Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  He wished he knew what her reaction would be to his play. It was important to him that she approved, though he hardly knew why. Why did it matter? And why had he attempted that tawdry bit of flirtation in front of her in the schoolroom that afternoon? Had he expected to see hurt, anger, jealousy? All he had surprised in her fine gray eyes was puzzlement and disapproval.

  What did she do in the evening, he wondered. The girls were in bed, or in Elise's care by now, so there were no more demands on her time. He found himself pos­sessed by a powerful curiosity. He excused himself to Elizabeth and slipped from the room.

  She would likely be in her own room, a sanctum he could not invade, but it was just possible she was in the schoolroom preparing for the next day. He took the stairs two at a time, but slowed before he got to the third floor. No need to alert her to his presence too soon by gallop­ing like a racehorse.

  It was quiet up there. The maids and footmen would no doubt be sitting down to dinner in the servants' dining hall. Perhaps that was where Celestine was, too. But no, there was a light in the schoolroom. Silently, he crept forward and looked in the partially open door. She was by the fireplace, but there was no fire lit. He frowned.

  She was sewing something gray by the light of a dim candle on the table beside her. Every few stitches she would stop, rub her knuckles, then go on, laboriously setting stitch after stitch in a straight line. At one point, she sighed, set the sewing on her lap, and leaned her head back. Her eyes fluttered to a close and she seemed almost to sleep for a moment. Then she shook herself and continued with her work.

  Justin remembered what Emily had said about Ce­lestine's ailment. Her hands were painful, almost crip­pled, when she was in the throes of an attack of arthritis, and she failed to take care of herself as she should. How did one take care of arthritis? He cast his mind back to his uncle, who had suffered from the ailment.

  Uncle Solomon had sworn by the mineral water baths at Bath. That connected with something Emily had said in her little speech to him. Justin headed back the way he had come, his face a mask of concentration.

  Nine

  Celestine hummed a joyful tune as she worked on the puppets while Lottie and Gwen were out for a walk with Elise. The evening before, she had indulged in a nice long chat with Aunt Emily. She barely remembered her mother, who had died when Celestine was so young. Emily, though young enough to be an older sister to her, had given her all the mothering she had ever had, and her presence now was soothing. She had expected it to be a solitary and dreary Christmas, her first away from family, but now it didn't seem so bad.

  It was unexpectedly lonely being a governess, some­thing she never would have imagined. Until her father died, she had been a respectably situated spinster in a small village, with a circle of friends and acquaintances that, if not wide, was loving. She had been in a position to distribute some largesse from her kitchen and had taken part in her church's campaigns on behalf of the needy.

  Her father's death, leaving her with virtually nothing, and then her move to Ladymead, had changed every­thing. Now she was a servant and yet not a servant. She was employed by the marquess and marchioness, so she was certainly not in a position to socialize with them, and yet the servants thought her to be in a very different class from them. When she entered the servants' hall or the kitchen for something, merry conversation would cease, and she would be greeted in a stilted fashion. They were kind and helpful, and she believed they liked and re­spected her, but she knew they wouldn't be comfortable again until she left.

  And so for almost a year she had been isolated from adult conversation and starved for contact and conversa­tion with her social equals. Emily's visit was a blessed re­lief—though it didn't come without a price, she had discovered the previous night. Emily was aghast at how far she had let the arthritis go without attempting to treat it in any way. Sitting on Celestine's bed, Emily had rubbed her cook's ointment into her niece's painful hands, chas­tising her all the while for not taking care of herself.

  "You would think you wanted to be a cripple," she had fussed, massaging the aching joints with the greasy for­mula, an ointment that made Celestine's flesh tingle and glow. "You must take care of yourself!"

  "There is too much to do! Much more interesting things than taking care of myself," she had protested.

  "And how will you be able to do those interesting things when you are confined to bed unable to move?" Emily scolded. "Not taking care of yourself is a sin against God. He gave you a brain and a body and expects you to do your best with both."

  When morning came, another sample of Emily's deter­mination had been displayed when two maids came into her bedchamber pulling a copper hip bath. They had proceeded to fill it with steaming water. When Celestine argued, they would only say his lordship said it was to be so, and left it for her.

  It had been pure luxury to sink into warm water at the time of day when her whole body rebelled against allow­ing her to get out of bed. As a result, her morning had progressed with less pain than usual. It was bad of Emily to intercede on her behalf with the marquess, or more likely the marchioness, but it was welcome interference and improved her ability to do her job. The ache was somewhat better already and she had more energy than she had felt for months.

  She had already spoken to young Augustus that morn­ing, and he had expressed an interest in building a small puppet theater with the estate carpenter, so he was gone to pester for the materials. Now she just had to think of a suitable play to put on and they would be in business.

  A light tap at the door made her look up. It was Lord St. Claire, holding a sheaf of papers and looking rather sheepish. She invited him in, smiling unconsciously at his handsome face and grin.

  She did like his smile. His face was narrow, with high cheekbones and a mobile, sensuous mouth. His eyes were the startling blue of a summer sky, with silky, dark lashes and heavy brows over them, keeping them from any sug­gestion of femininity. His hair was a dark tumble, and she wished she could reach out to touch that one stubborn lock that fell over his forehead.

  But it was his smile that made him so devastatingly at­tractive. He glowed from the inside with health and vital­ity and something else—a sweetness Celestine believed he didn't know he possessed. What had started as a very good day was made better by his presence, and she had forgiven and forgotten his high-spirited piece of foolish­ness with the Stimson girl and the mistletoe. A man like Justin St. Claire must be forgiven his boyish pranks.

  They spoke of commonplace things for a few minutes: the children, the weather, the season, all of the guests. He seemed nervous, and she wondered what the sheaf of paper was for. But she was kept from inquiring when her thoughts wandered off as he spoke. She gazed at him as he paced the schoolroom and remembered the dream she had of meeting him in the forest.

  Was it wrong to dream of him like that? She didn't know. There was no harm in it, she supposed, and she couldn't control the dream fantasies that took her places she could not in reality go. It was as close as she would ever get to being kissed by him, her dream kisses, and she defiantly decided she would not feel guilty! She saw him gazing at her expectantly and floundered for some­thing to say.

  "I . . . I'm sorry. What was that?"

  "So may I? Would you mind?"

  Celestine scrambled frantically in her brain, won-dering what it was he was asking. "I ... I suppose . . ."

  "Good!" He took the chair across from her and rattled his sheaf of papers. He cleared his throat and began.

  "Once upon a time there was a wayward prince named Aurelius. He was a jolly sort, always having fun and trav­eling, but underneath he was really very lonely. One day the prince's brother, the king, an extremely serious man known as Reginald the Mighty, who believed everyone else should be just as serious as he, said, 'Aurelius, you must choose a bride.' "

  Celestine sighed in relief. This must be the story he was writing for the puppet theater. A fairy-tale? From him?

  He read on. The
lonely prince searched the kingdom for his match, but came back empty-handed, only to be faced with his brother's wife, who had chosen him a girl to wed. She was screechy. She was ugly. She was missing teeth, and spoke in a high-pitched . . .

  Celestine broke out laughing and Justin glanced up, a grin on his beautiful face.

  "Do you like my prince's wife-to-be?"

  "She is perfect!" Celestine laughed, setting aside her sewing and clapping her hands together. "I shall have such fun creating a puppet to portray her!"

  "But now I'm stuck." Justin glanced down at his papers again. "I don't know how to get the prince to his Princess Calista, who is living out in the forest where she has charmed the birds and the woodland creatures and can speak to them." He was silent for a moment. He cleared his throat and stared at his hands. "Will it be . . . will it be suitable?"

  "Suitable?"

  "For the play . . . for the girls. Can you do something with it?"

  Was he so unsure of himself? She gazed at his face while his eyes scanned the paper. It occurred to her he was actually enjoying himself writing the piece, and she was touched. She did not know what his usual life con­sisted of, but from things said by Lady Elizabeth and Emily, he was a man about town dashing from club to ballroom to racetrack to mill. That he should enjoy him­self writing a play for his nieces was unexpected.

  "It's delightful, my lord, but it needs very simple dia­logue before we can put it on."

  "Of course," St. Claire said, hitting his forehead lightly. "I should have thought of that. But how can I help the prince find his princess?" His voice lowered to a caressing baritone. "He is so lonely, and the right woman is waiting for him, but how does he find her?"

  He was doing it again, Celestine thought, glancing with dismay into the aristocrat's expressive eyes. As if he didn't have enough ladies to flirt with! She had seen him with the Stimson girls and the ravishing Lady van Hoffen. Did he need to make a slave of every woman in his sphere of influence?

  Carefully, she said, "I think you will find some way, my lord. If you will excuse me, I must find out if the girls are back from their walk yet." She rose to go.

  Justin caught her hand. "Don't go yet." He pulled her back, then stood and held her hand, touching her knuck­les gently with his thumb. "How are your hands today? Are they any better?"

  Celestine flushed with mortification. She wanted to snatch her hand away and hide it behind her, but he had a light but powerful grip on it. His long, strong fingers curled around hers, and it wouldn't do to have a tug of war. His closeness was disconcerting—the warmth that ra­diated from his body, the scent of some hair pomade or cologne, the way his wide shoulders and sturdy body blocked everything else from her view. "They are a little better, my lord. Now I really must . . ." She tugged on her hand, but he didn't let go.

  She watched in horror as he lifted her hand and touched the swollen knuckles, each in turn, with his lips. His warm breath bathed them in heat. She felt hot and cold flushes over her whole body, and a queer sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. His other hand came up and his fingers threaded into her hair. Somehow he worked the pins loose, and her chestnut hair started a slow slide, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders in rich waves. She couldn't breathe or move.

  "Don't run, Celestine. Don't be afraid of me. I would never harm you."

  His voice was a low murmur and she felt herself falling under his spell—felt her heart throbbing and swelling with desire. What was he doing to her with just a touch, just a word?

  He turned her hand over and his lips caressed her palm in a lingering kiss, then her wrist. She felt her pulse leap. His free hand stole around her waist and he pulled her closer, trapping her other hand between them. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his body, the heat searing through the thin fabric of her dress and chemise. She swallowed, willing away the dizziness that threatened to turn her world black.

  "Celestine."

  It was like a whisper from a dream and she glanced up under her lashes and opened her mouth to ask him what he wanted. His lips came down against hers, their warmth and softness taking her breath away and shadowing her mind with confusion.

  She had never been kissed by anyone but her father and her aunt in her whole life, and this, of course, was completely different. It was as though Justin were reach­ing in to some hidden and untouched part of her, strok­ing it and petting it into purring satisfaction. She felt his lips move over hers, then a tentative, delicate thrust as his tongue lightly touched her lips and dared to lap at her own tongue.

  She felt herself relax and soften against him, unable to fight the sweet languor that stole over her. The kiss went on and on, their tongues touching, his thrusting into her mouth with more urgent power. Both of his arms were around her now. Her hands found his broad shoul­ders and she clung to him, feeling his muscles flex and tighten. One of his broad hands was splayed over the back of her head, holding her lips to his own with a firm and steady hand. The other hand was caressing her back, sliding down her backbone, cradling her rounded bottom and molding her against the hard planes of his body. . . .

  She pulled her mouth away from his and gasped. Push­ing against his shoulders, she managed to wrench herself from his arms. There was a spark of desire deep within his brilliant blue eyes. He was breathing heavily, panting almost. She was wretchedly aware of how much she longed to be back in his arms—how bereft she felt after tearing herself away—but she straightened and took a deep breath.

  "That, my lord, is quite enough of that!" Her voice was trembling.

  "Oh, I don't think so," he said, advancing on her and holding out his arms. His voice was low and seductive, rasping the words and giving them dark, dangerous meaning, and his eyes were sea blue now, warm and in­viting, offering bliss and fulfillment to her if she acqui­esced. "Come back, Celestine, come back. You know you want to. Just for one more kiss."

  "No," she said, backing away. She hastily twisted her hair up into an untidy bun and with clumsy fingers stabbed the pins she had retrieved from the floor back into it.

  His eyes blazed. Why was she being so difficult? He had felt her melting against him like warm candle wax, mold­ing her soft curves against his body. He had been sur­prised—no, amazed—at the shapeliness of her body under the hideous, high-necked gray dress she wore. Her curves were womanly, her hair like spun silk, her response to his touch loverlike in its passionate intensity. The kiss had lingered and become a mating, his tongue thrusting into her hot sweetness until he felt as though he would go mad with desire. If he could just get her to admit she felt the same, maybe he wouldn't stop at just a kiss to irk his sister-in-law. He was hungry for more. Beneath her prim exterior she was molten fire, a sensual volcano ready to explode.

  "Celestine, don't deny what is between us. I have had plenty of experience, enough to know you would find more joy in my arms than you have ever felt in your entire life. You are a woman who needs to be loved."

  Her gray eyes went flinty, and she seemed to petrify in front of him. Her spine stiffened with indignation. "That will never happen, my lord. I ask you to leave my school­room. Please!"

  His hand came up to caress one long strand of silky hair, a stray from the untidy bun, but she batted his fin­gers away and moved to the other side of her chair, clutching it like a buoy.

  Justin knew he would get no further at that moment. But she wanted him, he could feel it in his bones. She wanted his touch, maybe more. Her face was pale, the light dusting of freckles under her eyes making her look ridiculously young, like a schoolgirl. He remembered how her waist-length, unbound hair hung over her shoulder like a silk scarf. Her lips were flushed pink from his kisses and glistened with a touch of moisture. He swallowed, knowing his physical condition was such that she would be able to tell she had aroused him if she knew what to look for. He did not want to risk frightening her just yet with his passionate response to the feel of her in his arms. A strategic retreat was called for.

  "I suppose I should
go back and work on turning my fairy-tale into a play," he said, picking up his sheaf of papers and holding them in front of his breeches. "Will you read it when it is done and tell me if you wish any changes?" He was aiming for a lightness of tone to reas­sure her. He didn't think he had quite succeeded, but she appeared to relax a little. "I . . . certainly, my lord."

  A light tap came at the door. Both of them whirled at the sound and Lady Grishelda smiled. "I hope I am not interrupting anything?"

  "No, of course not," Celestine said, relieved she had not been a few moments earlier. Or what if she had and had just come back? That thought was horrifying and Ce­lestine swayed dizzily, holding on to the chair for support. But there was no consciousness in the young woman's face. "Please come in."

  "I thought we might have that talk, but if you are busy?" She looked inquiringly at the sheaf of papers in Justin's hands.

  "No. I was just leaving." Justin bowed stiffly, his cheeks pink. "Excuse me, ladies."

  Celestine sighed with relief. How much longer was he to stay at Ladymead, and how would she last? If he had more torture devised for her in the guise of his expert kissing, she would have to think of ways to evade him. Her virtue alone was no protection, it appeared. She turned to her visitor and invited her to sit in the chair just vacated.

  "Lord St. Claire was consulting me about a play he is writing for the puppet show the girls will be putting on for Christmas."

  Lady Grishelda eyed her steadily, her gaze flitting over Celestine's flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and the stray strand of hair that trailed over her shoulder. "No expla­nation is necessary, Miss Simons. I will not carry tales that Lord St. Claire was visiting the schoolroom."

  Celestine shifted in embarrassment to have her light chat seen through so easily. There was such a thing as rather too much perspicacity and candor, she decided, and the young woman in front of her was guilty of both.