Sighing, Celestine sat up straighter, shaking off her sleepiness and pulling her needlework bag out from behind the chair to sort through her work. She might not be able to wield a petit point needle, but she would get her presents for the girls done before Christmas. The soft cloth bodies of the dolls were done already; there was just the clothes to make and the features to do. That would have to wait for her hands to stop hurting, or for the pain to at least alleviate a little bit, because the expressions were very important.
Gwen was getting a nurse doll, with a tiny baby doll to cradle, and Lottie would receive a governess doll, with a youthful student doll to accompany it. The Langlow seamstress had kindly donated some scraps of fabric, and it was finer fabric than anything Celestine had ever worn. The governess doll would be adorned in fine gray silk with a cap of white muslin trimmed in a bit of lace. The nurse doll would have a dark blue gown with a frilly apron over the top.
As she worked on the nurse’s dress, her mind wandered back to Lord St. Claire Richmond. What would it be like to be a lady he was attracted to? she wondered. Was her involuntary reaction to him, the tug of attraction she felt when she looked up into his eyes, a result of his good looks? She supposed it was, which made her as silly as Elise.
But there was no harm in admiring a perfect form and beautiful eyes. One gazed at paintings to admire their beauty, so why not a man? She gave a sharp little nod as she struggled to thread her needle, making several attempts before success was hers. That was true. She had merely an artistic appreciation for the symmetry of St. Claire Richmond’s perfect form and classic good looks. She could admire him as she would Michelangelo statue.
She paused to rub her aching joints. The fingers were especially bad, and she quelled the spurt of fear that this time the pain and swelling would not just go away, that it would linger and become more debilitating over time. Even thinking about the handsome young nobleman she had just met was preferable.
• • •
Something rankled in St. Claire’s breast as he indulged in a cigar in his brother’s billiards room. His sister’s cynical assessment of his lack of interest in the new governess was somehow disturbing, but for what reason, he could not fathom. The gentlemen of his set were all in favor of dalliances with the lower orders if the girl was pretty enough, but not a one would have called Miss Simons anything but a drab little fieldmouse. So Elizabeth knew that and took advantage of his taste in females—so what?
He knocked a couple of balls into the pockets of the gorgeous mahogany table, then threw down the cue stick and paced over to the maroon velvet-shrouded window that overlooked the terrace. This time of year there was nothing to be seen on the low-walled terrace, which stretched the whole length of the east side of the building, but he stared out anyway, gazing at the leaden sky, the clouds a solid wall over the deep purple-gray fells.
Did it bother him that Elizabeth knew him so well? Was he annoyed that his sister-in-law knew he had no restraint where a pretty face was involved? He blew out a puff of smoke and knocked the ash from his cigar in a dish on the dark wood table by the window. He hadn’t ruined the silly governess, Miss Chambly, for God’s sake. He was not such a cad as that. It really had been just a kiss, or at least a series of kisses and some light caresses.
The chit had been aiming to catch herself an eligible parti, that he knew, and had no intention of being caught in parson’s mousetrap. He was too old and wily a fox to be caught in any trap, he chuckled to himself. Someday he would marry, he supposed, but perhaps not until he was in his forties. Then he would turn into a lecherous old man and snag himself a wife of seventeen or eighteen.
He had no need to marry at all, as the succession of Langlow was assured. August had dutifully sired an heir, his namesake, the young viscount, Lord Augustus, who was at school at the moment, and a follow-up in little Lord Gilbert, the youngest child at two—Bertie to everyone who loved the blue-eyed, blond-haired tyke.
He was glad to leave all the responsible work to August so he could go on his way with his life of idle pleasure. Wasn’t that the whole point of being an aristocrat? His brow clouded momentarily. His friends all lived their lives the same way. It wasn’t as if he was the only one, damn it! He liked London, and his clubs and his pleasures.
But back to the problem of the governess. It was annoying that Elizabeth should outmaneuver him like that, then crow about it. It would serve her right if he did make love to the new governess. As plain as she was, she would be sure to fall for him like a stone. Ripe for the plucking, she no doubt was. Wouldn’t Lizzie be livid! He grinned and nodded to himself, turning away from the window and the bleak landscape. This Christmas might turn out to be even more entertaining than last year’s!
Lovemaking was all very well, and as pleasant a pastime as a man could wish for, but there might be more pleasure in tweaking his snobbish sister-in-law’s nose. And he would be giving the ugly little governess something pleasurable and romantic to look back on, too. He felt a little glow of satisfaction. Surely that was what the charity of Christmas was all about, giving to the less fortunate. He would give her her very own romantic Christmas Eve.
Classic Regency Romances
by Donna Lea Simpson
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Books by Donna Lea Simpson
Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark
Revenge of the Barbary Ghost
Curse of the Gypsy
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.
The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!
Noel's Wish Page 11