Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  Emily cast a sympathetic look over her shoulder. If ev­erything went as planned, there would be no need to continue the longish journey to Yorkshire. But the storm had cast her plans into doubt, and she would just have to see how things went. She hoped she had done the right thing.

  They settled around the fire and the landlady, a Mrs. Shruggs, brought a tray with tea, dark and steaming, and a plate of scones, light as a feather and hot from the oven. Emily broke one open, buttered it, and bit into it with a sigh of pleasure.

  "Mmmm," she murmured and swallowed. "Wonderful. At least Mrs. Shruggs is a good cook, so we will not starve." She glanced down at her plump figure ruefully. "Though there is little danger of that for me. I have gained at least three stone in the last five years. No won­der Elizabeth hardly recognized me."

  Celestine smiled over at her aunt and sipped the strong, bitter tea. "You are lovely, and you know it," she said.

  Emily's smile softened as she gazed at her niece. The fire cast a glow over Celestine's pale oval face. She be­lieved, in the light of what she had observed and what Celestine had told her about Justin's words and actions lately, that Justin was in love with her. He had never, to her knowledge, taken so much care over a woman, nor offered to marry her.

  She was gambling that it was in Celestine's best interests to marry St. Claire. But was it?

  Years ago she would have answered yes unequivocally. But that was before her own marriage had started to crumble under the pressures of family and her inability to produce an heir for her husband, the Marquess of Sedgely. She was still bitter over the way his mother had interfered in her marriage until there was no peace be­tween her and Baxter, and in that time she had lost her belief that love conquers all.

  But it was Celestine she must think of, not herself and her own failure to make her marriage work. Her niece picked at a scone, her gnarled hands reducing it to a pile of crumbs as she stared into the fire, stirred back to crack­ling life by the attentive landlord just minutes before.

  "Celestine, if you could have anything you wanted in life, what would it be?" Emily's voice was quiet in the warm, cozy room.

  Dodo opened one eye and glanced over at Emily. Then she sighed, closed her eye again, and leaned her head back in her chair.

  Celestine pursed her full lips and her delicate brow furrowed. "Anything?"

  "Anything. Or anyone. Just what you believe would make your life perfect."

  Celestine's gray eyes lit with a glow and her lips curved up in a smile which became sad after a moment. She turned her head away and said, "I ... I think you prob­ably know the answer to that already, Aunt."

  "I suppose. Maybe that is not an appropriate subject to bring up right now." Emily glanced up at the clock. Would her plan work? What would she do if it didn't? "What can we talk about on this gloomy day to brighten us up?"

  "Aunt Emily, do you think a marriage where there is unequal love on both sides can last? Can it be good?"

  "I don't know if I am the right one to be asking about good marriages. I am a failure in that respect, my dear."

  "Takes two to fail," Dodo said, without opening her eyes. "Or sometimes more. Seems to me you and Baxter had a lot of help from my interfering, long-nosed, busy­body sister-in-law."

  "Maybe. But I am sure there are a hundred things I could have done differently that would have changed how things ended. Maybe Baxter and I would still be together if . . ." Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and glanced over at Celestine. "But that is not what you asked, is it?"

  Emily had seen compassion on Celestine's face before when she spoke of Baxter, but now there was an added hint of understanding. Unsuccessful love made women compatriots in pain.

  She shifted in the hard chair and gazed down at the ruby ring that Baxter had given her when he asked her to marry him. Almost to herself she said, "Marriages with unequal love? Perhaps they can be successful, but it is up to the one who loves more, I think. For you must be prepared to make allowances, to take less than you need or want, to be satisfied with the small things, the perfect moments."

  Celestine nodded. She had been pondering all day and had come to the conclusion that perhaps she should have taken Justin at his word and agreed to marry him. Even if he married her out of pity or compassion, he could come to love her in time if she was a good wife to him. Surely a few scraps of his affection, as sweet and beautiful as they were, were better than the bleak nothingness that seemed to stretch out in front of her now.

  In her dreams as a young girl, she could have imagined no man more perfect than Justin, not just in form and grace, but in deeper attributes. He might hide it from the world, but she had learned his soul and knew the depth of tenderness and core of sweetness no one else suspected. She had dreamed of marrying someone like him one day, and it had been within her grasp.

  But in her heart she knew if she had it to do all over again she would do exactly the same thing. What she did, she did for Justin. Someday, if they had married and he had fallen in love with another woman, his life would be destroyed. She could not do that to him. She wanted love for him, not just the affection and esteem he might hold her in. Even if she never had him, at least she had her love for him to remember and hold sacred.

  But it would be cold comfort through the long winter nights of her life.

  Nineteen

  "C'mon, Alphonse, just a little further." The snow was coming down so thick that Justin could see barely a few feet ahead of him. Alphonse hung his head and plodded on unhappily, his dark, glossy coat white from the gath­ering snow. His hooves slipped occasionally on the wet coating on the road to Yorkshire. Justin shared the horse's misery. His feet were frozen in his Hessians, and snow was drifting into the collar of his coat and melting, to trickle in a cold stream down his back. His gloved hands felt frozen to the reins.

  But the only thing to do was press onward. Justin kicked in his heels, desperately trying to get a little speed out of his beast, normally the most high-spirited and quick to respond of any mount he had ever ridden.

  He reread the note over in his mind, huddling down into his greatcoat for warmth. It had informed him Emily was taking Celestine back to Yorkshire with her, to take her out of his clutches. But the writer believed in young love and wanted him and Celestine to be happy. So she, the letter writer, would create a diversion and somehow get the carriage to stop at the Fellswater Inn on the road to Penrith.

  Lady Dodo Delafont. It had to be that old biddy. Who else would consider him, at thirty-two, to be indulging in young love?

  "C'mon, Alphonse," he urged. The carriage had maybe a two-hour start, but he was slightly faster on horseback, or had been before the weather closed in. He dug in his heels yet again and urged his horse on, leaning forward over the stallion's thick neck and whis­pering, "Warm mash if you get there quickly, my boy. I have to hurry. I have to find Celestine and make her believe me."

  "I am going to retire, my dears," Dodo said, stiffly easing herself out of the chair by the fire. Emily said she would join her after a while in the suite of rooms they had reserved for themselves, and the elderly lady mounted the stairs with a smoking tallow candle to light her way.

  They had finished an early repast of rabbit pie, mutton, and apple tart as the day turned to twilight. The coach­man had reported there was no possibility of traveling on that day. Indeed, it was now too late, even if they had been of a mind to go on. The luggage carriage had ar­rived an hour or more earlier, and Emily's abigail was even now making their rooms habitable.

  Celestine had retrieved a book from her luggage and was hunched near the fire reading it—or, more accu­rately, staring at the same page as she had an hour before. Emily, standing near the window, gazed over at her and wondered again if she had done the right thing.

  Would he follow her? Did he love Celestine as she sus­pected? She had known Justin for a long time, and his actions, as described by her niece, sounded wholly unlike him. He had never had any patience with imperfection of any kin
d. Celestine's crippling arthritis normally would have been abhorrent to him, and so she had thought to test his supposed love.

  She glanced out the window at the snow being driven against it with furious force. She had not meant to test it this much! If he made it through this gale, then his love would have to be judged strong indeed. The Justin she knew, or thought she knew, would not venture out in such weather even for the promise of an evening of gambling and beautiful courtesans.

  Had he changed over the years she had been away from London? He was older, certainly, but from what she had gathered from Elizabeth, his life had not changed a bit. Every Season saw him back in London, gambling, wench­ing, drinking, and carousing, with young ladies of the ton falling desperately in love with him, only to be spurned by the fickle aristocrat. So what had prompted him to propose marriage to Celestine but genuine love? It was a puzzle she would not be able to understand until she saw him again.

  The wind howled and darkness closed in around him. Snow was blowing horizontally across the road, and finally Justin slipped from Alphonse's back. It was much too per­ilous to continue riding. If his horse fell, he could break a leg or land on top of Justin. God, it was cold! His ears and hands and feet felt ready to fall off, for they had gone dangerously numb, and he was so wretchedly tired. He longed to lie down in a gully and sleep . . . sleep . . . but he must not! To stop was to die.

  Leaning into the wind, he led his poor beast through the gale, desperately trying to keep them on the road, concentrating on sensing any change in surface or eleva­tion that would signal they had left the thoroughfare. It could be fatal if that happened.

  He searched for a light through the curtain of white that surrounded him. Surely there must be an inn some­where? It had been hours since he had passed the last one, though there had been several houses he could have sheltered at if he was not so afraid of missing Celestine. But now his very survival was in question.

  Celestine. Would he see her again? Would he find her? He leaned into the wicked wind and closed his eyes against the freezing, wet snow. He must go on.

  * * *

  Emily pushed away from the window, where she had been gazing out at the harsh night, seeing little but the reflection of the fire against the glass, and returned to the hearth, taking the seat Dodo had vacated. Holding her hands out to the fire, she examined her niece.

  Celestine's swollen fingers held the book up before her eyes, but she still wasn't seeing it. Her eyes were misty and unfocused as she appeared to ponder something. Her brow was furrowed and her lips set, her pale com­plexion set aglow by the blaze.

  "Celestine," Emily said gently, leaning over and taking the book.

  "Hmm?" she said. "What is it, Aunt? Do you wish to retire as well? I confess, I am tired."

  "Tell me what you are thinking, my dear. We have not spoken much about . . . about Justin, and I would not have you avoid the subject."

  Celestine shrugged with a sad smile and she sat up, stretching out her spine and laying her head against the back of the chair. "I have been thinking of little else, I must confess. I am foolish, I know, but it seems so strange!"

  "What, my dear?"

  "That he should say what he said . . . do what he did! Why would he risk his family's wrath by saying he wanted to marry me? I just don't understand."

  "I have known Justin for many years, my love, and I know that he never does anything just to please someone else. Nor does he do anything just to spite someone else. And he has never asked anyone to marry him before. How did all this come about?"

  Celestine smiled, her gray eyes alight, the sorrow in them turning to a soft, dreamy pleasure. "I ... I think it began as a way to annoy his sister-in-law."

  Emily's eyes widened. "Maybe I should take back a part of that previous statement, for that certainly sounds like spite! What do you mean?"

  Celestine explained about the previous governess, which Emily, of course, already knew. She told her aunt about the words she had overheard from Lady St. Claire, about engaging Celestine partly because she was so plain. Then she went on and spoke of Justin's determined pur­suit of her. "I think he just wanted to annoy Lady St. Claire by flirting with me in front of her. Either that, or he just cannot help himself. But I expected him to stop when the other ladies arrived, and he didn't."

  ''Knowing him to be a heartless flirt, how did you come to give your own heart to him?" Emily watched the flick­ering play of light across the pale oval of her niece's face. Her freckles were stark against the alabaster of her skin and her gray eyes wide and thoughtful. She stared into the fire. When she spoke, her voice had the caressing tone of a lover.

  "He ... he is not always what people see of him. Ev­eryone sees the devil-may-care nobleman, the flirtatious lover of ladies."

  Emily waited. There was more coming, and in the quiet of the low-beamed parlor, empty except for them, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the tock-tock of a clock on the mantle. It was growing late, and the chance was Justin had not followed, after all.

  "Sometimes when I sing," Celestine said after a long pause. "I feel my heart is going to burst out of my breast and shatter into a million pieces." Her gnarled hands covered her breast, over her heart. "I feel like a crystal vase after a rehearsal or a performance; one wrong word and I will crumble. Justin understands. I don't know how or why, but he does." Celestine's voice became urgent and she looked up, gazing into her aunt's eyes. "I feel, with him, no words are necessary. Something in his heart reaches out and touches something in mine. Does that not bespeak a good soul—a tender heart?"

  Emily was deeply moved, for she understood. It was how she had felt about Baxter. Oh, not right away, as in Celestine's case, but after they were married. She could look across a room and know what he was thinking . . . feeling. They would exchange glances that held volumes. Baxter could sense when she was in pain or tired without a word said between them.

  She reached out and touched Celestine's hands where they now lay knotted together on her lap. "And so you fell in love?"

  "Yes. I fell in love. And I had meant to be so sensible! I was ready to accept an offer from Mr. Foster, if he made one. I thought all I wanted out of life was a home of my own, a family, perhaps, and the chance to be a wife and mother with someone I respected. But it wouldn't have been right to marry Mr. Foster with love in my heart for someone else."

  Emily nodded, reluctantly. "Though many would call you a fool for letting go of a chance for independence with a respectable man like the vicar, I happen to agree with you. If you were heart-whole, there would be a chance for your marriage, but to carry love for another man . . . it just wouldn't do."

  "Justin is not what other people think him, Aunt. He is not shallow or vain. He can be so tender ..." Her voice choked off, but then she cleared her throat. "It will be a lucky woman who does capture his heart and marry him."

  Emily shook her head. She had made her gamble and had apparently lost. It was getting late, and Justin had not come. Perhaps his love wasn't strong enough to make him defy his older brother's authority or the snowstorm wailing outside.

  Yawning, Celestine stood. "I think I will go up now. Are you coming?"

  "In a few minutes," Emily said. "I'll be up soon." She found and spoke with the landlord who, with his wife, was sitting in comfort, his boots off, before the fire in the dark, smoky kitchen. They would desire breakfast at eight and their carriage ready by nine-thirty, she told them, weather permitting.

  She had passed back through the drafty passage toward the dining room when the door swept open and a blast of wind carried in a flurry of snowflakes and a greatcoated stranger. He was covered in white, and until he swept off his hat and coat she did not even recognize him as Justin.

  He wiped the snow from his eyes and looked about him, then saw Emily.

  "Where is she? Where is Celestine?" he cried, his voice hoarse. He tossed his wet curls out of his eyes.

  "Justin!" Emily tried to keep the joy out of her voice. It ha
d seemed impossible just moments before that he would arrive, but now he was here, panting and wet, toss­ing aside his cumbersome frozen coat to the landlord's wife. Mrs. Shruggs bowed and muttered she would set the gentleman's garments by the fire to dry.

  Emily did not want to carry on the conversation that must follow in the cold passageway, and so she strode into their private dining room, knowing Justin would fol­low. He did not disappoint her.

  Justin was frozen-looking and shivering, his wet curls plastered over his forehead, but Emily carefully kept her concern from showing on her face. There would be time enough for that when they had sorted out a few things.

  "What do you want with my niece? Have you not cut up her peace enough already?" Emily needed to know his intentions before she allowed him back in her niece's life. Though he had asked Celestine to marry him, Emily wanted to be sure what he felt for her niece was love, not pity or pique or frustration at her elusiveness. She wanted to judge the depth of his feeling for herself.

  "It is not I who made her unhappy, but you and my interfering sister-in-law. Between the two of you, you have fair ruined our lives!" He stood before her, dripping and shivering, but he ignored his discomfort. "Where is she? I need to talk to her. I need to find out if she is really engaged to that prissy vicar, or if she has been forced into anything by you meddling shrews—you and Eliza­beth."

  Emily's heart pounded. She saw raw anger in Justin's face, and she had rarely seen any emotion there stronger than amusement before. He was never stirred beyond lan­guid flirtation when it came to women, though he could attract them with just a simmering look from his brilliant blue eyes.

  "I am all Celestine has in this world, sir, and I will protect her from a roué and a cad." Her words sounded stilted and theatrical, even to her, but Justin appeared not to notice.

  He circled her, his boots thudding on the flagstone floor. She could almost feel the anger radiating from him. He must have struggled to get through the miserable storm outside; anyone less in love would have sheltered at some house on the way and trusted to the morrow to find his intended. But still she would goad him.