"I did not think you would. Nonetheless, that was his reason for being here. Now, of what would you like to speak?"
Lady Grishelda's calm eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she compressed her lips. But when she spoke, it was about her school and her desire to make it truly useful for the children of her village.
Celestine felt the tension leave her as they spoke. It was bewildering, after a year of virtual isolation, to find herself sought out by such a variety of people. Her aunt, so close and dear to her; Lady Grishelda, so intelligent and well spoken; and Lord St. Claire, so ... so handsome and gentle and merry and ... try as she might, Celestine could not rid herself of the memory of Justin St. Claire's kiss. Even as she spoke to the young woman in front of her, conversing about books and students, another part of her mind was dealing with the aftereffects of her first kiss.
She wanted to revel in it. She wanted to go somewhere quiet and relive every precious second, from the first touch of his hand until the moment when she had regrettably come to her senses. Regrettably? Yes, she was sorry she had parted from him. And yet if they had stayed like that Lady Grishelda would have had a scandalous tale to tell had she so desired.
For a few minutes she had been a woman—not daughter or niece or governess, not parishioner or friend or neighbor, just a woman, being kissed and caressed by a man with fire in his veins. As inexperienced as she was, she had recognized the look in the nobleman's eyes when he had at last released her. The naked desire there had thrilled her to the core, making her quiver. It was a powerful sensation to arouse a man like Justin St. Claire, who was surely used to beautiful courtesans and lovely society ladies.
But he was a man, and according to a married friend of hers from the village where she grew up, men could get that way over any woman. Jessie, married to a successful draper in their small village, had called it being in rut, in a disdainful way. So maybe there was nothing so very wonderful in his feeling that way over her. It was a lowering thought.
She was conscious that her conversation with Lady Grishelda had become more personal. The other young woman was speaking of her intention never to marry.
"Never?" Celestine asked, watching the calm face before her.
"No. I believe women surrender too much in marriage. We give up our self-determination."
"But do we ever have that in the first place, my lady?" Celestine asked. "Aren't we always subject to the whims of men? I escaped that only because nobody wants me in marriage, and I have no close male relatives."
The younger woman got up and paced to the window. "I will be frank, and what I say may shock you." She stood staring out at the landscape, the hills dusted with a light layer of snow. "My mother has lived her life for men. She needs men—needs their support, their approval, their minds, their bodies. She is a leech, sucking strength and self-confidence from them. I disdain her way of life."
"But that does not mean you must do without marriage," Celestine said softly. "You are an intelligent, attractive, caring woman, and marriage ..."
"Would end all chance to use my abilities in any way I wished!" She was vehement, turning from the window with a blaze of determination in her pale-blue eyes. "I will live my life for myself! I will not become some man's plaything to discard when he has found a new toy."
Celestine, taken aback by the twists of Grishelda's conversation, was puzzled. But a ray of light pierced the dark. "You see your mother as being used by men, do you not?"
Grishelda nodded.
"Some might say it is the other way around, that Lady van Hoffen is the one who has the ultimate freedom of choosing, instead of being the chosen. She is, after all, in control of her own life."
Grishelda's expression twisted. "That is not so. My mother is notorious, yes, but her choices are limited. She is avid in the pursuit of admiration, and any man who feigns it will find himself in her bed that night. What kind of choice is that?"
Celestine was silent.
"I have shocked you." She came back to sit down. She arranged her neat, modest dress around her and folded her long-fingered, elegant hands in her lap. When she looked up again, her eyes held a militant gleam. "I am sorry. Perhaps I have seen too much of life as a result of my mother's . . . predilections. But I see it as revelatory. I see how men use and discard women, how women are only sought as long as they are young and attractive or can pretend to those virtues. I abhor such treatment, and so I will forego the pain of such abandonment in favor of a higher course, a course of service to the poor."
"Very laudatory," Celestine murmured. But she could not help thinking that in Lady Grishelda's position, surely she could continue her life of service and have a life of her own: a husband, children, love. If she had the young woman's advantages of position and wealth, she knew exactly what she would do. She would make every attempt to attach Justin St. Claire and marry him, whatever the future held. That was the truth of the matter. A lifetime of kisses and caresses like the ones he had given her would more than make up for the loss of self-determination she would suffer upon marrying. Perhaps if she were wealthy and independent like Lady Grishelda, she would feel differently. She would never know.
Something inside told her whether he knew it or not, Lord St. Claire was ready to change his life by taking a wife. There was a restlessness, a bored air, that told her he was ready to start living as an adult instead of as an eternal youth flitting from affair to affair.
But she was a poor governess with no beauty, no wealth, and no position. And she had best not forget that, nor the fact that there would never be anything between her and the aristocrat beyond the sensual fulfillment he sought. The gap between their social positions was vast. More than a gap, it was an abyss. All he could offer her was ruin. She must remember that, or she would surely lose herself—or at the very least, her virtue.
Ten
Justin strode from the schoolroom to his bedchamber. It would not do to enter his sister's parlor in a state of raging arousal. Unbelievable that he should be so affected by a prim, gray mouse of a governess. He had bedded courtesans, society wives, some of the most beautiful women in England!
He had thought himself in control of the situation— had expected to arouse her desire, then leave her hanging. After all, this whole thing had started as a way to tweak Elizabeth's nose—to get the governess to fall under his spell and have a little fun.
Instead Celestine pushed him away, leaving him to deal with his problem. It was just being male, he supposed. She was a warm and willing bundle in his arms and his body had prepared itself accordingly. After too many years of mindless seduction, he was not used to having to exercise control.
Warm. Willing. When he had gazed down into her liquid gray eyes, he would have sworn she was beautiful in that moment, even though he knew better. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, like the very best bone china, with that enchanting sprinkle of freckles over her small nose. Her mouth, too large for fashion, was well suited to satisfy a man's hunger. He had been right about that. He had plundered the depths of her mouth, erotic images flooding his brain as he imagined her sensual lips employed in delectably arousing ways. As he thrust into her mouth, he had wanted nothing more than to lay her back on the schoolroom table and show her how pleasurable was the sweet mating dance of man and woman. A fine sweat broke out on his brow.
Her hair, so mousy-looking bundled back into a bun, was a glorious silken mane that hung around her shoulders like a curtain. He could see it fanned across a pillow, her pale, perfect skin glowing with vitality from the passionate exercise he was giving her as she writhed beneath him while he thrust into her welcoming body. He could teach her things, arousing things ... he shook his fogged head, trying to clear it.
He hungered for her. For her! He sat down on his bed and ran his fingers through his curls as he considered that fact. He need not go without fulfillment, even here in the hinterlands of the Lake District. He knew at that moment, in his condition, he could have found Lady v
an Hoffen and she would gladly have given him satisfaction. Her reputation preceded her to Ladymead as a woman eager to lie down for any man with the time and inclination. She was well known in London as a vigorous and athletic lover; her abilities were bandied about in every men's club he frequented.
But he didn't want Lady van Hoffen. He didn't want just a willing receptacle to pour himself into. For all her aristocratic pretensions, Lady van Hoffen was a scheming little whore, not circumspect when it came to choosing sexual partners, nor discreet in her amours.
Had he ever passed up a willing woman when he was randy? Not in his memory. His lust had been aroused by more than one female ineligible to bed by virtue of being young and unmarried, and he had always satisfied himself with some willing courtesan. He would not be caught in parson's mousetrap for nibbling forbidden cheese. Any food would satisfy when one was hungry. But not this time.
He sighed and lay back on his bed, staring up at the rich, wine-colored brocade hangings and sturdy oak posts as his ardor finally began to abate. For the first time, he thought of Celestine—really thought of her and her life. He would swear his kiss was her first—that she was a virgin in every way. But after her initial timidity, she had melted against him with a tender passion that aroused him all over again as he thought of it. She had met his darting tongue and searching kiss with ardor and tremulous yearning.
What was different about her, about her kiss and touch? Was it because he was her first? There was astonishing power in that thought, knowing she was absolutely untouched. He had never had a virgin and had always supposed his first would be his wife, whoever she was. What would it be like? Would it be awful, or awe-inspiring?
He supposed that would depend on the girl he chose and her response to his lovemaking. He was generally accounted to be a considerate lover, careful of his partner's pleasure before his own, a fact which apparently had made the rounds in London. Lady van Hoffen had whispered as much to him earlier, as she squeezed his leg. But a virgin would require special care. It would help, he guessed, if the girl had a passionate nature, like Celestine.
There he was, back to her again. There must have been other men who were interested in her in her first bloom. After all, though she was plain to most eyes, she was not ugly, and she had a softly rounded body, pleasing to a man. Her eyes kindled with a spark, his dark, thick brows drew down, and he absently plucked at the figured bed cover.
Had anyone else seen her eyes as he did? She seemed to become a different person in his arms, alight with an inner flame that burned hot and luscious. And yet he had seen something there long ago, before he had kissed her—a sweet confusion in her glance when she looked at him, a wide-eyed look of wonder.
He knew other ladies thought him handsome and had professed to love him. He had been in London for twelve seasons and had had his share of doe-eyed debutantes casting themselves at his feet, dying of love for him—or so the more indiscreet had said. He had been feted, complimented, sought after for most of his thirty-two years.
But he had never felt such a magnetic pull as he had the night he and Celestine came home together with Elise and Mrs. Jacobs in the carriage. He had longed to take her in his arms and hold her—just hold her, nothing more. He wanted to protect her from the vagaries of her life and soothe her pain, comfort her fears. If the maid and housekeeper hadn't been there, he would have.
He had attributed his tears in the church and his tender reaction to Miss Simons's fragility to the over-emotionalism he was occasionally prey to. He was the unfortunate inheritor of his mother's disposition. He remembered as a lad occasionally coming upon her weeping over a sad novel or lovely piece of music and knew it was to her he owed his sensitive nature. He had struggled to submerge that side of him. There was no room in a St. Claire man's life for emotionalism. His father had made sure he knew that and had beaten him once for crying over a hurt puppy. But was that all that lay behind his urge to protect and shelter the governess?
He bounded from the bed with a snort of disgust. What in God's name was coming over him? He was acting like a moonling with a first crush, and over a plain little dab of a governess! He needed rational male company—a bottle of port and a game of billiards. That was the logical cure to this illogical burst of inappropriate lust.
Surely lust was all it was.
Lady Emily Delafont paced the conservatory, ostensibly enjoying the orchids and other fine blossoms. What she was really doing was worrying, wringing her fine, soft hands together. She had been appalled at the way her niece had neglected herself in her time at Ladymead. Only with the most strenuous care could she avoid extreme pain for a number of weeks or even months a year, and yet she didn't give herself a second thought, devoting herself to those over-cared-for children of the St. Claires. But Emily saw a danger to her niece more insidious than the merely physical. In their long talk the night before, Emily had drawn Celestine out, gently encouraging her to talk about anything and everything.
She had been starved of adult company for almost a year, so it was no surprise that she poured her heart out, talking nonstop for almost three hours. And in those hours, Celestine had unwittingly exposed more of her heart than perhaps she had intended to.
The girl was halfway in love with Justin St. Claire. She had spoken of his going to choir practice, his quiet praise of her voice, the connection she felt to him in the carriage on the way home, and his gentle treatment of her when her emotions brimmed up.
She spoke with puzzlement of his teasing and flirtation, but there was no anger or disdain. There was longing— tender, winsome, full-hearted longing she no doubt did not realize she was revealing. She touched on his looks, but, surprisingly, that did not seem to figure largely in her infatuation.
Celestine was the most sensible of women, but Emily realized all too often they were the very kind to be taken in by a smooth-tongued rogue. Justin was every inch a rogue, a devil with the ladies. In his years in London, he had cut a wide swath through the ranks of debutantes and even the more experienced ladies of the ton.
Sometimes Emily thought he wasn't fully aware of his own powers, as ladies often languished on the sidelines in the throes of absolute infatuation with him, when he had done no more than bow to them or say a kind word. There was something about Justin that called to a deep, yearning place in a woman's soul, the place where tenderness resided. And yet he was a rakehell and a roué. Her sweet niece was falling in love with a cad who could not begin to appreciate her fine, deep qualities.
She did not think she was being too partial when she spoke or thought of her niece as sweet, loving, dutiful, and intelligent. But there was more to Celestine. There was also strength—a deep, abiding strength of character, and an awesome optimism despite the uneven hand she had been dealt. She did not see herself as unfortunate, with the curse of arthritis and poverty heaped on top of loneliness and spinsterhood. Celestine had lost most of what mattered to her in life: her health, her father, her home, and her position in society, and yet she had a determined cheerfulness of character that was motivated solely by her lack of self-centeredness.
That was what Emily had been trying to say to Justin. Instead he had seen her interference as offensive and had sneered at her enumeration of her niece's sterling qualities. And this was the first man Celestine would fall in love with? As likable as Justin was—and it was impossible to hate him even when one saw him for the rogue he was—she could cheerfully consign him to the devil that moment.
So what could she do? Watch and wait, she supposed, and be there to guard Celestine or to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart when Justin revealed himself for the heartless cad he had always been—and hope it would happen soon, so Emily would be there. She prayed Justin's visit did not outlast her own. From what she had heard, he intended to take himself back to town for the New Year's festivities. Emily turned toward the door and headed back to the parlor and more empty chat with the empty-headed Stimson sisters.
The air spark
led with a crystalline brightness Celestine had never seen before. Lottie and Gwen raced down the path ahead of her, through the light covering of snow, laughing and screaming at the momentum that they built up. Lady St. Claire would go into strong hysterics if she could see her girls acting like such hoydens, but Celestine believed children must be allowed to be children, with all the attendant noise and occasional scraped knees.
She knew she was beaming—grinning in fact—and the sparkling weather and childish laughter could not be the only reason. After a quiet half-hour's reflection over the morning's events, she had decided there was nothing at all wrong with admitting she had tumbled headlong in love with Justin St. Claire. She felt joyous and free, youthful and energized just saying it out loud. "I have fallen in love with Lord Justin St. Claire!" She laughed at the silliness of it.
Where was the harm? He would never know about it. No one would ever know about it. She would keep her full heart concealed from everyone and hug her secret knowledge to herself. Pain was inevitable, but right now she was going to enjoy his company when she had it and not feel ashamed of loving.
But she must not allow such trespasses on her person again. That could lead to trouble, and she felt it unfair to engage in actions that would lead to unrealistic expectations on his side—not that he would expect to court her as he would a lady he was considering marriage with, but he certainly might think she would be amenable to a liaison of a less moral kind.
She acquitted him of any serious intentions. He did not conduct himself like a man who would be considering marriage or wooing. It was just his way, and how could he help that? Many girls must have fallen in love with a man so gifted, handsome, and engaging as he was. She was not the first and would not be the last. She could do nothing about it now the damage was done, so she must just relax and let time settle things.
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 12