Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Celestine sighed. She rather hoped so. It would do Lord St. Claire good to have someone serious to set his feet on a more mature, intelligent path. She ignored the painful little voice in her own heart that pleaded for notice, arguing that she was that same type and perhaps with more appreciation for his lightheartedness, and firmly set her mind on her work. The elegant, attractive and witty aristocrat was not for such as her, even if things were different and she had been blessed with beauty as well as wit. Her situation was such that it precluded an alliance with a man of his exalted position.

  And anyway she was not confident that she would have the vigor to reform a rake. That would require a woman of unusual strength of character, combined with a serious disposition and determination. Lady Grishelda van Hoffen.

  She yawned. She was so tired in the afternoons. She struggled to stay awake as she sewed some basic garments for the puppets, the heads of which were now drying on a side table along the north wall of the schoolroom. There were enough for six characters. She hoped that would be enough.

  Her eyes drifted shut and she slept, drifting immediately into a vivid dream.

  She was walking in a grove of pine trees, their scent heavy on the cold breeze. She glanced down at herself and found she was cloaked in a red velvet cape trimmed in ermine, and she started. Where had she ever gotten such a fine garment? There was snow all around but she knew, for some reason, that she must stay right there and wait.

  For what?

  She wasn’t sure, but she was to wait. Her breath came out in steamy puffs and she could hear the trees creaking in the cold, weighed down as they were with a blanket of snow. Darkness was closing in, and she thought that she should be getting back home or she would be trapped out in the dark with a snowstorm coming.

  She heard a thundering of hooves through the forest and a great black horse came into view, with a rider clad in a black cape. He swung himself down from his mount and came toward her. “St. Claire,” she whispered, gazing up into his handsome face. His expression was one of desperate need, desire, even. His blue eyes glittered like sapphires in the dim light.

  “Celestine,” he said and clasped her into his arms, holding her close. Then he bent his head and his lips touched hers, softly, warm and reassuring in the cold breeze. “Come away with me, my love, and I will give you everything your heart desires. I will treasure you all the days of my life. I don’t care what my brother says, or Elizabeth, I love you. Come away with me.”

  Celestine’s lips curved in a smile as she relaxed into a deep sleep, curled up in her chair in the darkening schoolroom.

  • • •

  The evening was dark, with a howling wind that rattled windows and blew down the chimneys. The company was gathered in the drawing room after dinner, the men drinking port and the ladies taking coffee. Small groups had formed and St. Claire restlessly moved from one to another, listening to the conversation and trying to avoid Lady van Hoffen’s winks and grimaces.

  He was feeling irritable and out of sorts and he didn’t know why. He approached the hearth and gazed into the crackling blaze, swirling his drink in his stemmed glass. What in God’s name was wrong with him? He had everything a man could hope for in life, and more: wealth, title, health, family, and even good looks, to top it off. Enough women had extolled his manly virtues that he did not think it was vanity to believe himself good-looking. When he looked in his own mirror he only saw the usual set of features, arranged in the usual way, but women seemed to find his appearance pleasing enough. He would be a fool not to notice that and take advantage of it.

  All of that aside, why was he staring broodingly into the fire instead of flirting with the voluptuous widow who wanted to warm his bed, or even with the giddy, pretty Stimson girls? He glanced around the room. Charlotte and Caroline Stimson were at the piano, working out a duet. Their glossy dark heads were bent together as they worked out the music. Elizabeth sat with Dodo and Emily, and Mrs. Stimson listened in as she did some kind of complex needlework.

  Mr. Stimson, August and Lady van Hoffen were by the coffee tray. The widow was flirting with August, or trying to, at least. He wished her well of it. August was a painfully righteous gentleman and would likely not recognize it for what it was, an attempt to draw St. Claire over, or even for what it wasn’t, an attempt to draw the marquess into her bed. Lady Grishelda was looking over a book, seemingly needing no outside companionship.

  He envied her self-containment. She appeared to need no one, perfectly content to go her own way and live with her own thoughts. That was the result of unblemished morality, no doubt. St. Claire tossed back the rest of the port, grimaced and set the glass on the mantel. Was he getting maudlin again? What did he want to be doing right now?

  Strangely enough, he longed to get back to writing his little fable for the girls. He wondered if Celestine would like it. Would she frown and criticize, or just cast her luminous eyes down and say, “It is fine, my lord,” just because he was her employer’s brother? Or would her glowing eyes turn up to meet his as she said, “Oh, well done, St. Claire! It is perfect!”

  Damn. That was ridiculous. Even if she approved, she would hardly use his given name. She had made it perfectly clear that such a privilege was not what she aspired to. It was just that the one instance she had used it, when she was asleep and had murmured it, had given him a hunger to hear her say it again. He didn’t think he had ever heard a woman say his name in quite that tone. It had sounded like an endearment on her lips.

  He wished he knew what her reaction would be to his play. It was important to him that she approved, though he hardly knew why. Why did it matter? And why had he attempted that tawdry bit of flirtation in front of her in the schoolroom that afternoon? Had he expected to see hurt, anger, jealousy? All he had surprised in her fine gray eyes was puzzlement and disapproval.

  What did she do in the evening, he wondered. The girls were in bed, or in Elise’s care by now, and so there were no more demands on her time. He found himself possessed by a powerful curiosity. He excused himself to Elizabeth and slipped from the room.

  She would likely be in her own room, a sanctum he could not invade, but it was just possible she was in the schoolroom preparing for the next day. He took the stairs two at a time but slowed before he got to the third floor. No need to alert her to his presence too soon by galloping like a racehorse.

  It was quiet up there. The maids and footmen would no doubt be sitting down to dinner in the servants’ dining hall. Perhaps that was where Celestine was, too. But no, there was a light in the schoolroom. Silently, he crept forward and looked in the partially open door. She was by the fireplace, but there was no fire lit. He frowned.

  She was sewing something gray by the light of a dim candle on the table beside her. Every few stitches she would stop, rub her knuckles, then go on, laboriously setting stitch after stitch in a straight line. At one point, she sighed and set the sewing on her lap and leaned her head back. Her eyes fluttered to a close and she seemed almost to sleep for a moment. Then she shook herself and continued with her work.

  St. Claire remembered what Emily had said about Celestine’s ailment. Her hands were painful, almost crippled, when she was in the throes of an attack of arthritis. And she failed to take care of herself as she should. How did one take care of arthritis? He cast his mind back to his uncle, who had suffered from the ailment.

  Uncle Solomon had sworn by the mineral water baths at Bath. That connected with something Emily had said in her little speech to him. St. Claire headed back the way he had come, his face a mask of concentration.

  Chapter Nine

  Celestine hummed a joyful tune as she worked on the puppets while Lottie and Gwen were out for a walk with Elise. The evening before she had indulged in a nice long chat with Aunt Emily. She barely remembered her mother, who had died when Celestine was so young. Emily, though young enough to be an older sister to her, had given her all the mothering she had ever had and her presence now was soothing. She had e
xpected it to be a solitary and dreary Christmas, the first away from family, but now it didn’t seem so bad.

  It was unexpectedly lonely being a governess, something she never would have imagined. Until her father died she had been a respectably situated spinster in a small village, with a circle of friends and acquaintances that if not wide was loving. She had been in a position to distribute some largesse from her kitchen, and had taken part in her church’s campaigns on behalf of the needy.

  Her father’s death, leaving her with virtually nothing, and then her move to Langlow had changed everything. Now she was a servant and yet not a servant. She was employed by the marquess and marchioness, so she was certainly not in a position to socialize with them, and yet the servants felt her to be in a very different class from them. When she entered the servant hall or kitchen for something, merry conversation ceased, and she was greeted in a stilted fashion. They were kind and helpful and she believed they liked and respected her, but she knew they wouldn’t be comfortable again until she left.

  And so for almost a year she had been isolated from adult conversation and starved for contact and conversation with her social equals. Emily’s visit was a blessed relief, though it didn’t come without a price, as she had discovered the previous night. Emily was aghast at how far Celestine had let the arthritis go without attempting to treat it in any way. Sitting on Celestine’s bed, Emily had rubbed her cook’s ointment into her niece’s painful hands, chastising her all the while with not taking care of herself.

  “You would think you wanted to be a cripple,” she had fussed, massaging the aching joints with the greasy formula, an ointment that made Celestine’s flesh tingle and glow. “You must take care of yourself!”

  “There is too much to do! Much more interesting things than taking care of myself,” she had protested.

  “And how will you be able to do those interesting things when you are confined to bed, unable to move?” Emily scolded. “Not taking care of yourself is a sin against God. He gave you a brain and a body and expects you to do your best with both.”

  When morning came, another sample of Emily’s determination had been displayed when two maids came into her bedchamber pulling a copper hip bath. They had proceeded to fill it with steaming water. When Celestine argued, they would only say that “His lordship said it was to be so,” and left it for her.

  It had been pure luxury to sink into warm water at the time of day when her whole body rebelled against allowing her to get out of bed. As a result, her morning had progressed with less pain than usual. It was bad of Emily to intercede on her behalf with the marquess, or more likely the marchioness, but it was welcome interference and improved her ability to do her job. The ache was somewhat better already and she had more energy than she had felt for months.

  She had already spoken to young August that morning and he had expressed an interest in building a small puppet theater with the estate carpenter, so he was gone to pester for the materials. Now she just had to think of a suitable play to put on and they would be in business.

  A light tapping at the door made her look up. It was Lord St. Claire, holding a sheaf of papers and looking rather sheepish. She invited him in, smiling at his joyful grin. She did like his smile. His face was narrow, with high cheekbones and a mobile, sensuous mouth. His eyes were the startling blue of a summer sky, with silky dark lashes and heavy brows over them, keeping them from any suggestion of femininity. His hair was a dark tumble, and she wished she could reach out to touch that one stubborn lock that fell over his forehead.

  But it was his smile that made him so devastatingly attractive. He glowed from the inside with health and vitality and something else, a sweetness that Celestine believed he didn’t even know he possessed. What had started as a very good day was made better by his presence, and she had forgiven and forgotten his high-spirited piece of foolishness with the Stimson girl and the mistletoe. A man like St. Claire must be forgiven his boyish pranks.

  They spoke of commonplace things for a few minutes: the children, the weather, the season, all of the guests. He seemed nervous, and she wondered what the sheaf of paper was for. But she was kept from inquiring when her thoughts wandered off as he spoke. She gazed at him as he paced the schoolroom and remembered the dream she had of meeting him in the forest.

  Was it wrong to dream of him like that? She didn’t know. There was no harm in it, she supposed, and she couldn’t control the wayward fantasy excursions that would take her places she could not in reality go. It was as close as she was ever going to get to being kissed by him, her dream kisses, and she defiantly decided she would not feel guilty! She saw him gazing at her expectantly and floundered for something to say.

  “I-I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “So, may I? Would you mind?”

  Celestine scrambled frantically in her brain, wondering what it was he was asking. “I . . . I suppose . . .”

  “Good!” he said. He took the chair across from her and rattled his sheaf of papers. He cleared his throat and began.

  “Once upon a time there was a wayward prince named Aurelius. He was a jolly sort, always having fun and traveling, but underneath he was really very lonely. One day the prince’s brother, the king, an extremely serious man known as Reginald the Mighty, who believed that everyone else should be just as serious as he, said, ‘Aurelius, you must choose a bride.’”

  Celestine sighed in relief. This must be the story he was writing for the puppet theater. A fairy tale? From him?

  He read on, about the lonely prince who searched the kingdom for his match but came back empty-handed to be faced with his brother’s wife, who had chosen him a girl to wed. She was screechy. She was ugly. She was missing teeth, and spoke in a high-pitched wail.

  Celestine broke out laughing and St. Claire glanced up, a grin on his beautiful face. “Do you like my prince’s wife-to-be?”

  “She is perfect!” Celestine laughed, setting aside her sewing and clapping her hands together. “I shall have such fun creating a puppet to portray her!”

  “But now I’m stuck,” St. Claire said, glancing down at his papers again. “I don’t know how to get the prince to his Princess Calista, who is living out in the forest, where she has charmed the birds and the woodland creatures and can speak to them.” He was silent for a moment. He cleared his throat and stared at his hands. “Will it be . . . will it be suitable?”

  “Suitable?”

  “For the play, for the girls. Can you do something with it?”

  Was he so unsure of himself? She gazed at his face while his eyes were dropped to the paper. It occurred to her that he was actually enjoying himself writing the piece, and she was touched. She did not know what his usual life consisted of, but from things said by Lady Elizabeth and Emily, he was a man-about-town dashing from club to ballroom to racetrack to mill. That he should enjoy himself writing a play for his nieces was unexpected.

  “It’s delightful, my lord, but it needs to be a play with very simple dialogue before we can put it on.”

  “Of course,” St. Claire said, hitting his forehead lightly. “I should have thought of that. But do you have any suggestions as to how I can help the prince find his princess?” His voice lowered to a caressing baritone. “He is so lonely, and the right woman is just waiting for him, but how does he find her?”

  He was doing it again, Celestine thought, glancing with dismay into the aristocrat’s expressive eyes. As if he didn’t have enough ladies to flirt with! She had seen him with the Stimson girls and the ravishing widow, Lady van Hoffen. Did he need to make a slave of every woman in his sphere of influence?

  Carefully, she said, “I think you will find some way, my lord. If you will excuse me, I must find out if the girls are back from their walk yet.” She rose to go.

  St. Claire caught her hand. “Don’t go yet.” He pulled her back. He stood and held her hand, touching the knuckles gently with his thumb. “How are your hands today? Are they any better?”

 
; Celestine flushed with mortification. She wanted to snatch her hand away and hide it behind her, but he had a light but powerful grip on it, his long, strong fingers curled around hers, and it wouldn’t do to have a tug-of-war. His closeness was disconcerting: the warmth that radiated from his body, the scent of some hair pomade or cologne, the way his wide shoulders and sturdy body blocked everything else from her view. “They are a little better, my lord. Now I really must . . .” She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t let go.

  She watched in horror as he lifted her hand and touched the swollen knuckles, each in turn, with his lips. His warm breath bathed them in heat and she felt hot and cold flushes over her whole body, and a queer sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. His other hand came up and his fingers threaded into her hair. Somehow he worked the pins loose, and her chestnut hair started a slow slide, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders in rich waves. She couldn’t even breathe or move.

  “Don’t run, Celestine. Don’t be afraid of me. I would never harm you.”

  His voice was a low murmur and she felt herself falling under his spell, felt her heart throbbing and swelling with desire. What was he doing to her with just a touch, just a word?

  He turned her hand over and his lips caressed her palm in a lingering kiss, then her wrist. She felt her pulse leap. His free hand stole around her waist and he pulled her closer, trapping her other hand between them. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his body, the heat searing through the thin fabric of her dress and chemise. She swallowed, willing away the dizziness that threatened to turn her world black.

  “Celestine.”

  It was like a whisper from a dream and she glanced up, under her lashes, and opened her mouth to ask him what he wanted. His lips came down against hers, their warmth and softness taking her breath away and shadowing her mind with confusion.

  She had never been kissed by anyone but her father and aunt in her whole life, and this, of course, was completely different. It was as though St. Claire were reaching in and touching some hidden and untouched part of her, stroking it and petting it into purring satisfaction. She felt his lips move over hers, then a tentative, delicate thrust as his tongue lightly touched her lips, and then dared to lap at her own tongue.