"You have been a little taken up with child bearing and other necessary nuisances," he chuckled.
He was a big man, stretched at his ease on a dainty brocade sofa at the moment, watching his slim wife with appreciation. Few people saw him smile. Even fewer heard him laugh. Only with Elizabeth did he show those rare sides of himself. Their arranged match had miraculously turned into love, and though they had had their troubles, he was forever glad his parents had betrothed him to her when she was still in the cradle and he was in short pants.
"I think my plans are coming along brilliantly," Elizabeth said. "Every day Justin is behaving himself better. He voluntarily took the Misses Stimson for a ride this afternoon! On the whole, though, I believe Lady Grishelda will suit him better."
"If you can keep him out of the clutches of the mother," August growled. "I know my brother, my dear. With a willing widow in hand, he is unlikely to think of marriage, a subject he avoids even when attending the marriage mart."
Elizabeth stopped. "Do you think they are sleeping together?"
"He and Lady van Hoffen? That trollop? Probably doing damned little sleeping."
"August!" She stopped before her husband and allowed him to pull her down on his lap. "Still, I swear before this holiday season is over, I will have him betrothed!"
"You missed your calling, my dear." He gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. She was adorable when she was scheming. It hardly seemed possible that she had a fourteen-year-old son. She still looked so youthful and slender.
"You should be Cupid, and this should be St. Valentine's, not Christmas," he said, with a teasing lilt in his voice.
"Tonight I will test my mettle at our Christmas party. He will fall for one of my guests, just you wait and see."
August St. Claire nuzzled his wife's neck. "Don't be so sure, my love. You are doomed to disappointment. I don't know who will catch my rapscallion brother, but it will have to be someone swift and witty. And she had best be prepared to have him lead her a merry dance before he is snared."
"He sounds more like a hare than a man, my darling." "More like a fox, if you ask me."
Justin stared out the window of the library, watching a few snowflakes dance against the pane as the day closed in, the sky darkening with twilight and a threatened storm. Elizabeth's party guests were due to start arriving any time now, if they didn't get caught in a ferocious snowstorm before then.
He was not looking forward to this irritating party his sister-in-law had cooked up. Somehow, the brightness had gone out of his holiday, and he couldn't place a finger on the problem. He had been enjoying himself, even down to writing the damned play for Lottie and Gwen— and Celestine. He grimaced.
The other night he had been cupshot and had pawed her like some lecherous old lout. But it had only seemed her due after kissing him as she did in the schoolroom, then kissing that damned vicar—in broad daylight and in front of the children, no less. He ought to have told his brother. But the vicar had as good as stated his intentions to Justin himself in the sanctity of the church. He supposed he could do nothing.
But if she were as good as betrothed, what business had she had responding to him the way she did? How could she look at him with those great, luminous gray eyes and sigh against his lips with the soft sweetness of ardor? He would have sworn he had given her her first kiss, but now he no longer knew. It made him doubt his instincts, which he had long relied on, and he did not like being in a state of doubt. He had sworn to bed her after witnessing that kiss between her and the vicar, but that resolution died after his unseemly drunken groping of her. No woman made him lose control . . . except her, it seemed. He didn't like the sensation of losing mastery over his own body and actions, which was what happened every time he kissed her.
He paced away from the window. What in God's name was wrong with him? Why did every thought begin and end with Celestine? He went back to the desk, determined to finish The Lonely Prince. Instead he found himself staring with unseeing eyes at the shelves of books on the other wall.
Christmas was just two weeks away. He had achieved his objective of some kissing and cuddling with the prim governess. She had led him much farther than Miss Chambly had. By God, he had pressed himself against Celestine's pliant body and felt her flicker to life against him!
And their kissing had been far from a little innocent bussing on the lips. It had been the kind of deeply passionate embrace that leads to the bedroom and a night of hot, sweaty play under the covers. Or was it more the kind that led to vows of love eternal and all that rot? His mind scurried away from that concept. He should announce his success, mortifying Elizabeth and showing her she did not exert total control over her vassals, and get on with enjoying the holiday season—maybe even bed the widow and vent his unsated lust on a willing woman.
But for some reason, he didn't want to share what had passed between Celestine and himself, even to horrify Elizabeth. He wasn't exactly sure what it was. He had intended a light flirtation, but this was different somehow. He had realized that in the conservatory when the amorous Lady van Hoffen had kissed him, pressing her lush body against his, grinding her hips, and promising more with her darting tongue and experienced hands.
He'd felt distaste, and compared it to his shared embrace with Celestine. Lady van Hoffen's kiss had been tawdry and lewd, somehow. With the governess, kisses had seemed rich in meaning and shared passion. He had pushed Lady van Hoffen away and laughed it off, though he had known she would expect him in her bed that night. She was doomed to disappointment.
He threw down his pen with an exclamation of disgust and ran his fingers through his hair. Celestine. Somehow she was under his skin. Why? Was he getting a conscience?
He sat up straighter and his eyes narrowed. That might be it! He was feeling guilt—guilt for having lured a virginal governess off the narrow path of virtue. Miss Chambly had gone out of her way to entrap him. He'd had no qualms about accepting her kisses. But Celestine was a virtuous young woman apparently destined to become the wife of the local vicar. He had started to doubt whether she was as innocent as she seemed after seeing the vicar kiss her, but he could not remember a single instance of her encouraging him, even that late night on the stairway landing, so perhaps he should absolve her of any fickleness.
He nodded with some satisfaction. He had hit on the solution, and he would find a way to soothe his conscience. He would talk to her and tell her she need not fear him anymore, that he would keep away from her. He remembered his intentions the morning after escorting her home from choir practice. He should have followed through with what was clearly his better self. Perhaps this would be a lesson to him. He would set her mind at ease and assuage his conscience. Anything to stop this fixation on a plain, frumpy governess and get on with his Christmas celebration.
That was what he would do. The play was almost done. Perhaps while everyone else was busy with the party that night, he would take it to her, confess what he had intended, and tell her he would bother her no more. Then he could stop thinking about her all the time. He set back to work on the play, his pen scratching across the surface of the paper at an even pace.
Twelve
"But, Aunt Emily, this is not at all the thing!" Celestine cried, gazing at herself in her aunt's cheval glass.
Emily gazed at her niece's reflection and sighed happily. Celestine was dressed in a deep rose gown of watered silk, cut low enough on the bust for fashion, high enough for modesty. It was crossed with heavy burgundy ribbon, which served to emphasize her well-shaped bosom, and had an overdress of ivory lace. At the bottom were three rouleaux of contrasting silk, the top one dancing in an elegant, swirling pattern around the skirt. It was simple and elegant—perfect for her niece.
"Please, don't spoil my enjoyment of this party!" she said, glancing up into Celestine's fine, gray eyes.
The younger woman set her lips in a determined line. "Aunt, I know your intentions are the best, but Lady St.
Claire will perish from rage if she sees me dressed up to rival her other female guests! That you wrested an invitation out of her for me to join the festivities is bad enough, but she will expect me to appear in my dowdy governess grays, not dressed like some debutante."
"Oh, surely not a debutante, my dear," Emily replied, her head tilted to one side. She examined her niece with a thoughtful gleam in her eye, then retreated to her wardrobe and retrieved a velvet case from one shelf. Her maid, Agnes, moved competently in the background, restoring order to the piles of dresses and fabric on the bed. Emily came back to the mirror. In one deft movement, she fastened a lovely string of garnets set in gold around Celestine's slender, arching neck.
Celestine stood, hands down at her sides, and gazed at herself in the semidarkness. Agnes had not pulled the curtains yet, and outside a light snow drifted against the window. "It is dressing mutton to look like lamb, Aunt, and you know it," she said quietly. "And not even choice mutton, but the poor scrag end of the flock."
"I'll not have you speak of yourself that way," Emily said sharply, glaring at her niece's reflection. Her voice softened. "It sounds like bitterness, my dear, and I have never known you to be bitter."
"Oh, Aunt!" Celestine turned to Emily and threw her arms around her, feeling the unaccustomed sensation of the soft, silky chemise under the dress rubbing against her naked skin. "I don't mean to be ungrateful. I just don't think it is fitting, and I am sure Lady St. Claire will not, either."
"Let me handle Lizbet. She seems very ferocious, but she is really a lamb if approached the right way."
"We seem to be heavily into sheep herding tonight, with both mutton and lambs," Celestine said, a wry twist to her smile. Still doubtful, she turned to stare at herself in the oval tilted mirror. Her cheeks burned at the knowledge a seamstress had designed the gown, an old one of her aunt's, to lift and amplify a woman's natural attributes. She was not overendowed, but had always felt her reasonable bounty in that area to be immodest at best, lascivious at worst. A governess must blend in with the background, and in this dress she did not.
The rose material of the gown, altered to fit her slen-derness, gave her pale skin a luster she had never noted before, and the garnets gleamed in rich perfection on her throat. Emily's clever maid, Agnes, had been busy on her hair, too, pomading it until it shone and coiling it so it looked like chestnut silk. One long tendril caressed her slender neck.
What would Justin think? Her heart pounded at the thought of spending an evening near him, gazing at him, perhaps even conversing with him—if Lady St. Claire didn't take one look at her and demand she march upstairs and divest herself of her borrowed finery.
"Shall we go down?" Emily picked up her fan from a table and handed another, adorned with soft, tawny feathers, to Celestine.
"I ... I guess," Celestine muttered, staring at the pretty fan in her rose-gloved hands.
Downstairs the party gathered in a parlor, awaiting the signal to go in to dinner. Elizabeth had surpassed herself in the opulence of her preparations, and the house had been in an uproar for two days of cleaning, decorating, and cooking. Silver and crystal glittered and shone, and fresh flowers from the greenhouse perfumed the air. Evergreens to honor the season were heaped on tables with red ribbons threaded through them, and holly garlands wound through the staircase spindles and over the banister. Twelve more were to join the twelve of the house party and family for a total of twenty-four sitting down for dinner.
Celestine and Emily had just reached the second to last stair of the curved staircase when the butler announced dinner had been served. The guests poured out of the parlor, with the marquess leading Lady van Hoffen, the highest ranking of the female guests.
Justin followed with Lady Grishelda on his arm. He glanced up and stopped, his face suffusing with red. Grishelda glanced up as well, and a faint look of disapproval flickered over her plain face. Celestine noticed, but then a moment later was riveted by the look in Justin's eyes. Even if she was sent up to her room that moment by Lady St Claire, it would be worth it.
One moment suspended in time was all it took for the admiration in his eyes to register with Celestine. Chagrined, she admitted to herself she had hoped he would look at her thus, that his eyes would light up and his gaze travel over her stylish hairdo and pretty dress, her long rose gloves and her white arms bare above them. What a trap vanity was, that even a plain governess who knew her limitations could fall prey to it!
"Miss Simons, you look . . . lovely tonight."
His voice rang out in the suddenly silent hall and Elizabeth, distracted until that moment by Mr. Stimson, glanced up to see what her brother-in-law spoke of. Her blue eyes turned frosty and her stare settled on Emily with an accusatory gleam. But there was no way to deliver a set down or reprimand then and there without causing a fuss, and she was committed to this party's being a triumph. A tiny smile, more like a grimace, settled on her lips.
"As we are all finally gathered, let us go in to dinner, shall we?" she said, her voice brittle and echoing in the quiet.
Celestine sat through much of dinner toying with her food. It had been a mistake. She could hear Justin's voice, his rich tones and laughter, down the table. He sat between Lady Grishelda and Miss Charlotte Stimson, and turned from one to the other, talking and laughing with both ladies equally. All she could do was listen, straining to make out his words, then castigating herself for the peagoose she was being.
At her end of the table, Celestine was seated between a young sprig who only had eyes for Caroline Stimson on his right, and an older man with graying hair who consumed his food with a rapidity that was luckily equaled by his tidiness. He ate quickly but neatly, with little time for conversation.
He had been introduced to her by Emily, who sat on his other side, as Gavin Knight. The first impression she got of the hawkish, lean gentleman was not a good one, as he raised his quizzing glass and stared down at the bosom of her dress immediately. Celestine had felt naked, as though he had stripped her bare and was evaluating her for purchase.
After that, Celestine was too uncomfortable to make conversation with him, and was glad he seemed devoted to his meal. Once, halfway through the second remove, she thought she felt a hand on her knee. She gasped, and it had been quickly withdrawn, too quickly for her to be sure it was not an accident.
She glanced up and down the table, finding she was right in her conjecture of why Lady St. Claire had allowed herself to be bullied by Emily into inviting Celestine for the dinner. She had invited a local squire and his four handsome sons to dinner, and had overbalanced the table in favor of the gentlemen. Celestine brought the balance back to the correct number so they could be seated, gentleman and lady in turn, around the long table.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room to await the gentlemen and a few other neighbors of insufficient consequence to invite for dinner. The talk centered around London fashions, gossip, and whispered confidences about gentlemen. Emily glanced over at her from time to time, but her aunt was trapped on a sofa, listening to an ancient lady's reminiscences, so Celestine was left to her own devices. Celestine had thought Lady Grishelda might be companionable, but she was strangely aloof, avoiding the governess's company.
Conversation livened up when the gentlemen arrived, and some of the young ladies were begged for a sample of their musical talents. Charlotte Stimson was first, and she acquitted herself very nicely, with a couple of love ballads and a spirited cotillion piece.
Celestine listened with half her attention, watching Justin circulate, talking easily with gentlemen and ladies. Lady van Hoffen was watching him, too, with hungry eyes. The widow licked her parted lips occasionally and thrust her ample, almost-bared bosom out when he glanced her way.
Emily gave her niece a tiny smile and joined her on the patterned sofa. They listened to the music in silence for a few minutes, and then Emily glanced over at her.
"My dear, it does not do to sh
ow your feelings so readily on your face."
Celestine started and stared at her aunt. "Whatever do you mean?"
The older woman gazed at her sadly. With the piano music as cover, and her fan in front of her mouth, she said, "It's happened, hasn't it? You've fallen in love with Justin St. Claire."
Drawing in a deep breath, Celestine curbed the impulse to close her eyes. Was it that obvious? Had she been so unguarded? "I ... I didn't think . . . how do you know?"
"Oh, my dear, I see the same longing in your eyes I saw in my own in the mirror when I first fell for Baxter. Men are the very devil, love, and they are even worse when they know they have our devotion."
"I . . ." Celestine was speechless. She was alarmed lest Justin—or even worse, Lady St. Claire—should read the same message on her face. What was wrong with her? Normally she was the most guarded of young ladies. She had always striven for the appearance of tranquility even in the midst of emotional turmoil.
It was a bitter dose to swallow, but she saw from a stranger's vantage point the unsuitability of a spinster governess sighing over a handsome aristocrat—more than unsuitability. She was a caricature of the lovelorn, aging ape leader, pining over the unattainable. A ridiculous figure.
"I think I must go for a moment and collect my thoughts." Celestine rose to her feet with a rustle of rose silk.
Emily started to rise with her, but she put her hand out and said, "No, Aunt. I just need a moment to myself. I shall return directly."
She hastened from the room, out into the coolness of the hall. Glancing around, she decided the library was most conducive to a few moments of contemplation. It was a lovely room, large and dark and quiet, contrasted with the stuffy, noisy drawing room. There were a few tapers lit in case some gentleman decided to retire for a cigar, and Celestine breathed deeply of the scent of leather bindings and old tobacco.
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 14