"Don't be a dolt, Dooley. I am merely thinking next year it would be nice if you could stay in London with your family at Christmas instead of traipsing across the countryside with me. You could stay and look after the London house so Sanderson can go home to Hampshire for a week or two. The house doesn't need a butler when there's no one to butle, and Sanderson rarely gets the opportunity to visit his family!"
Dooley looked stunned, and silently bowed over his armload of cravats. Justin, whistling a tune and cheerier than he had been in days, exited the room.
All the villagers and country folk for miles around came to the concert, as well as the gentry. It was a festival of seasonal music, with a pageant consisting of the retelling of the story of the birth of Jesus. It was a scene doubtlessly replayed an endless number of times around the country and greeted with the same enthusiasm by the congregation, family, and friends of the participants.
The Ellerbeck choir was neither very good nor very bad, and they wended their way through a program of music made bearable by a decent organist and a concert-master with a good ear and a realistic appreciation of what his choir was capable of. The concert wound down, and the angels, shepherd, and wisemen filed out of the church, followed by Joseph and Mary carrying the holy babe. A final piece was on the schedule for the choir, and Justin steeled himself. It was the piece that had emotionally shattered him when he had heard them rehearse it, the piece with Celestine's solo.
The choir started. He was in the family box along with his brother, sister, and their houseguests. Lady van Hoffen had managed to maneuver it so she was beside him, and she chose that moment to place her hand on his thigh.
He jumped and threw her a look. She chose to see it as encouragement and her gloved hand began to trail up his thigh until she brushed against his groin, letting her fingers delicately flick over him. He cast another beseeching look her way, but she merely responded by squeezing him and licking her lips provocatively.
He moved, pushing her hand away. If she thought she was being titillating, she had spectacularly poor taste. They were in a church with his family. Surely she could see the inappropriateness of her conduct!
Then Celestine's solo started, and he had no attention for anything else. He found himself on the edge of his seat, not even daring to breathe. He hadn't just imagined it the first time, this power she wielded over his senses. Even with a restless crowd around him, the smell of hundreds of people, the presence of his family, her voice lifted him up. The crowd hushed in deference to the first truly beautiful thing they had heard all evening, and he closed his eyes.
He was at the height of the vaulted ceiling again, chills running down his back like light fingers. The sweet, agonizingly lovely tones throbbed through his body and he was conscious of nothing but Celestine. He thought back on their awkward friendship, if that was what it could be called.
From the first moment he had determined to seduce her, if not in body, then in mind. It had been a goal to while away a boring tenure in Cumbria, something to do until he could go back to London. Justify it to himself as he might, that he intended to strike a blow for freedom against Elizabeth's tyranny, still it had been a game. Instead, he had become aware of how fine she was, how achingly beautiful her soul. She gave of herself; she sublimated her passions and needs, sacrificing them to the wants and needs of others, taking joy from giving.
But there was a fierce intelligence and spirit behind those calm gray eyes. It was as though her calm exterior was a crucible, containing the molten elements of the earth. He had touched it only when he kissed her and felt her melt to liquid fire against him. What other man would recognize that heat and passion within her and care enough to bring it out?
He knew many men felt any exhibition of passion from a lady was nigh unto admitting she was tainted, a whore in spirit if not in reality. Women were supposed to be void of those feelings, with spirits that lifted them above earthly passion. But those poor, misguided sots mistook passion for the lewd groping of a woman like Lady van Hoffen.
That wasn't passion, that was lust, a single element of the higher feeling. Passion, he had come to believe over the past weeks, had a spiritual element, a refined, sweet aspect involving longing and sacrifice, giving and . . . love. Love?
Justin swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the wood bench as he listened to the song Celestine sang, and then the choir's voices joined her and she was lost in the chorus. The music swelled, filling the small church with a joyful noise that must surely shatter the gorgeous stained glass windows.
And then it was over, and August and Elizabeth were leading the way out of the church into the chilly night air. Justin, numb and bewildered, went through the motions expected of him, joining his family in speaking to the vicar and the choirmaster, a little popinjay named Jenks.
But he paid little attention to what was going on around him. He was on the precipice of something important and wanted to get away for a while and think. But this was a most inopportune time for introspection. Charlotte Stimson was clutching his arm on one side. Her sister took his other arm, and he was hauled down the church steps without even a chance to look for Celestine, to see if she was close by.
There was to be a reception at Ladymead for all the choir and their families. It was the most plebeian event of the year, along with the summer festival held at Ladymead, reflecting the more informal manners of the country. A veritable caravan of carriages, carts, and horses wound its way in the sparkling moonlight up to the big house, as Ladymead was known in the village.
The ballroom was open for the party and Justin circulated amongst the crowd, still lost in thought after what he had been contemplating in church. What did it mean? What had happened to him that he was suddenly lost in high-flown contemplation of love?
He had been wont to describe love as a trap for men and a sop for women. It trapped men into conceiving and caring for families and it made up to women for all the power they lacked in the world. But it had not escaped his attention over the years that his brother's marriage was a love match, and he had never seemed trapped.
Justin could not understand the feelings August appeared to have for Elizabeth. She was beautiful, it was true, but she was bossy, managing, and sharp-tongued. Yet August doted on her. It must be love that made his sensible, intelligent brother overlook the failings of the woman and think she was perfect in spite of myriad faults.
But love just wasn't right for him, even if it did exist. He was not made to cleave to one woman, and his inherent sense of fairness would not allow him to take a wife and then cheat on her. He had thought to take a wife when all the wenching was out of his system, if that day ever came. He never expected to fall in love, though women seemed to fall in love with him every time he bowed to one, or asked one to dance.
Was love, if it existed, a female trait? Were men formed only for sexual conquest? His lovers and mistresses had all been willing to lie with him, some professing to love him, their love soon enough turning cold when the baubles stopped coming. The debutantes he had flirted with recovered from their disastrous love for him as quickly as they realized he had no intention of vying for their hand, and each had gone on to other men and marriage.
But Celestine—she had burned in his arms like an ember. His moments with her had been different from anything he had ever experienced. For a time he had been sure his feelings were entirely sexual. He was convinced that to bed her would be like loving fire, the heat consuming him before his hunger was sated. He would not survive it unscorched. Now he didn't know what to think. There were moments when he had no desire to have sexual intercourse with her, times when what he wanted was to talk to her and watch her or even just be with her.
She was across the room with an elderly woman from the village, bringing her a glass of punch and bending over to speak to her. Was Celestine plain? He remembered thinking so, disparaging her freckles, her pale complexion, her nondescript hair color. Now all he c
ould see was her grace and litheness. He knew what her hair looked like unbound, how it caught light and became a river of shining silk. He had felt how she molded to him until their two bodies became one, even through cloth, so close he could feel her heartbeat.
But more than that, he had felt their souls reach out and touch in the church while she sang. It was as if something inside of her broke free and soared, taking him with her, swirling and diving, unbound and glorious. Would the good, dull reverend ever understand Celestine, ever appreciate her rare magic?
As he thought about the vicar and his avowed intention of marrying Celestine, he saw Mr. Foster wend his way through the crowd and take her aside. She nodded at something he said, a serious expression on her face, and disappeared with him out the doors into the hall.
What were they doing? Where were they going? It was obvious to Justin. He had as good as stated his intention to ask her to marry him. What better place to make the announcement than at the party celebrating Christmas?
Without thinking, he followed. He saw the tail of the reverend's sober black coat disappear behind the drawing-room door, and the door closed quietly. Justin paced uncertainly in the hall. Should he break it up? But that would only put off the inevitable; there was no point to that. And why should he want to, anyway? Should he not want what was best for Celestine? Surely a good marriage was better than life as a governess. He tossed back the glass of brandy he held and set it down on a table.
As he paced up and down in the chilly hall, the door opened and he stopped, frozen in indecision. Foster came out and quietly closed the door behind him. He didn't notice St. Claire standing by a large potted palm, and strolled by with a thoughtful expression on his face.
Justin waited for Celestine to emerge as well. She didn't. What was she waiting for?
Impatiently, Justin finally paced over and opened the door. Her back was to him and she ran her fingers over the keys of the piano. She sat down at the bench, still oblivious to Justin's presence, and touched the keys again, then rubbed her fingers, the swollen knuckles paining her, perhaps.
But then she softly touched the keys again and started singing. Justin stopped, mesmerized. Her head was thrown back and she sang a ballad, in Italian, of lost love and heartbreak, surely an odd choice for a woman just betrothed.
Stealthily he crept in and stopped in the middle of the thick carpet, not wanting to announce his presence just yet. He closed his eyes, too, and felt it once again—the queer tug, almost pain, under his ribs when he thought of her.
He let her voice surround him, caressing him into hazy unawareness of the dim, chilly room and the impropriety of being alone there with the governess. A warmth suffused his body and his fingers itched to touch her, to smooth her silky hair, to hold her trembling body close to his. He wanted ... he wanted . . .
He wanted to give her his strength, to shore up her own. He wanted to protect her and release her from the pain of her arthritis. He wanted to shelter her from a life that had no place for her except as a plain little governess, ignoring her extraordinary gift of song, and taking only her care for the children as worth barter. He sighed. He wanted the unattainable. "My lord!"
She had heard him, and whirled on the piano bench.
"Celestine," he said, approaching her.
She stood and started around him, avoiding his eyes. He grasped her arm and pulled her to a stop. She gazed up at him in the gloom, the only light the illumination from a branch of tapers brought in by Foster. Her eyes were huge and dark in the dimness.
She would marry the reverend and her delicate body would probably bear him a dozen children—if she didn't die in childbirth—and she would work herself into an early grave in gratitude for his condescension. She would be dead by the time she was forty. It must not be, he thought, feeling a wave of fierce longing pierce his soul. She was a brilliant bird, with wings to touch the face of God, and all Foster, or any other stupid male for that matter, could see was her drab little mud-hen exterior.
Justin pulled her close, his blue eyes glittering in the candlelight. Even the marquess would not have recognized his laconic, lazy brother at that moment. To Celestine, in that moment, he looked like an avenging archangel, with sparkling blue eyes and tousled gleaming hair, perfect of form and visage.
"Celestine," he whispered. "Your name means heavenly."
She trembled in his hands, shivers running through her whole body. He gripped her tighter, and she gazed up at him. "S-s-singularly inappropriate, is it not, my lord?"
"No, entirely appropriate, my dear. You have the voice of an angel, and the spirit and soul to lift up a mortal man until he can almost see heaven."
"My lord?"
Justin gazed down into her smoky eyes, then down at her trembling, blush pink lips. Her whole body was shuddering under his fingers and she smelled deliciously of lavender water and woman, an intoxicating combination.
He pulled her against him and took her lips in a kiss. She ignited, her cool lips turning to hot coals against his, her chaste, softly rounded body molding sensually against him. He tentatively flicked her lips with his tongue and felt her body jolt with awareness. Her succulent lips opened like rose petals to rain.
He dipped into her mouth, relishing the heat of her, the taste of her, drunk with the wine of Celestine in his blood. He wanted her and she wanted him, and flames licked his loins as he thought of lowering her to the thick pad of the carpet and ravishing her right there and then.
He tried to steer her toward a sofa along the wall, only to find her strangely resistant. He came up for air to find she was struggling in his arms, her poor strength not enough to free her from his powerful grasp.
When he released her lips, she whimpered, almost sobbing, "Please, my lord, let me go!"
At that moment he heard genuine fear in her voice, and he gazed into her eyes, startled. There was terror there—fear of him! In surprise, he let go of her arms.
"Celestine, I . . ."
She whirled and stumbled away, not looking back before throwing herself out the door and racing away up the stairs, judging by the sound of her slippers slapping against the marble.
Oh, God, what had he done? He thrust his fingers into his thick, tousled hair. He had taken a girl who had been attacked by a monster just days before and held her against her will while he forced himself on her! And his intentions had been completely dishonorable. What must she think? What was she feeling?
His first instinct was to go after her, but he restrained himself. He was the last person she wanted to see—the last one who could comfort her.
He faced the loathsome truth. He was destined for more of this as he got older. He would become one of those elderly roués, their faces haggard from dissipation and too many days in the unhealthy air of London. He would leer at women and grapple with younger and younger girls, watching them turn from him in horror at what he had become. He made himself sick.
Fifteen
"What do you mean, you're leaving? It's a week until Christmas! What's going on, Justin?" August paced back and forth in front of the huge picture window of the billiards room. He stopped and glared down at his brother from his towering height. "What have you done?"
Justin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept at all the night before and had come to this decision after much soul searching. He could not stay and see what he had done to Celestine. She was afraid of him, for God's sake, and he was afraid of himself. Afraid of feelings stirred so deeply it seemed life would never be the same for him again.
"I ... I have unfinished business, and I should get back to London and take care of it. I have to go to Quest-mere first, settle up with my bailiff before I go."
"Unfinished business?" August gazed at him in open astonishment, which changed to cynical smugness. "You mean some doxy left unseduced, don't you? What about Lady van Hoffen? Or are you bored by quarry that succumbs too easily?"
Anger flared in the pit of Justin's stomach. He took a swi
g of his coffee and choked back the angry words that threatened to spill out. He would not quarrel. "Not at all. I have not had that particular honor, Brother. In light of the shameless way your wife has been throwing those three girls at my head the last week, when would I have had time?"
August paused in his perambulation. "Is that what it is? You know, I can call Elizabeth off. I think she is doing this because she thinks it will please me." A fond gleam entered his eyes and a rare smile danced over his thin lips. "I happened to say that I looked forward to the day when you chose a wife and got serious about life, and I think she took that as a command to find you a suitable parti." He chuckled.
Justin gazed at him. When he was young, his brother had seemed like some perfect god to him. August was six years his senior, and their father was forever holding him up as an example of what Justin should be like. "Justin, why are you not more like August—as smart, responsible, bookish, well-spoken . . . every-thing." And so Justin had turned from his brother's example and become almost the opposite.
Surprisingly, he and August had never really fought. In fact, his older brother had always turned a fairly indulgent eye on his little brother's escapades. Did it confirm his own superiority? Justin abandoned that thought. August had no need of any boosting for his self-worth. He truly was superior in every way, and maybe that was why Justin had always tried so hard to make himself different. He was good at being wicked, the one thing he could surpass August at, and so he seduced and drank and gambled his way through Season after London Season.
But there came a time when sin became boring, an endless idle searching after new depravities. What was left after bedding innumerable wenches, drinking his way through enough wine for a vineyard, and gambling every night for a month, except the more degenerate pleasures?
Friends whispered of brothels where you could get any kind of fantasy fulfilled. Virgins could be bought, twisted hungers sated, every form of human degradation offered. He had never participated, because his tastes had never run that way. He had never gambled more than he could afford to lose, never drunk so much he didn't remember what he did the night before. At least he did not have those evils to regret.
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 17