Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  Was it time for him to take the opposite track? He gazed up at his brother, who stared thoughtfully out the window. August was a big man, handsome and bluff, and well, happy. He was happy. Justin was cheerful most of the time, but August was deep-down happy. Was that what marriage did for a man?

  He took a deep breath and said, "Gus, what does it feel like?"

  "Mmm? What does what feel like?"

  "Being in love. Does your stomach feel like it's on fire all the time and your thoughts always center on that one woman? And when she's around, you want just to watch her and listen to her, even if she's not paying any atten­tion to you?"

  August stopped in front of his younger brother and looked down at him. Justin was lounging back in a large green wing chair, one booted foot negligently propped on the other knee, and he stared up at his brother un­easily. Had he said too much? What was he talking about anyway?

  His blue eyes narrowed, August examined his brother's face and said, "So that's it, is it? Who is it? Someone here, or someone back in London? Are you running from or running to her?"

  "You haven't answered my question." Justin sat up in the chair and examined his hands, clenched together now between his knees.

  His elder brother opened his mouth to speak, then gazed down at Justin again. He sat down in the twin to his brother's chair and said, "You know, I was going to toss off a witty remark about love being hell or something like that, but you asked a question, and I'll try to answer.

  "Do you know what love is? Love is being bored with the friends you used to think were so entertaining, be­cause you would rather be at home with your wife, just sitting together in front of the fire. Love is wishing you could take away every little trouble or pain or sorrow from her, because you can't bear to see her unhappy.

  "Love is longing to get home again when you've been forced to be away, because you know she is waiting for you and nothing is the same without her. Love is hating yourself when your wife is screaming in the agony of childbirth, knowing you caused her that pain, and yet loving beyond anything the miracle you created to­gether."

  August lumbered to his feet and clapped his brother on the shoulder. "The burning stomach and desperate yearning? That is when you are not sure your love is re­turned. It's fear, little brother. If you have to go, I will understand and speak with Elizabeth about it. But if you are running away from love, don't do it. It'll follow you. It did me." He strode from the room.

  Justin threw himself back in the chair and stared at the figured ceiling. August didn't know the half of it. It was terrifying to think he might be in love with a woman who loathed the sight of him. And, worse than that, feared him! He wasn't sure about all of what August had said about love, but he could think only of Celestine, and she couldn't even bear the sight of him—avoided him as though he had some horrible disfigurement. No, that wasn't fair. If he were merely disfigured, she would not turn from him in disgust. He was tainted with his past, condemned to suffer because of his reputation as a womanizer.

  And then, in a fit of complete honesty, he admitted he was the author of his own misfortune. At every turn he had put forth efforts to seduce her, rather than just treat­ing her with civility and kindness. She turned from him in revulsion and fear because of his treatment of her, and for no other reason. Wouldn't August laugh if he knew!

  Wearily he rose and decided to tell Dooley to start pack­ing. They would go to Questmere first, then on to Lon­don.

  * * *

  Celestine sat close to the fire in the morning parlor listening to the ladies talk.

  "Oh, yes, shako hats are completely exploded," Caro­line said, her voice languid and bored.

  A desultory conversation concerning fashion drifted among the Stimson girls and Lady van Hoffen, occasion­ally joined by Lady St. Claire. In another small grouping Grishelda van Hoffen, Emily, and her aging companion and aunt-by-marriage, Dodo Delafont, sat quietly talking about village schools and the necessity, with all the changes in society, of educating the illiterate and, more importantly, the children of the illiterate.

  "It breaks my heart," Emily said, her low, silken voice full of emotion, "to see the children whose parents will not allow them to come to the school I have set up. I understand they are needed at home, but I set up the curriculum so some could attend only half days and still receive the benefit."

  Dodo nodded sharply. "Shortsighted," she said. Her voice was sharp and vinegary. "Parents should be encour­aging their little ones to learn their letters. It's the only way for a child of poverty to move up."

  Grishelda, her eyes bright with interest, added, "That way the boys could get better paying jobs as secretaries and bailiffs, or even stewards. And the girls could marry better, or work as governesses or housekeepers."

  Celestine listened for a while as she stitched a straight hem on a length of dark green cloth. It was intended to be the curtain for the puppet theater Gus and the black­smith had constructed. The boy showed a talent, for he had designed it, and was now painting it with bright col­ors. He had shown it to her that morning, out in one of the succession houses.

  And she had offered curtains for it, using old ones from the attic and cutting them down to fit. She had lost much of her enthusiasm for the puppet play, but the children, Lottie and Gus especially, could talk of nothing else, and she could not disappoint them.

  She had read the play Justin had written, and she had been touched and impressed by his ability. It was worlds away from the simple fairy tale he had started with. It contained the essence of poetry, she thought, sharply fla­vored with broad humor, the perfect touch of tart among the sweet.

  But out of it all came a simple love story between a lonely prince and the princess who didn't know she was a princess. Where did he learn to write such beautiful words filled with longing and love? Of course, she thought, she should have realized such an accomplished lady's man would have all the right words.

  That was what had scared her the previous evening. She had been terrified by the depth and profundity of her emotion toward him, frightened out of her wits by the desires that raced through her heated blood like sil­very, darting minnows in a fast flowing stream. She was cool. She was sensible. But Justin St. Claire, roué and se­ducer, could melt her into a puddle of womanly desires and needs with the touch of his hand and the sound of his sensual voice whispering her name. She knew he would do nothing against her will. She did not fear him as she had Mr. Knight. Her fear was of herself and the seductive whispers in her heart that would have her aban­don virtue for the sake of one perfect moment of love.

  The marquess came into the parlor and whispered something to his wife. She looked startled, then left with him. Lady St Claire had maintained a haughty distance from her lately, and Celestine worried that her position was still in jeopardy. But maybe it would be best for her if she went elsewhere.

  Somewhere she could be sure of not seeing Justin all the time.

  She caught a glance from Emily and bent her head over her work again, trying to ignore the pain shooting through her knuckles. They were getting worse again, but she had so much to do! Aunt Emily had offered to help, but she just could not hand over the precious labor of making the dolls for Gwen and Lottie to someone else. They were a gift from her heart to her young charges, and she would finish them before Christmas Eve, some­how. She glanced up at the clock on the mantle. It was time to go up and retrieve the girls from their nap.

  "It's all done, my lord," Dooley said, meeting Justin in the hall.

  "Good. Excellent. I shall ride Alphonse, as before, and you and Lester can follow me," he said, speaking of his groom. "We shall bide at Questmere for two days and then head to London. With any luck, I shall have you back with your family by Christmas morn, Dooley."

  The valet bowed, and headed back up the stairs. Justin sighed deeply, and headed into the parlor to make his good-byes. He paused outside the door.

  He was being a coward. He could not leave things as they were. He turned an
d headed back into the hall, then up the wide, winding staircase. It was afternoon, and he knew she would be alone. He had seen Elise take the children out a half hour before to play in the snow with Gus and the stable dogs.

  He opened the door to the stairs to the third floor and walked up to the hallway. The schoolroom door was ajar and he glanced in, hoping he would not disturb her too badly. He needed to make amends and tell her she would never be burdened by his attentions again. He had to set her mind at ease.

  She was by the fireplace in the lumpy chair, with her sewing basket beside her. The woman never stopped, he thought with a smile.

  But her head was bowed and her shoulders shook. In the silence of the schoolroom he heard a soft sob, and saw her hands twisted in her lap, one rubbing the other. A doll lay on her knee, with lips and a nose and the beginning of one eye, the needle sticking out of the cloth.

  Had she stabbed herself? Another choking sob split the silence. Without another thought he pushed open the door, made his way to her side, and knelt by her.

  "My dear, what have you done?" he asked, taking her gnarled hand in his own. "Did you stab yourself?"

  With a soft gasp she looked up, into his eyes. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held it firmly. He glanced down at the doll. It was a soft cloth doll, with lips embroidered in rose silk threads. Its nose was deli­cately traced in charcoal thread, and one eye was started, but something had gone wrong.

  The stitching was clumsy, even to his untutored eye, not at all like the fine work done on the rosebud lips. There, the stitches were flat and smooth, lying so close together they formed a surface like satin. But the eye was coarsely done, with uneven stitches stabbed haphazardly into the creamy cloth.

  "What is wrong?" he asked, rubbing her swollen knuck­les. How cold and stiff her fingers were, despite the tiny fire in the schoolroom grate.

  "N-nothing, my lord," she muttered, pulling at her hand again.

  "It is not nothing, Celestine. You are weeping." With his free hand he traced her tears down one cheek to where they dripped from her firm, small chin, touching her gently with the pad of his thumb.

  She turned her face away into his palm, and he felt her lips move. Was it a kiss, or was she speaking? He longed to know.

  "What is it? Please tell me."

  Her shoulders shook and she wept harder, sniffling and sobbing, ineffectually wiping at her eyes with one hand. Justin pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and she was about to take it from him, but he held on to it and dried her tears himself, gently wiping the delicate skin under her eyes and the pink, swollen skin of her eyelids.

  She had gone still and closed her eyes under his min­istrations. He took the doll and laid it on the table beside the chair. "Now, tell me what is wrong. Maybe I can help."

  A watery chuckle escaped her. Her voice was thick, clogged with more tears, and she sniffed. "Unless you are adept at fine embroidery, my lord, you cannot help."

  "This?" he asked, pointing to the doll. "This is what is upsetting you?"

  She turned tragic eyes toward him. "Partly. The . . . the doll is for Gwen. It is a Christmas present, and Christ­mas is only a week away, and m-my hands ..."

  She broke down again, and Justin gazed down at her crabbed, gnarled hands. She had clasped them in her lap, twisting them together. He took them between his own hands and rubbed them, the knotty joints and tender swelling. She would not meet his eyes, and he felt a pang deep in his heart, like it wanted to split in two. If only he could trade places with her, give her his strong, capa­ble hands, his vigorous health!

  He eased himself up beside her on the wide old chair, hearing it creak in protest at its double burden. Then he encircled her in his arms and pulled her close. At his gentle touch she wept, sobbing into his cravat, and he murmured soothing words, nonsense words. Her sobs subsided into shuddering sighs and she grew quiet. Her breathing was more even, and deeper. She had cried her­self to sleep in his arms.

  He felt a tender wonder steal across his heart, and a hard lump deep within him melted with gratitude. This was what he had wanted to do in the carriage the night of the choir practice.

  He cradled her against his heart, pulling her to him until she was settled across his lap like a child. He ca­ressed her tear stained cheek and soft brown hair and gazed at the embers of the fire in the grate.

  This was what love was.

  This was it, what August had spoken of—the pain when she hurt, the desire to protect her; the urgent wish to shelter her and give her his strength. He sighed. The irony did not escape him that of all the beautiful women who had thrown themselves at him over the years he had finally lost his heart and soul to one plain spinster gov­erness.

  Plain in everyone else's eyes. Plain no more to him. She was beautiful; more beautiful than the painted cour­tesans of London or the wide-eyed debutantes of Bath. More beautiful than Botticelli's angels. This angel had the loveliness of spirit no painting could ever capture, and a voice to pierce the heart of God.

  He knew now what was missing from his life and what he needed to make him whole. Other people had a sense of their own worth and took it for granted, not realizing what a precious commodity it was. August knew the valu­able role he played in the world, and Elizabeth took her identity from that.

  He had never felt a part of anything, needed by any­one, wanted. But here and now, in this bare schoolroom, with a sputtering fire and a woman sleeping in his arms, he found his purpose.

  Celestine needed him. She might not love him as he loved her, but she needed him. Would it be enough? He inhaled her lavender fragrance and shifted her slightly to be more comfortable. There was something so unutter­ably right about holding her. Surely she would feel it, too, and know she could trust him.

  This had nothing to do with passion. Oh, he felt that for her, too, but more importantly he found he could not imagine going back to his daily routine in life: the friends, the wasteland that was London, the clubs, the women. He wanted to make a life with Celestine.

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair and felt her stir. She put one hand up on his chest and he bent his head to kiss the swollen knuckles. A smile drifted over her face and settled on her lips. They curved up, and he watched in fascination as a tiny dimple he had never noticed be­fore appeared at the corner of her mouth. He longed to kiss it, but he would not disturb her.

  He cradled her in his arms and closed his eyes. All that was left to do was convince her to marry him. In the past, he would have assumed she would jump at the chance. Now he was not so sure.

  Sixteen

  She came awake slowly, not wanting to leave the deli­cious dream she had been having. Was still having. Justin held her on his lap and was whispering he would take care of her always—would make everything better for her.

  And then he kissed her brow, tenderly and without the abandon he had displayed at other times. He kissed her as though he loved her, not just lusted after her. She smiled and decided to indulge the hazy remnants of this dream, so much more tactile than other dreams, snug­gling against the raspy chin above her, Justin's strong, square chin. He smelled of tobacco and hair pomade, a spicy mixture all his own.

  And when she rubbed her cheek against him, she could feel the strong pulse of life in his neck. She brushed her lips across the spot and felt the rumble in his chest as he murmured her name. How real this dream was! Not at all like the one of meeting him in the glade with a red velvet cloak.

  Her eyes sprang open. She was in the schoolroom. In the chair. On Justin's lap!

  She scrambled with little dignity to her feet, wiping the sleep from her eyes with swollen knuckles. "My lord! You must excuse me. If I had known ..."

  He grinned up at her with that delightful, lazy, wicked twinkle. "I was rather enjoying that. Why don't you come back and wiggle around on my lap some more?"

  He patted his lap and she fully realized what she had been doing. She felt a fiery blush rise in her breast, neck, and cheeks. Her whole
body was probably pink!

  "Please accept my apologies for my inappropriate be­havior, my lord," she said in her most prim, spinsterish voice.

  "I liked it better when you were asleep and called me Justin." He had a vaguely dissatisfied expression on his handsome countenance.

  Celestine backed away from him, gripping her hands behind her back. His expression changed and he stood, straightening his riding breeches and rubbing his legs as though massaging the feeling back into them.

  "Please, sit down, Celestine. I have something to say to you. I won't tease again, or make you uncomfortable, I promise." His voice was gentle and his expression thoughtful.

  She sidled around him and took her seat, sitting on the edge with her hands clasped together, staring down at them. "How . . . how long were we . . . like that?"

  "How long did you sleep in my arms? Perhaps an hour. Maybe a little less."

  Her eyes opened wide and her startled glance flew to meet him. "Th-that long? Why did you allow it, my lord?"

  His blue eyes were unusually serious as he knelt by her side. "I had my reasons. Do you want to know what they were?"

  She remembered now that this was how he had been at first, when he found her crying. He had knelt by her side and begged her to tell him what was wrong. The pain had become excruciating, she had told him, and she would not be able to get the dollies done for Lottie and Gwen in time for Christmas. Her hands were not only too painful, but too clumsy. Straight stitching she could still barely handle, but the fine embroidery of the features was beyond her.

  It seemed a silly reason to weep, and perhaps there was more to it than that, but she would never admit as much to herself. She had felt hopeless in that moment, and the reality of her life had flooded in on her in a rare moment of self-pity. She was a poor, plain spinster who would go from governess position to governess position until she was too crippled to work anymore. Then she would be­come some rich woman's companion, perhaps, if she were very lucky. She was ashamed now of the self-indul­gence and weakness she had displayed, but the pain had wracked her and made her vulnerable.