind of complex needlework.

  Mr. Stimson, August, and Lady van Hoffen were by the coffee tray. The widow was flirting with August—or trying to. Justin wished her well of it. August was a painfully righteous gentleman and would likely not recognize it for what it was, an attempt to draw Justin over, or even for what it wasn't, an attempt to draw the marquess into her bed. Lady Grishelda was looking over a book, seemingly needing no outside companion-ship.

  He envied her. She was so self-contained. She appeared to need no one, perfectly content to go her own way and live with her own thoughts. That was the result of un­blemished morality, no doubt. Justin tossed back the rest of the port, grimaced, and set the glass on the mantle. Was he getting maudlin again? Certainly not—he was merely bored. What did he want to be doing right now?

  Strangely enough, he longed to get back to writing his little fable for the girls. He wondered if Celestine would like it. Would she frown and criticize, or just cast her luminous eyes down and say, "It is fine, my lord," because he was her employer's brother? Or would her glowing eyes turn up to meet his as she said, "Oh, well done, Justin. It is perfect!"

  Damn. That was ridiculous. Even if she approved, she would hardly use his given name. She had made it clear such a privilege was not what she aspired to. But the one instance she had used it, when she was asleep and had murmured it, had given him a hunger to hear her say it again. He didn't think he had ever heard a woman say his name in quite that tone. It had sounded like an en­dearment on her lips.