Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  And then he had spoken so softly and sympathetically, his low voice a balm to her, and the strangest feeling had swept over her. His voice was like a warm robe, encircling her, enfolding her in delicious warmth and comfort. She thought if only she could have him near her, speaking to her and with her always, she wouldn't mind the pain any­more.

  She did not remember what she had been thinking when he had joined her on the chair and pulled her onto his lap. Perhaps she was no longer thinking of anything. Safe and warm, leaning against his broad chest and feel­ing the steady thump of his heart, the fresh bout of tears had been for all that could never be. Suddenly she was a watering pot with an endless supply of water.

  She didn't understand herself. She never gave in to tears—never! When her father died she had wept, for she had loved him deeply, but then she had called an end to tears and had gone about the business of making all the arrangements. A woman from the village had whispered it wasn't natural to have so much self-control, but she had needed it over years of caring for her sickly father. That was her strength, the ability to rise above pain and sorrow and go on.

  But today she had released the flood gates, and look what had happened. She had made a fool of herself in front of the only man she would ever love.

  She realized he had not said another word, and looked up to find him waiting patiently, watching her, still kneel­ing at her side. His eyes were shadowed in the growing

  dimness of the schoolroom, and they shone with the blue of the twilight sky.

  "What . . . what did you ask?"

  "I asked if you knew why I held you in my arms?"

  "No," she said hesitantly. "I don't know why. You are very kind to me."

  "Fustian," he said. He took one of her hands and stroked it.

  It tingled, and she realized her pain was less than it had been before he held her, as though his strength was seeping into her. "Why, then?"

  "Celestine, I love you. You are my good angel, and I want you to marry me."

  She froze. His voice was so serious. His eyes were be­seeching. His attitude was one of supplication. As if such as he would have to beg for anything! He was mocking her, and she had not thought him so unkind. She pulled her hand away and, with great dignity, stood up. "How could you do this to me?" she asked in tones of dark bitterness, her voice trembling and low. "How could you?"

  She turned and fled from the room.

  Now he reaped the bitter harvest of all his womanizing ways. First Celestine had refused to believe he was serious, or at least that was how he'd interpreted her unaccount­able words to him, and now this. He stalked around the library, his long fingers thrust through his hair until it stood on end.

  "But it is true. I want to marry Celestine Simons! I intend to marry her!" He turned and hammered on the desk, making an ink well and wax pastille jump. "Why can neither of you believe that!"

  "Because it is utterly outrageous and in wildly bad taste!" Elizabeth confronted him, doing the talking for herself and her stunned husband, who sat behind the desk staring into space. "This jest would be bad enough, but coming when we have a house full of guests, at Christ­mas! You have gone too far, Justin St. Claire."

  Justin's blue eyes flashed. Many a man in London had backed down when faced with the anger in those eyes, but Elizabeth was too enraged to be cautious, and she knew she had the support of her husband in this.

  "I have not gone nearly far enough! I intend to ask Lady Delafont, as Celestine's nearest relation, for permis­sion to court her properly."

  "Court her!" Elizabeth threw her hands up in the air. "Court the governess!" The sharp peal of her bitter laughter echoed in the room. "If this is some Christmas farce you have cooked up for us, Justin, I must congratu­late you. It is bizarre enough to be talked of for many a season." She had paced away from the desk, but now she whirled and strode up to face him. "This is your revenge, isn't it, you bounder, you . . . you . . . ooh! You are just avenging yourself on me for telling you to stay away from her. And so you will ruin my whole house party and even our Christmas for your cruel jest?"

  Justin gazed at her with an incredulous expression. "Spoil your party? You think I mean to spoil your party by courting Celestine?" He turned and headed toward the door, but stopped and turned back to glare at her. "I know I have brought on this reaction by my previous philandering ways, but hear me, both of you!" He stabbed an accusing finger at her, including his grimly silent brother.

  "I will marry her, if she will have me. I intend to ask her again and again and again until she says yes, and then take her away from here. We will go to Questmere, where we will be married, and I swear never to enter your home until you can show proper courtesy to my wife."

  He whirled from the room without another word, and Elizabeth and August were left staring after him.

  "I think he is serious," the marquess finally said. His deep voice echoed in the chilly room. "I think my little brother really means it."

  * * *

  "I will toss her out on her scheming little ear, I promise you, Emily! If I find out your niece had anything to do with this scandalous charade, I will send her to purga­tory! "

  Emily's face had grown cold with anger. "Elizabeth," she said, in a dangerously quiet voice. "I would stop speaking of my niece as if she were a scheming harlot, if I were you."

  Elizabeth raised her neat chin and said, defiantly, "This is my house. I will speak of whomever I want however I want."

  "Fine." Emily whirled in her tracks and started out of her friend's dressing room.

  "Emily! Where are you going?"

  "I am taking my niece and we are heading back to Yorkshire. I will not have her subjected to your tirades, nor to your brother-in-law's predations."

  Elizabeth flew past her friend and put her back to the door, not allowing Emily to leave. "I'm sorry! I am, Em, dearest, but I am just so upset!" She put one trembling hand up to her forehead. "I am as much worried about dear Miss Simons as I am about that scamp of a brother of mine. Please, you must be realistic. You know he is not serious about her. He breaks the heart of beautiful, wealthy, accomplished ladies every season. Do you truly think he is serious about marrying her?"

  She put her small, fine hands on Emily's plump shoul­ders. "He could hurt her badly, and ruin her in the pro­cess. He has never done so before, but I feel he is so furious with me he might not think of the consequences."

  Emily felt her heart sink as the truth of Elizabeth's con­cerns struck home. Celestine loved Justin St. Claire, deeply and truly. But Justin was a gallant who enjoyed making the ladies love him, only to turn fickle after they had given their hearts. He had never gone so far as this before, it was true, but what other explanation was there? Even she, who knew and loved her niece for who and what she was, could not imagine a conceited coxcomb like Justin St. Claire plighting his troth to Celestine in seriousness.

  Of course, Elizabeth was seeing the whole disaster in a highly personal light, but that was her way. She naturally first thought of the effect on her—her comfort, her fam­ily, her peace of mind.

  That didn't change the essential facts. Emily crossed to Elizabeth's bed, sat down, and patted the space beside her. "Come tell me everything, Lizbet, and we will try to think of a solution together. I don't want you going off and muddling things worse."

  Celestine walked to the long wall of the frozen garden. Snow blanketed everything, but she put her arms up on the rough stone and listened to the children behind her playing with the stable dog and their brother Gus. They were trying to play fox and hound, but Clydemore, the hound, would not cooperate.

  She stared off at the purple fells, mantled now with a coating of white. She had come to Ladymead grateful for the position and looking forward to making a life for herself there, and she had done just that. The children loved her and she had made friends in the village, or at least friendly acquaintances. She had joined in the life of the church and community.

  It was a calm, orderly, quiet existence, and unu
tterably lonely. She had grown up among people she had known all her life and was now cut off from them except for the occasional letter, consigned to the barren world of gov­erness—neither family nor servant, barred from the joys and tribulations of both.

  And then came Justin, striding into her life like a beam of dancing sunlight, a herald of joy and vigor. How could she not have fallen in love with him? Which was why, when Mr. Foster had finally proposed, she had said no. She remembered the shock on his face. He had been sure of her, complacent in what he could offer. She had said nothing except that she did not think they would suit. And all because she could not wed one man while loving another. It wouldn't be fair to him, nor to her.

  She became aware she was being watched. She turned and saw Justin approaching her.

  He was stunningly handsome in his dark greatcoat, dark wings of hair curling away from his face. She never tired of looking at him, tracing the lines of his square chin, high cheekbones, and sensuous mouth time after time without familiarity dulling the pleasure. And the piercing joy she felt each time had nothing to do with his looks, and everything to do with him, with the inner sweetness she felt was part of him. That was why his mock­ing proposal had come as such a shock, and why she had reacted with uncharacteristic anger.

  She had come to know his many expressions—the teas­ing laughter, the sensuous gleam, the dark anger. But at this moment there was an unfamiliar expression there, crinkling his eyes in the corners and twisting his mouth. With a little frisson of shock, she realized it was uncer­tainty. Justin St. Claire was never uncertain!

  He joined her at the stone wall, glancing over his shoul­der at the children, who still laughed and ran up and down the paths, chased by the barking dog past stone urns and long planters, small fruit trees with snow cling­ing to their bare branches, and low hedges of herbs. Then he gazed out at the fells. His gloved hand brushed the snow from the top of the wall.

  "I daresay you're angry at me," he said, squinting into the winter sunshine.

  "Angry? No, I'm not angry, my lord. Not now." It was the truth.

  "You . . . you do not think me serious, though."

  "No. I do not think you are serious."

  "And perhaps there is another reason you reject me. You have already accepted another man's proposal."

  Celestine's eyes widened. So that was what this was all about! She had been casting around in her mind for a reasonable explanation for his sudden avowal of love and his marriage proposal besides the mockery, which was so unlike him. Was it possible he was trying to steal her heart from Mr. Foster?

  She had heard he liked to make girls fall in love with him, only to let them down and dance away from com­mitment like quicksilver. His competitive instincts had been piqued by the thought that she had a serious suitor for her hand. He intended to win her heart away from Mr. Foster! Well, she would not let him know he had succeeded.

  "That, my lord, is my business," she said, glancing at his profile. He winced at her reply. Oh, he was a consum­mate actor! He had missed his calling in life, she thought, for he should have been on stage.

  "True, Miss Simons. I beg you to reconsider your be­trothal with him, though." He turned toward her and searched her face with an earnest expression. One gloved hand reached out and touched her gray-wool-clad arm. "Please consider, my dear, the relative merits of our status. Mr. Foster, though no doubt a worthy man, is not rich. Your day-to-day life would be one of some toil, and you are not strong."

  Celestine sighed. Would he stop at nothing to gain his point? He would even remind her of her infirmity. She had not thought him so low, and it hurt to know the depths to which he would sink. But she still loved him. She could be disappointed in him, even angry with him, but still love him.

  "I could keep you in luxury," he continued, "and you would never want for anything. I am not as wealthy as August, but I am not poor. I could take you to London— we could travel. In winter I could take you to Italy. It is warm in southern Italy throughout the year."

  Celestine shivered and her eyes prickled, the ominous harbinger of tears. She blinked them back. When had she become so weak of spirit? But his words conjured up pictures of them in the hot Italian sun, laughing and talk­ing as they explored some ancient ruin or beautiful tem­ple, his arm under hers, supporting her as he gazed at her with those beautiful blue eyes made brighter by re­flected sunlight off the dancing waters of the Adriatic. She could see it, could feel it, even. What luxury to sur­render to loving him and . . . but it would never be. He was just waiting for her surrender, and then he would have won the game.

  Could she believe him so cruel? She must, for even Emily, as fair-minded a person as she had ever known, had condemned him as a heartless flirt. He had broken the hearts of countless beautiful heiresses. Was she to be­lieve he had fallen in love with one lonely, plain, arthritic spinster governess when any woman in the country would have gladly accepted him as a mate?

  No. Life did not work that way, and she would not be­lieve some miracle had occurred. In this one instance she would not trust her heart, which whispered that not only did he love her, but she deserved his love and could make him a happy man. A woman's heart was a tender organ, full of romantic dreams and hopes. But wishing and hop­ing do not create reality, she thought.

  "Justin, you must not say such"

  "Ah, Miss Simons, I had hoped to catch up with you."

  Celestine turned to greet Lady Grishelda, stylishly if simply clad in a royal blue pelisse with gold frogging. "Lady Grishelda, we ... we were discussing Italy," she improvised.

  The young woman's calm, intelligent gaze went from Celestine's flushed countenance to Justin's grim, unwel­coming expression.

  "If I have interrupted a private conversation, please forgive me."

  "No. There is nothing we could possibly be speaking of that would be private," Celestine said. "As a matter of fact, I was just about to take the children in. It is time for their tea. Perhaps you and his lordship would like to take a walk, but I must go. Please excuse me."

  She turned and walked away, gathering Lottie and poor little Gwen, who was tired and cold. They went in, leaving Lord St. Claire and Lady Grishelda at the stone wall.

  The children were exhausted from playing outside and so, after sharing tea with Celestine in the schoolroom, she consigned them to Elise's care for a nap. Celestine went in search of her aunt, from whom she wanted some advice, but as she descended the curved staircase to the first floor a footman approached her, bowing.

  "If you please, Miss, the mistress would like to see you in the library."

  "Thank you. I will go there directly."

  Outside the library door she paused, smoothed down her dress, and took a deep breath. It was probably noth­ing, she reassured herself. It was most likely something to do with the children. She pushed the door open and entered, closing it behind her.

  Lady St. Claire stood by the window in the masculine room that was normally her husband's sole domain. She looked fragile and feminine by the sturdy oak table cov­ered in map folios, but Celestine was not deceived. The marchioness was a woman of strong will and acid tongue. She was capable of malice, but usually restrained it in favor of acidity.

  She turned and gazed at Celestine, her expression un­readable. "Have a seat, Miss Simons."

  Celestine's stomach started to tremble. This did not bode well. She gladly sat down in one of the chairs near the big oak desk that was the centerpiece of the room. Lady St. Claire crossed and seated herself behind it, look­ing dainty and diminutive in her husband's large green leather armchair. She laid her neat hands palm down on the surface of the desk. "I have a few things I wish to say first. My husband and I have been very happy with your work here. Aside from Gwen's lack of progress in certain areas, we feel you are doing an adequate job."

  Celestine grimaced internally. This sounded like a po­lite way to say she was being let go. The marchioness had never been happy with her youngest daughter's progress, refusing to
recognize that Gwen had special needs, and patience was one of them. She was slower than Lottie and probably always would be, but she more than made up for it with her sunny, sweet personality, whereas Lottie could sometimes be the very picture of her mother, a miniature termagant. Celestine could hardly tell the mar­chioness that, though.

  "I am glad you are satisfied with my work, my lady. I have enjoyed the past year." Celestine sat up straight and folded her hands together, concealing her gnarled, knot­ted knuckles in the folds of her skirt.

  Lady St. Claire toyed with her rings. "I hope you can continue to work for us."

  "I ... I hope so, too, my lady."

  "But there is a problem. My brother-in-law. He has some absurd notion to marry you. He says he has even asked you." Her bright blue eyes flashed up at Celestine. "Is that so?"

  He had told them? He had told them he asked her to marry him? Her head whirled and she sat back, wonder­ing what it meant.

  "I said, is that so?" The woman's voice was harder, like flint now.

  "Y-yes, my lady."

  The marchioness rose and paced behind the desk. Then she stopped and leaned over it, her small hands planted flat on the surface. "You must know it can never be! You, marry the brother of the Marquess of Ladymead? It's absurd!"

  Celestine was silent, numb in her amazement, too numb to take exception to the contempt in her em­ployer's voice.

  "I want to know what you did to lead him to this end. Did you tell him you are breeding? Have you lain with him?"

  The numbness quickly subsided to be replaced by a cold pit of fury. Celestine rose. "You have insulted me beyond any measure, my lady." Her voice was trembling. "I shall leave now."