She stood in front of the shelves, glancing over the titles, thinking about what her aunt had said to her. How had she let herself get so carried away that she allowed her feelings to show on her face? That was what came of giving in to love, of thinking it didn't matter if she indulged herself just that once. She should have been more guarded, instead of opening herself up to love.
But had there been any choice? She had been in it before she realized it. It had come to her suddenly, when his lips touched hers, that she had wanted him and needed him for some time. But she must master her urges so she did not give herself away to everyone, especially her employers.
The library was chilly and she wished she had a shawl for her bare arms. She rubbed them with her gloved hands and stared up at the books that reached up to the high ceiling, disappearing in the gloom.
A prickling feeling at the base of her skull warned her she was not alone. She turned to find Mr. Knight closing the door and walking across the thick carpet.
"Mr. Knight." Her voice echoed in the dim room.
His face was shadowed, his beaky nose throwing a dark shade across his cheek, his hooded eyes invisible. He continued to walk silently across the room toward her.
"I ... I just came for a moment of quiet, but it is chilly in here. I think I will return." She had started hustling past him as she spoke, but he shot out one hand and grasped her arm in a powerful grip.
"I would like you to stay." His voice was sepulchral, haunting in its depth and the echo the empty room provided.
Celestine shivered. She glanced at the door, still fifteen feet or more away, and took a shaky breath. Maintaining an air of bright incomprehension, she said, "Oh, no. I am sure you wouldn't wish to talk to me. I have no conversation, you know. In fact . . ."
He yanked her to him. Before she knew what was happening, she felt the desk behind her, so she couldn't move back, and he had her arms pinned to her sides. She struggled and opened her mouth to scream, but felt the breath sucked from her as his mouth came down over hers.
She was not strong. Never had she been more aware of it than in that moment when her struggles were as ineffectual as a kitten batting at a person's leg. She was bent backward, and she felt her back would break. As he kissed her, he ground his hips against hers, and she felt a ridge digging into her stomach.
She wrenched one arm free and started beating at his shoulder and back with it, while his mouth clamped on hers with brutal ferocity. She could taste him, the sour tang of uncleaned teeth, the tobacco, the port. Her senses leaped to life and her brain worked frantically, trying to think of a way out.
She knew what rape was. She had known a woman who had experienced it and who had unburdened herself at great and graphic length on the one sympathetic person in her small village, herself. Now she was about to experience all the horrors Mary Walmsley had told her about.
No!
She would not be a victim of this beast. Summoning all her courage, she bit down. Her mouth flooded with the metallic bitterness of blood, and he screamed in pain, raising his arm to strike her.
"NO!"
That roared word came not from her, but from the doorway. Suddenly, her attacker was yanked away from her, and Justin was planting his fist in the man's face. Blood spurted from the beaky nose and streamed down to join the river flowing from his mouth. Knight landed on the floor and scuttled toward the door on his hands and knees.
He gave Justin a look of loathing, then, scrambling to his feet, he turned and ran, bumping the door and stumbling as he went. Celestine wiped her mouth, surprised to find blood, likely Knight's, on her lips. Justin came back to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She trembled against the solid, comforting wall of his chest.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Justin gently pushed her away and looked into her eyes.
"Are you all right, my dear? Shall I call your aunt?"
"No!" Celestine blurted. "No, I will be fine."
"He didn't . . . didn't harm you?"
Justin's hair was mussed and his cravat askew. Celestine automatically straightened it for him, and then her fingers went up to smooth his hair, the fine silkiness slipping through her fingers as she looked up into his eyes, dark in the dim light of the library.
"What made you come in here?" she asked.
He looked down, sheepishly. "I ... I was looking for you. I saw you leave the room, and I wanted to tell you . . . well, I wanted to let you know how fine you look tonight. Garnets suit you. You should always wear them."
Celestine pulled away from him, her emotions a jumble of fear at the attack, embarrassment that Justin should find her, and worry that Knight would retaliate in some way.
"I think I deserve a little something in gratitude, don't you think?" Justin said, his voice husky as he advanced toward her. He gazed down into her eyes as he pulled her close and lowered his face to hers. "Don't you want to thank me, Celestine?"
Before their lips touched, Celestine pulled away. "No, my lord. I ... I must return, or go up to my room."
He expected favors out of gratitude! Celestine was burning with shame. Had the scene he witnessed left him thinking she had met Knight here and it had gotten out of hand? Or did he think she was soiled goods now, to be pawed at will?
"Don't be a ninny! Let me comfort you, Celestine. I promise you, I shall make you feel much better."
"You are no better than he!" Celestine panted, circling the desk away from Justin. "Is that all men want? To impose themselves and their animal desires on women? I could have handled Mr. Knight, my lord, and I would appreciate it if you do not think you can claim my favors out of some misplaced gratitude!"
It was more than she had intended to say. Indeed, it wasn't even fair, but she felt harassed, hunted, like a deer pursued through the forest by ravening wolves. There was a light in his eyes she didn't like in the slightest, and she must quench it.
It worked. His brightness was extinguished, to be replaced by coldness.
"You would compare me to that . . . that beast who attacked you?"
"Why not? So you handle yourself with more suaveness. You still want the same thing, don't you?" There was more vehemence and bitterness in her voice than she had intended, but her anger built, anger at being toyed with by him for his own mysterious ends, and pain at the knowledge there could never be anything more between them but an exchange of her favors for his protection. That was the only avenue available to a poor governess and a rich aristocrat.
Justin drew himself up, a cool hauteur settling over his perfect features. "I had not realized my friendliness was so repugnant to you. You seemed not to mind my caresses so very much. I had reason to believe I was not the only one who sought your favors. And all because I wanted to give you a little romance, a little something to remember in your spinsterhood!"
His face twisted in an ugly grimace. "I thought when you were old, it would be pleasant for you to look back and be able to say once you were kissed by a lord! I felt sorry for you, but I see my pity was wasted. I will bother you no more."
He whirled and exited the room, but at the door he stopped. He was silent for a moment, then sighed. Not meeting her eyes, he said, his voice more gentle, more like his usual tone, "I will give out that I saw you in the hall, and you were headed up to your room with a sick headache. Would you like me to send your aunt to you?"
Celestine's whispered "No," echoed in the still room and she watched him quietly leave, shutting the door behind him to give her some privacy.
Humiliation rushed in on her, filling her eyes and aching in her breast, threatening to burst out and consume her. So that was what his attentions were motivated by! She was an object of pity, to be offered the bones of a few kisses and caresses to remember in her lonely old age. Self-pity washed over her and tears streamed down her face and dripped off her chin.
And he wouldn't bother her after that—oh, no, not after what she had said to him. Had she really compared him to that
animal who had attacked her? How could she have?
If only she could go back a half hour, or even fifteen minutes—go back and take back the words she had said. Maybe he wouldn't have told her the truth then. Maybe he would have kissed her again, held her close to his heart, and she could have believed he cared for her a little.
But it was better this way, she tried to tell herself. Better to know the truth. Better to have no illusions. Wasn't it?
But she would give anything just to believe it for a while. She would give anything to feel herself loved by Justin St. Claire, as far out of reach to her as the stars in the sky—out of reach not only by virtue of his position, but by his brilliance, his very being. How many other women felt as she did about him?
Too many to count, perhaps. She sat down behind the desk and laid her head on the blotter, soaking it with her salty tears. And she just one of the many.
Thirteen
The water was starting to cool and Celestine reluctantly climbed from the copper hip bath, drying herself and dressing in the chilly confines of her chamber. The heat from the water had seeped into her bones and made it so much easier to get up and move around.
She examined herself in the cracked mirror above the tall old dresser. She had sustained no bruises from Mr. Knight's attack, but she felt different somehow, more vulnerable. Should she tell someone? Did he do this to other women? Who would believe her, and what could they do about it?
The helplessness of her position frightened her. If she did tell someone, she would almost certainly lose her position. Lady St. Claire would never stand for a woman in her employ to be accusing a wealthy acquaintance of attempting rape. She would become notorious, not he.
That was what had happened to Mary Walmsley, the village woman she knew who had been raped. Mary had been a maid at a bishop's house in London. One of the bishop's acquaintances did the horrible deed to her, not once but repeatedly, and when she became pregnant and could hold her silence no longer, she was dismissed. It was bandied about she had hoped to trap the man into marriage and was taking out her spite on him when it didn't work. She was an immoral slut, gossip said, who had lured the man into her bed.
Mary, a chaste innocent when she left the village, returned a broken woman, only to be shunned by some of the more narrow-minded citizens even in her hometown. She and her child lived in poverty, ineligible for the charity of the church because of her supposed transgression.
Celestine could do nothing but hope no one else ended up alone with Mr. Knight.
Anna and Betty, the two strong maids-of-all-work, came in and started to haul the bath out to the hall, but they fell back when Lady St. Claire entered the room. It was unheard of for her to mount to the third floor unless it was to visit the schoolroom, and Betty gaped in astonishment.
Lady St. Claire was at her most regal, chin up, head held high. She gazed at the bath with a frown on her lovely face.
"What is that doing in here?"
Celestine, rising from a curtsy, looked at her in consternation. "It is my morning bath, my lady. The bath you and the marquess kindly ordered."
"I? Or August?" Her eyebrows were arched in high curves over her startling blue eyes. "I never did such a thing," she stated. "A morning bath for the hired help? We cannot tie up the maids that way, especially with a house full of guests. This is monstrous! How did this come about?"
"B-b-but I was told Lord St. Claire ..."
"Beggin' yer pardon, my lady," Anna, a stout, red-faced country girl, said, gazing nervously at her employer. "It was Lord St. Claire, the marquess's brother, what ordered a bath for Miss Simons ev'ry mornin'. Sed as how it wuz for her artyritis."
Lady St. Claire's face blanched, then turned pink. "Justin?" Her whole frame trembled with indignation. "This is absolutely unheard of and will stop this instant! He has no authority ... we have a house full of guests, and I cannot ..." She ran out of words, speechless with rage.
"Go!" she ordered Anna and Betty, and they quickly tugged the bath away, shutting the door behind them.
Lady St. Claire circled Celestine, eyeing her usual gray dress and nodding. Celestine's mind worked furiously. Was she going to be fired? What if she was? Those thoughts superseded others in her brain, but she knew later, when she had time to reflect, she would wonder at Justin's kindness in thinking of the bath for her arthritis.
The marchioness drew to a halt in front of Celestine. "I came up here to ask what you meant last night by prancing around in front of my guests in finery ill-befitting your station, after my kindness in allowing you to join the festivities."
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Celestine considered what to say. She would not blame her aunt. Emily had only thought to give her some pleasure, and she would not repay that kindness with tattling.
She swallowed. "I am sorry, my lady. It was ill-considered of me. I ... I only thought since you kindly invited me to dine, I should . . ."
"I was humiliated in front of my friends. Lady van Hoffen could not believe I allowed my governess to dress up in silks and jewels and pass herself off as one of the guests! And to finish off your insolence, you disappear, and I must find out from Justin you retired to your room with the headache!"
Celestine gazed down at the bare wood floor. This was it. She was going to be let go, and likely without a reference. Aunt Emily would take her in, but she could not impose on her for long without finding another job. She had hoped to keep this one until Lottie and Gwen were ready to make their London debut.
She glanced up at the marchioness. Lady St. Claire had seemed quite happy with her work until now. Maybe she could be appealed to. It went against the grain to grovel, but she really wanted to stay. She had come to love the girls, and she was enchanted with the Lake District, the magnificent fells and varied scenery. Never would she be so lucky as to find such an elevated situation again.
And never would she see Justin again! A jagged rush of pain took her breath away for a moment. Never see him again—never gaze into the blue of his brilliant eyes, never hear his husky, masculine voice, the voice that sent chills rushing down her spine . . .
She must not think of Justin. Her feelings for him were tumultuous and confused. Right now her job was at stake.
"M-my lady, please accept my apologies for last night. I ... I realized the folly of my actions even as I went in to dinner, but I saw no graceful way out That is why I retired to my room so early." It was close enough to the truth. She had felt it to be a mistake.
Lady St. Claire's face softened. Her tightly clenched mouth relaxed and she gazed into Celestine's eyes. "All right. I accept your apology. You have been so good with the children, and I have been very pleased with your work so far. I would not want to lose you. Let us forget about this and go on as before, Miss Simons. But the morning bathing must stop. It is much too inconvenient for the maids to be hauling water and the bath all the way up here."
Celestine dropped a curtsy. "Thank you, my lady. You will not regret it, I promise you."
"See that I don't."
Justin stroked the cue and slammed a ball into the corner pocket. How could she treat him as if he were in the same class as that bounder, Knight? What would a prissy little gray mouse of a governess know about men and what that depraved animal's intentions were? Did she know she was within moments of his lifting her skirts and forcefully invading her soft body with his? He had heard whispers about Knight before, about his willingness to abuse women he considered of a lower class.
Justin had gone directly from the library to challenge the bastard to a fight, but the coward had already fled the house, leaving his would-be batterer with an excess of angry energy. He knocked several more balls into pockets, paying no attention to how he got them there, or in what order, as he remembered his frustration and sleepless night. Celestine's words had haunted him as he tossed and turned beneath the covers, and even an early morning ride had not rid him of the echo of her voice.
The re
st of the men lounged in big leather chairs by the hearth in the billiards room, smoking cigars and drinking coffee, but he didn't feel like joining in with conversations about horses or land problems or the taxation laws. He was brooding and he knew it. It was totally unlike him, and it made him even angrier that Celestine Simons, spinster governess, somehow had the power to leave him feeling humiliated and uncomfortable with himself. He liked to feel good about himself and usually did, so what was wrong this morning?
He had saved her from God knows what fate, damn it! Knight was a brutish type. He had known men who enjoyed sexual conquest more if the woman was unwilling, and it sickened him to the core. And she had the ingratitude . . . Justin stopped and laid down his cue stick. He passed one long-fingered hand through his hair and paced away from the table to stare up at a painting of some ancient St. Claire ancestor that hung on the wall.
Ingratitude?
He stalked away from the painting and stared, unseeing, through the window.
She had just been attacked—had been in fear for her virtue and maybe for her life, for all she knew. And he had waltzed in, driven the animal off, then demanded a reward for his good deed—while she was frightened. While she was still dealing with the aftermath of what must be a most terrifying experience for a woman.
He remembered her wide, panicked eyes and heaving breast, the fear etched in every feature of her face from those wide eyes to the added pallor of her skin, and the blood on her lip from valiantly biting the detestable Knight. She had been in shock and he had taken brute advantage of that.
And then on top of that he had been unforgivably brutal in what he had said to her. He had been unfeeling, and he was ashamed. How could he ever make that up to her?
But still, he was nothing like that animal, Knight. He did not go around forcing his attentions on women. In fact, they usually initiated the lovemaking. He had never lacked for female companionship in his life. At that moment there were two women in the house hoping for his attention and another panting to get into his bed. Maybe he would take Lady van Hoffen up on her blatant attempts at seduction. Maybe that was what he needed, instead of fixating on a prim, plain governess with no attractions except for a sweet voice and big gray eyes.
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 15