Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  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.

  Chapter Two

  “Lottie, watch out for Gwen, dear. She’s little and we don’t want her falling into the river.”

  Celestine watched her young charges carefully as she walked along the road into Ellerbeck, a parcel wrapped in crinkling paper and amber twine in her arms. The road descended a hill away from Langlow, sloping down toward the town as it curved around a low fell. For a distance it followed the river, then crossed a bridge and meandered into the village. It was a long walk but it did the little girls good to get exercise, as it did her, as well.

  The old stone bridge that spanned the sparkling stream had no railing. Celestine had questioned the safety of that when she had first arrived, but had been informed that most bridges in the Pennines didn’t have railings. This was to facilitate the wide packs horses often carried, laden with goods and wool. Some trails were impassable by cart or carriage, and much was conveyed on the backs of sturdy horses. Learning about her new home had been a constant pleasure and endlessly fascinating. Gwen tripped to the edge, and Celestine felt her heart lurch.

  Rushing to the girl’s side, Celestine pulled her back. “You must be more careful, dear,” she said, kneeling on the dry gravel in front of the child and holding her hands. She looked directly into the bright blue eyes, so big and so uncomprehending. “Gwen, listen to me! That could be dangerous, to run to the edge like that, and you could end up in the river, very cold and very wet. Would you like that?”

  The child shook her head no, then took her older sister’s hand and walked sedately over the rest of the bridge. She was very young for five, Celestine thought. It seemed that she just did not understand a lot that went on around her, gazing at the world with big, blank, blue eyes that protruded slightly. And she rarely spoke, or at least not in words that anyone but her older sister understood.

  Lottie was very protective of her little sister, and held on to Gwen’s hand as a carriage went by so the child would not wander onto the road and get run down. Celestine breathed deeply, gazing around with some pleasure at the beautiful landscape.

  Low mountains rose to the east, hazy and purple, the highest ones already shrouded in snow. In the valleys the air was clean and pure, and crisply cold on an early December day. There was no snow yet in the valley, but Celestine had already lived through most of one winter at Langlow and knew that the snow would come, and it would be deep and plentiful. That was one of the first differences she had had to adjust to.

  But it had turned out to be one of the things she enjoyed most. The Lake District, as it was known for the long, narrow glacier-carved lakes, was beautiful in all seasons, but if it weren’t for the painful inflammation of her arthritis at this time of year, winter would be her favorite. The other seasons were flamboyant in their radiant hues of green and gold and crimson, but winter was subtle, clothed in melancholy hues of u
mber and sage and dark conifer green.

  Then would come the fresh contrast of snow drifting on the slate rooftops and lining the naked trees. Blue-gray shadows would settle in the hollows between the hills and even the bright winter sun would not take away the mellow tinge to the world. It suited her, she thought as she walked down the sloping road, the girls ahead of her stopping to gather some dried weeds.

  In a meadow near the base of the hill she could see a flock of Herdwick, the sheep of the Lake District. They were hardy creatures, as were the people who lived and scrabbled their existence from the rocky soil of the Pennines. The marquess himself spent a lot of time talking to area farmers about sheep and pasturing. Even the parson had his animal flock, so much more easily guided than the human type.

  “Ah, Miss Simons. Out for a rather lengthy walk?”

  Celestine froze at the sound of a voice she had not been able to get out of her mind since the previous day. Long into the night she had heard its mocking tones in her mind.

  She turned and gazed at Lord St. Claire, who strode up behind them, his cheeks pink from the cold air. “My lord.” She nodded in acknowledgment of his greeting. “I remember as a child that I always could settle down to schoolwork better if my energy was worked off in some way. I had some errands in Ellerbeck, and the girls needed a walk.” She was proud of herself. Her tone was cool, unengaged and light.

  He fell into step with her as they closed the distance between them and the girls.

  “What a refreshingly sensible governess you are, to be sure. Most would say ‘Work before play!’ I think play before work is infinitely more pleasant.” He slanted her a sideways look.

  She didn’t know how to respond and felt her cheeks burn, to her mortification. It seemed the moment she was in his company she began to blush. She must conquer that tendency. Luckily at that moment Lottie and Gwen caught sight of their uncle and ran to his side, insisting on each taking a hand. Celestine felt they made an absurdly domestic picture strolling along the road into the village, as if they were a squire and his lady, with their two children. How deceiving were appearances!

  She searched for a neutral topic of conversation, something that should surely be easy to come up with, with a stranger. “I understand you visit Langlow every Christmas, my lord. Do you only come in the winter?”

  “I generally make a visit in the summer, as well. I didn’t this year. I went to Brighton instead, or I would have had the pleasure of meeting you sooner.”

  Celestine caught his glance and was puzzled at the faint suggestion of heat as he let his gaze wander down her pelisse, over her body. Was something disarrayed about her clothing? She glanced swiftly down at the dark gray pelisse that covered her plain wool dress. No, all was buttoned as it should be, not a thing out of place.

  She glanced back up into his blue eyes and her brow furrowed. What was different about his treatment of her today? The previous day he had dismissed her without a second glance, repulsed, as Lady Langlow had intended him to be, by her plain face and swollen hands. She realized she was staring at him when she tripped over her own two feet, and he let go of Lottie’s hand to grasp her arm.

  “Whoops,” he laughed.

  “The . . . the road’s a little uneven,” she gasped, uncomfortably aware of the strength of his fingers searing her through the wool fabric.

  “Perhaps you grow a little tired,” he suggested, smiling down at her and not letting go his hold on her.

  She pulled away. Even though he was closer to the truth than she dared admit, she said, “Not at all. I am fine.”

  They walked the rest of the way into town, past stone-walled frozen gardens and a small orchard, with St. Claire making conversation with his nieces about Christmas. He seemed in no hurry to go on his own way, and Celestine had no idea what his errands in town consisted of. Nor did she dare ask. It would seem too much like she was interested.

  They walked along the curved main street of Ellerbeck past tidy stone cottages with shuttered windows and brightly painted doors, slowly approaching the commercial section of town where butcher and baker, draper and chandler, huddled side by side, cheek by jowl, as if for warmth. The nobleman gazed about him with interest at the tidy homes, not having walked through the village much in recent years. His father had come into the title when St. Claire was already in school, he explained, so when the family moved to the area, he only visited during school holidays.

  When their father died and his brother ascended to the title, Lord St. Claire was a young man-about-town, spending most of his time in London, only seeing his brother when August and Elizabeth made the long trip there from Langlow for the season. In recent years, with Elizabeth so occupied with bearing and caring for the children, August and Elizabeth had not ventured all the way to London together. August had come to London for the sitting of the House of Lords, but he lived a solitary bachelor’s existence in his Mayfair house. St. Claire had been forced to make a twice-annual foray to Cumbria himself if he wanted to see his sister-in-law and nieces and nephews. And he always enjoyed the visits. He was sincerely attached to his family and found that the month he spent at Langlow over Christmas and the two or three weeks in the summer sped by.

  The buildings in Ellerbeck were constructed of rock quarried or picked from the meadows and fields, and they huddled along roads that were curved, following the lie of the land. Long-ago Cumbrians were wise enough to compromise with nature rather than trying to impose straight lines in country where there were none.

  And so the houses and commercial buildings seemed almost a part of the landscape, the colors and materials blending into the surrounding fells and meadows. St. Claire compared them to the workers’ cottages he had seen in London, most of them adrift in a sea of squalor and dirt, covered in the soot that was pandemic throughout the city. In the fells of Cumbria, with the clean air and sweeping vistas, the modest homes looked fresh-scrubbed. There was a simplicity and honesty of construction that was pleasing to the eye and warming to the heart. Curls of smoke puffed from chimneys and cheerful birds chirped from the barren trees.

  For some reason he felt absurdly happy, walking along the road into Ellerbeck, making dilatory conversation with the plain governess and accompanying his romping nieces. Miss Simons turned out to be an intelligent woman with a surprising knowledge of the Lake District for one so recently moved there.

  “I have made it my business to learn about the area,” she explained, gazing around with clear gray eyes. “Lottie has so many questions about everything from sheep to mountain formation theory and I am ill-equipped to answer them, so I resort to books, which your brother is kind enough to allow me free access to.”

  “Kind!” St. Claire snorted. “It is hardly mere kindness. You are his daughters’ governess; surely the better informed you are, the better taught they will be.”

  “Ah, but that is where your brother differs from other men,” Miss Simons said, glancing up at him around her bonnet, her unusually fine eyes bright from exercise and fresh air. “He wants his daughters to be well-taught and intelligent. So many gentlemen wish for their daughters to only be taught such social skills and ‘accomplishments’ as are deemed necessary to catch a husband. Often they learn little more than the art of flirtation.”

  St. Claire cast a sly glance sideways. “And will you teach them that as well? The fine art of flirtation?”

  “One cannot teach what one does not know,” she replied softly.

  “And will you resort to books for instruction, as you did for the history of this area? I would advise the penny novels for romance. They are filled with innocent young maids whose attractions drive noblemen to kidnap them and carry them off to Gretna.”

  “That kind of instruction would hardly be conducive to familial harmony, my lord,” she said dryly. “Nor would it facilitate an honorable and happy marriage when the girls are young ladies. If my task were to make them fit to occupy the scandal columns of the London newspapers, then certainly Mrs. Radcliffe and he
r ilk would be my resource material.”

  He glanced at her in some surprise, but her face was hidden by her hideous bonnet. That she might have a sense of humor had never entered St. Claire’s head. In his experience governesses were either dry old sticks or meek, frightened girls, beaten down by life. Or in Miss Chambly’s case, flirtatious, impertinent little chits. Miss Simons was none of those. He judged her to be in her twenties, and though her personality seemed retiring she did not speak meekly, nor flirtatiously, nor even censoriously. She spoke to him as an equal would. How intriguing!

  The little girls had run on ahead of them again, and as they entered the commercial heart of Ellerbeck, Miss Simons called them back and took them firmly in hand.

  He accompanied them to the draper’s shop, where the governess checked on an order of silk and lace Lady Langlow was anxious for. Apparently she was having dresses made up for the little girls for Christmas, as well as new garments for herself. The shop assistant deferred to Mr. Ducroix, the owner, who bowed and smiled so much St. Claire thought his eyes would pop from his head. As they were leaving the man slipped a wrapped bundle to Miss Simons and gave her a conspiratorial wink that St. Claire caught.

  He wondered if there was some understanding between the governess and the draper. He was a mincing fellow with a faint French accent, he noted with disgust, for all he was kind to the little girls and deferential to St. Claire himself. Miss Simons was about to put the small parcel under her other arm, already being burdened as she was with a bulky, paper-wrapped parcel, but St. Claire insisted on taking charge of it.