She strolled down the snowy hill after the girls, feeling better than she had for ages. They were walking along a path that led to the edge of the St. Claire property, though the property line was not even in sight yet and wouldn't be for a while. It was a large estate, and the St. Claires were the principal landowners of the area, employing hundreds of people in addition to the household staff: shepherds, dairymaids, gardeners, farmers, ostlers, a blacksmith, and many more.
But the technical part of running the estate was behind Ladymead. Celestine was walking with the girls in the pleasure park, a landscaped area with copses, rolling lawns and a small stream, frozen now in places, gurgling bright and silver in others.
"Miss Simons!"
A voice carried on the wind reached her as she approached the wooden bridge over the small stream on the Ladymead property.
Celestine turned and saw Mr. Foster, the vicar, following her down the path. He was a stark, black blot on the white and blue horizon. She called to the girls, then stopped to wait.
Panting a little, Mr. Foster said as he reached her, "I am so glad I caught you. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you."
"I am just taking the girls for a walk. This time of year excites the little ones so. They need to work off their fidgets."
"They should be assigned some quiet work!" the reverend said, frowning a bit. "Contemplation is what they need, and perhaps a talk about the true meaning of Christmas."
Celestine bit back the response that first came to her lips and merely said, "Of course, sir. Perhaps you are right."
Foster unbent a little and hands clasped behind his black-coated back, he fell into step with her. Lottie and Gwen were gathering pine cones under a deep green conifer where the snow had not yet drifted in and stuffing them into the pockets of their cloaks. They wanted to decorate the schoolroom, and Celestine had agreed to help them.
"You wanted to speak to me, sir?" she asked. She smiled up at him, determined not to let the parson's priggish attitude destroy her joy in the day.
He harrumphed once, blowing out his breath in a cloud of steam, and Celestine glanced over at him in some surprise. "I was dismayed, Miss Simons, at the apparent interest Lord St. Claire has taken in you. It cannot have an honorable intent, and I felt it my duty, as your religious advisor, to prepare you in the event he approaches you with an improper suggestion."
Celestine gaped foolishly in her surprise.
Foster took her tiny gasp of outrage as her reaction to this surprising revelation, and said, "I know, Miss Simons. Quite shocking. Being a gently bred female, you will be unacquainted with male lust, and I would not want you to be exploited by a predatory type such as the marquess's brother. The aristocracy have different codes, my dear, if I might be so bold as to call you that. I would protect you from women's inherent weakness of morality.
"I would like to offer my protection in a more solid form. As my betrothed wife, you would be removed from his sphere of influence. I hope you know I consider you everything that is amiable and feel marriage between us would satisfy us both on many levels."
He paused and glanced sideways at Celestine. Possibly he sensed some anger or hostility from her, because he rushed back into speech. "I know you will think me hasty, but I have been observing you for some time, and my decision was not taken lightly. As a man of the cloth, I must think of the worthiness of my wife to be a beacon among women and must judge her ability to exemplify St. Paul's admonition, in his letter to the Ephesians, that women be subject to their husband as their head and master, as their husbands are subject to our Lord ..."
The rest was lost on Celestine. Anger had bubbled up into her serene heart, darkening the beauty of the day. How dare he? It was one thing for her to acknowledge her own ineligibility as far as an honorable connection with Justin went, but for the vicar to so boldly state she was only an object of lust for his lordship! And he would protect her from her own weakness of morality?
Inwardly she seethed, but she made a strenuous and not entirely successful attempt to keep her anger quelled.
"Lottie, Gwen! We have to go back now. Tea will be waiting!" Her voice sounded harsh, even to herself. Tears blinded her eyes, and she didn't dare venture a word to the man at her side.
Luckily, he was readily able to come to an explanation for her silence. "I believe you are overwhelmed by my offer, my dear. I will give you time to digest it before informing your employers of our intentions. Indeed, I would not have come forward at this busy time of year, except I feared for you in the same household with that . . . that libertine. I believe the knowledge of your impending marriage will strengthen you in your resistance to that animal's lustful predation, but you must feel free to come to me at any time if you feel yourself weak in the face of his licentious and lascivious manner."
Her continued silence and hurried footsteps did not register with the vicar as disapproval. He continued. "I have heard many things of Lord Justin St. Claire. We both attended Oxford—myself several years ahead of him, I might add—and even in those days he was a known gambler and fornicator. I will not shock your tender sensibilities with the raw facts: the soiled doves under his protection, the games of chance and dens of iniquity he was known to frequent. I may have already been too forthright, I fear, judging by your continued silence.
"But he has ever been addicted to the pleasures of the flesh, I believe. My sermon this week shall be on lust, the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. It will be wasted on his ears, if he even attends service, which I doubt. This is where I must part from you, my dear. I must pay my respects to her ladyship and then return home."
He turned to Celestine, his dark eyes intent. "I would like to celebrate our betrothal, my dear. Please do not take what I am about to do amiss. Never fear that I will view you with a lustful eye, for I am not given to a violence of emotions." He stepped closer to her, gripped her shoulders, and laid a cold kiss on her forehead, then turned and walked away.
Celestine was too shocked to do anything but submit to his odious, cold salute.
Justin galloped over a hill on his gelding, which danced to a stop as he pulled back on the reins. In the distance, on her way back up the hill toward the house, was Celestine, with Lottie and Gwen gamboling behind, skipping and running.
But there was someone else with the governess, a dark figure. As he watched, the man in the black greatcoat turned an unresisting Celestine toward him and planted a kiss on her face, whereabouts Justin couldn't quite tell. It was enough to see she did not push him away, nor did she slap him after.
By God, it was that smarmy vicar, Mr. Foster! And their relationship must be farther along than he had ever thought for the reverend to be kissing her in broad daylight in view of the children.
A cold swell of some bitter, unidentifiable feeling swept over Justin. He had been wrong, evidently, about her never having been kissed. Was she playing them both like fish on hooks, seeing if she could land one of them, not caring much which? His lips twisted in anger.
And he had thought her an innocent— an untouched, virginal spinster. Maybe she would come to his bed willingly, then, thinking to catch herself a husband that way. Maybe he did not have to spend his time at Ladymead in vigorous exercise to quell the passion roiling through his veins.
Perhaps it was time to press her a little more closely.
Eleven
Days passed. The house party was lively enough, thanks to the children and the Misses Stimson, and it was informal enough that the children occasionally came down to the parlor and entertained the adults with their prattle. Gus was allowed to play billiards with the men and to eat at the table with the adults, a rare treat for him. He slavishly copied Justin's every move and mannerism and took to tying his cravat in an untidy copy of the intricate style Dooley had created for his uncle.
Lottie and Gwen were included in trips into Ellerbeck for gift shopping and even a sleigh ride into the countryside for greenery to dec
orate with. Celestine worked alone on the puppets, keeping Justin's characters in mind, but she didn't see anything of him and felt the shine go out of her days.
How silly she had become, she thought as she dressed the Reginald puppet, thankful her hands felt so much better and were not as stiff as they had been. She worked in silence by the big window in the schoolroom and contemplated her short acquaintance with her employer's brother. She had begun to think she was in some way special to him, that he appreciated her and found her desirable enough to want to be around her. He hadn't been feigning that, she had thought. But then, he was an acknowledged favorite of the ladies. He probably had the knack of making each and every one of them feel special.
Or his efforts at staying away from her could have another source. There had been one puzzling moment that was likely the cause of his avoiding her.
It had been very late at night, and Celestine was sleepless. The hot bath every morning and Emily's ointment were starting to make her feel better. The swelling was starting to go down on her hands and she was not so fatigued all the time.
Awake with an unusual bout of insomnia, she decided to try some milk from the kitchen, and had crept down the back stairs from her third-floor room. On the landing of the second floor, she had heard a noise and had shrunk back against the wall, momentarily frightened. A shadow, long and menacing, had crept up the wall, and the scuffle of footsteps echoed.
Then a figure hove into view. It was Justin, and with a whimper of relief she had sagged against the wall, hand to her breast over the thumping of her foolish heart. He saw her then and, a little the worse for a bottle of brandy, he had peered at her in the gloom.
"Celestine," he whispered. "That you?"
"Yes," she whispered back.
He came the rest of the way up the stairs and stared at her, holding his candle high, his eyes raking her body in its soft, worn nightrail. He came closer and closer, until he filled her vision. All she could think of was Mr. Foster's admonition to her and his warning about St. Claire's nature.
It had angered her at the time, but it had humbled her as well, and she had rethought her idea that it didn't hurt to love him in silence. Now, with him in front of her, his cravat askew, his jacket missing, his sleeves rolled up over thick forearms, and his hair even more tousled than usual, she could not think at all. She couldn't concentrate on loving him or hating him or avoiding him, not with him this close.
"I ... I was just going . . ." She started to skitter past him, to head down the stairs. It was too dangerous even being near him. Though she might resent the vicar's lack of faith in her virtue, there was much sense in his warning to her. Justin St. Claire was a man entirely out of her experience, with seductive wiles she hadn't imagined until she was subjected to them. If she was vulnerable to his caresses in the schoolroom in the middle of the day, what might he tempt her to in the middle of the night, with only her nightrail and housecoat on?
He put out one arm and arrested her movement. She gazed down in fascination at that arm, the cord of muscle across it, the bristling dark hairs and lightly tanned skin. She could see the golden tint to his flesh in the dancing candlelight. What did he do outdoors that left his skin tanned, even after summer was gone? Her ungovernable imagination raised the question of whether he was golden all over—his shoulders, his chest, his . . . she turned her face away in confusion.
He set his guttering candle on a nearby table and fingered her hair with his other hand, grasping a handful of it and burying his face in it. His action so startled her that she lifted her face and watched him in fascination. He rubbed it over his face and against his lips, taking deep breaths of her scent. He wound it around his fingers and kissed the silky strands. He finally released her hair, but some stayed snagged on the bristles of his late-day shadow of beard.
She gazed up at him, her eyes wide. Was he drunk, or just a little to go, as the phrase went? He was standing steadily enough, with no waver or stagger. Being so close to him was suffocating. She moved to duck under his arm, but he grasped her shoulder and pushed her against the wall.
And then he kissed her. His breath was perfumed with brandy and his lips were warm and moist on her mouth. He folded her to his chest in a strong embrace.
For a moment she surrendered, tasting the sweet liquor on his lips and melting into his warm body, feeling herself start to shiver to radiant life in his arms.
This was the glorious feeling she had been aware of the last time he had kissed her! She felt alive, like something stirred in her dormant body, kindled by the touch of this man. She was aware of a vague, poorly understood desire to cling to his heat, his strength, to mold herself to his muscle and sinew.
But the cold voice of reason intruded and she remembered what the vicar had said. Perhaps he was right after all. She was weak and could easily give in to him. She felt it in herself—felt the sweet languor of love steal her breath away and leave her aching for his touch.
She pushed away from him and he released her, but would not let her out of the circle of his arms. His overpowering presence dominated her, and her hands, resting lightly on his shoulders, kneaded the muscles that knotted and flexed beneath her touch. His breathing was fast and harsh and her own matched his for pace. His gaze was deep blue and unfathomable in the dim light of his flickering candle.
"You like kisses, don't you?"
It was a statement, almost an accusation. It puzzled her, but she had no time to think about it. It was imperative she retreat, for if she were caught dallying in the hall with him in her nightrail, inevitable conclusions would be drawn and her employment would be at an end, as would the good reputation of a blameless lifetime.
"You are drunk, sir." She ducked out of his arms and retreated upstairs to her room to safety. For a few minutes she had been frightened he would follow her and make a scene, but he hadn't, and that had been that. Since then he had not accosted her or visited her in the schoolroom, a fact she should have been grateful for, though it left her feeling restless and dissatisfied.
Of course she had not told anyone about her amorous encounters with Lord St. Claire, but she knew her aunt felt something was wrong. Emily still came to her room every night for a talk and the ointment, and their discussions had been long and thorough, but they did not touch on the nobleman. She also did not tell her about the vicar's proposal, if it could be called that.
Later, after their conversation, she realized Mr. Foster had assumed she would accept him. There was not even the pretense of asking for her hand; he had just said they would not announce their nuptials until after the holidays. That angered her more than anything, even more than his assumption of her lack of morals, for some reason.
After the anger came the sadness that spelled the death of her hopes for an honorable marriage with Reverend Robert Foster. She could not even think of looking at him again, much less marrying him. He thought her immoral by nature—clearly thought all women were impure.
She thought about his cold, chaste kiss on her forehead and how it compared with Justin's hot, dangerous kisses. Would Mr. Foster's kiss have been so lacking if she had never experienced Justin? She didn't know—couldn't imagine. That was the problem with experience; you could never go back from it, never undo it.
And she could never retreat from loving Justin. She thought about him all the time, wondering what it was in him that drew her, but she knew she was right to keep him at arm's length, and she should have been glad he seemed to be avoiding her. She caught the occasional glimpse of him with the Stimson girls or Lady Grishelda, and just that morning she had heard him flirting with Lady van Hoffen.
They were in the conservatory. Celestine had gone there to get a plant for the schoolroom and had become entranced just walking up and down the rows of greenery. When she heard a male voice she assumed it was Grundle, the gardener. She heard a feminine counterpoint and realized too late it was Justin and Lady van Hoffen.
Their conversation had been light
and flirtatious, with lots of double entendres and laughter, and then there had been silence. She thought they might have left, slipping quietly from the room without closing the door behind them. But from behind a palm tree she had caught sight of the pair, the ample redhead with her fingers buried in his hair as she gave him an openmouthed kiss. He had given her a little push after that and they had moved away, arm in arm, laughing.
A stab of pain and jealousy shot through her, but it finally put his behavior in context for Celestine. Now she understood him. Just as she had initially thought, he could not be around a female without flirting and making her fall in love with him. She was just one in a long line, and she must bear that in mind next time he flirted with her—if he ever did. And still she could not hate him.
She bent back over her work, deftly sewing a cloak on Reginald, and tried to forget about Justin St. Claire. But some things would live in her memory forever: his eyes following her around the room; his low voice, so seductive, in her ear; his kisses, so warm and passionate that any woman could be excused for falling in love with him; and that one perfect moment in the dark confines of the carriage when he had pressed his kerchief into her hand and she had felt a thread between them stretch taut and thicken, a cord binding their souls intimately. He might be unaware of it, but her heart was bound to his by more than lust or desire.
Was it just in her imagination, that connection? Was it for him some flimsy little cobweb she had woven in her mind into strong hemp? Perhaps, but still it bound her to him, and she would forever feel the tug of it wherever he wandered and whomever he chose to bed. Whether he knew it or not, he would always carry around with him her heart, pulsing with the strong beat of his own.
Elizabeth twitched the curtains back to look out on the gloomy December afternoon. "I think it will be perfectly marvelous," she sang, dancing around the room in a rare display of high spirits. Her husband watched her fondly as she circled the room, touching an ornament here, straightening a cushion there. "It has been years since we have had a big Christmas party."
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 13