Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Shall we go down?” Emily said, picking up her fan from a table and handing another, adorned with soft, tawny feathers, to Celestine.

  “I . . . I suppose,” Celestine muttered, staring at the pretty fan in her rose-gloved hands.

  Downstairs the party gathered in a parlor, awaiting the signal to go in to dinner. Elizabeth had surpassed herself in the opulence of her preparations and the house had been in an uproar for two days of cleaning, decorating and cooking. Silver and crystal glittered and shone, and fresh flowers from the greenhouse perfumed the air. Evergreens, to honor the season, were heaped on tables with red ribbons threaded through them and holly garlands wound up the stairs through the spindles and over the banister. Twelve more were to join the twelve of the house party and family for a total of twenty-four sitting down for dinner.

  Celestine and Emily had just reached the second-to-last stair of the curved staircase when the butler announced that dinner had been served, and the guests poured out of the parlor, with the marquess leading Lady van Hoffen, as the highest-ranking of the female guests.

  St. Claire followed with Lady Grishelda on his arm. He glanced up and stopped, his face suffusing with red. Grishelda glanced up as well and a faint look of disapproval flickered over her plain face. Celestine noticed, but then a moment later was riveted by the look in St. Claire’s eyes, and even if she was sent up to her room that moment by Lady Langlow it would be worth it.

  One moment, suspended in time, was all it took for the admiration in his eyes to register with Celestine. With chagrin she admitted to herself that she had hoped he would look at her thus, that his eyes would light up and his gaze travel over her stylish hairdo and pretty dress, her long rose gloves and white arms, bare above them. What a trap vanity was, that even a plain governess who knew her limitations could fall prey to it!

  “Miss Simons, you look . . . lovely tonight.”

  His voice rang out in the suddenly silent hall and Elizabeth, distracted until that moment by Mr. Stimson, glanced up to see what her brother-in-law spoke of. Her blue eyes turned frosty and her stare settled on Emily with an accusatory gleam. But there was no way to deliver a set-down or reprimand then and there without causing a fuss, and she was committed to this party being a triumph. A tiny smile, more like a grimace, settled on her lips.

  “As we are all finally gathered, let us go in to dinner, shall we?” she said, her voice brittle and echoing in the quiet.

  Celestine sat through much of dinner merely toying with her food. It had been a mistake. She could hear St. Claire’s voice, his rich tones and laughter, down the table. He sat between Lady Grishelda and Miss Charlotte Stimson, and turned from one to the other, talking and laughing with both ladies equally. All she could do was listen, straining to make out his words, then castigating herself for the peagoose she was being.

  At her end of the table, Celestine was sat between a young sprig, who only had eyes for Caroline Stimson on his right, and an older man with graying hair who consumed his food with a rapidity that was luckily equaled by his tidiness. He ate quickly but neatly, with little time for conversation.

  He had been introduced to her by Emily, who sat on his other side, as Gavin Knight. The first impression she got of the hawkish, lean gentleman was not a good one, as he raised his quizzing glass and stared down at the bosom of her dress immediately. In that one moment Celestine felt naked, like he had stripped her bare and was evaluating her for purchase.

  After that, Celestine was too uncomfortable to make conversation with him and was glad he seemed devoted to his meal. Once, halfway through the second remove, she thought she felt a hand on her knee. She gasped in soft amazement, and it had been quickly withdrawn, too quickly for her to be sure it was not an accident.

  She glanced up and down the table, finding that she was right in her conjecture of why Lady Langlow had allowed herself to be bullied by Emily into inviting Celestine for the dinner. She had invited a local squire and his four handsome sons to dinner, and had found that she had overbalanced the table in favor of the gentlemen. Celestine brought the balance back to the correct number so they could be seated, gentleman and lady in turn, around the long table.

  After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room to await the gentlemen and a few other neighbors of insufficient consequence to invite for dinner. The talk centered around London fashions, gossip, and whispered confidences about gentlemen. Emily glanced over at her from time to time, but she was trapped on a sofa, listening to an ancient lady’s reminiscences, so Celestine was left to her own devices. Celestine had thought that Lady Grishelda might be companionable, but she was strangely aloof, avoiding the governess’s company.

  Conversation livened up when the gentlemen arrived, and some of the young ladies were begged for a sample of their musical talents. Charlotte Stimson was first, and she acquitted herself very nicely, with a couple of love ballads and a spirited cotillion piece.

  Celestine listened with half her attention, watching St. Claire circulate, talking easily with gentlemen and ladies. Lady van Hoffen was watching him too, with hungry eyes and parted lips, licking them occasionally, and thrusting her ample, almost-bared bosom out when he glanced her way.

  Emily gave Celestine a tiny smile and joined her on the patterned sofa. They listened to the music in silence for a few minutes, and then Emily glanced over at her. “My dear, it does not do to show your feelings so readily on your face.”

  Celestine started and stared at her aunt. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The older woman gazed at her sadly. With the piano music as cover, and her fan in front of her mouth, she said, “It’s happened, hasn’t it? You’ve fallen in love with St. Claire?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Celestine curbed the impulse to close her eyes. Was it that obvious? Had she been so unguarded? “I didn’t think . . . how do you know?”

  “Oh, my dear, I see the same longing in your eyes I saw in my own in the mirror when I first fell for Baxter. Men are the very devil, love, and they are even worse when they know they have our devotion.”

  Celestine was speechless. She was alarmed lest St. Claire, or even worse, Lady Langlow, should read the same message on her face. What was wrong with her? Normally she was the most guarded of young ladies. She had always striven for the appearance of tranquillity even in the midst of emotional turmoil.

  It was a bitter dose to swallow, but she saw her actions and longings in another light just then. She saw from a stranger’s vantage point the unsuitability of a spinster governess sighing over a handsome aristocrat. More than unsuitability, she was a caricature of the lovelorn, aging ape leader, pining over the unattainable. A ridiculous figure.

  “I think I must go for a moment and collect my thoughts.” Celestine rose to her feet with a rustle of rose silk.

  Emily started to rise with her, but she put her hand out and said, “No, Aunt. I just need a moment to myself. I shall return directly.”

  She hastened from the room, out into the coolness of the hall. Glancing around, she decided the library was most conducive to a few moments of contemplation. It was a lovely room, large and dark and quiet, contrasted with the stuffy, noisy drawing room. There were a few tapers lit in case some gentleman decided to retire for a cigar, and Celestine breathed deeply the scent of leather bindings and old tobacco.

  She stood in front of the shelves, glancing over the titles, thinking about what her aunt had said to her. How had she let herself get so carried away that she allowed her feelings to show on her face? That was what came of giving in to love, of thinking that it didn’t matter if she indulged herself just that once. She should have been more guarded, instead of opening herself up to love.

  But had there been any choice? She had been in it before she realized it. It had come to her suddenly, when his lips touched hers, that she had been wanting him and needing him for some time. But she must now master her urges so that she did not give herself away to everyone, especially her employers.

  T
he library was chilly and she wished she had a shawl for her bare arms. She rubbed them with her gloved hands and stared up at the books that reached up to the high ceiling, disappearing in the dusky gloom. Then a prickling feeling at the base of her skull warned her that she was not alone.

  She turned to find Mr. Knight closing the door and walking across the thick carpet.

  “Mr. Knight,” she said, her voice echoing in the dim room.

  His face was shadowed, the beaky nose throwing a dark shade across his cheek and his hooded eyes invisible. He said nothing, just continued to walk silently across the room toward her.

  “I-I just came for a moment of quiet, but it is chilly in here. I think I will return . . .” She had started hustling past him as she spoke, but he shot out one hand and grasped her arm in a powerful grip.

  “I would like you to stay.” His voice was sepulchral, haunting in its depth and the echo the empty room provided.

  Celestine shivered. She glanced at the door, still fifteen feet or more away, and took a shaky breath. Maintaining an air of bright incomprehension, she said, “Oh, no. I am sure you wouldn’t wish to talk to me. I have no conversation, you know, in fact . . .”

  He yanked her to him and before she knew what was happening, she felt the desk behind her, so she couldn’t move back, and he had her arms pinned to her sides. She struggled and opened her mouth to scream, but felt the breath sucked from her as his mouth came down over hers.

  She was not strong. Never had she been more aware of it than in that moment when her struggles were as ineffectual as a kitten’s batting at a person’s leg. She was bent backward, and she felt like her back would break. As he kissed her, he ground his hips against hers, and she felt a ridge digging into her stomach.

  She wrenched one arm free and started beating at his shoulder and back with it, while his suffocating mouth clamped on hers with brutal ferocity. She could taste him, the sour tang of uncleaned teeth, the tobacco, the port. Her senses leaped to life and her brain worked frantically, trying to think of a way out.

  She knew what rape was; she had known a woman who had experienced it, and who had unburdened herself at great and graphic length on the one sympathetic person in her small village, herself. And now she knew she was about to experience all the horrors Mary Walmsley had told her about.

  No!

  She would not be a victim of this beast. Summoning all her courage, she bit down, feeling her teeth scrape against his and meaty flesh between her teeth. Her mouth flooded with the metallic bitterness of blood, and he screamed in pain, raising his arm to strike her.

  “No!”

  That roared word came not from her but from the doorway. Suddenly, the animal was yanked back, away from her, and St. Claire was planting his fist in his face. Blood spurted from the beaky nose and streamed down to join the river flowing from his mouth. Knight landed on the floor and scuttled across it toward the door, on his hands and knees.

  He gave St. Claire a look of loathing, then scrambling to his feet, he turned and ran, bumping the door and stumbling as he went. Celestine wiped her mouth, surprised to find blood, likely Knight’s, on her lips. St. Claire came back to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She trembled against the solid, comforting wall of his chest.

  For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then St. Claire gently pushed her away and looked into her eyes.

  “Are you all right, my dear? Shall I call your aunt?”

  “No!” Celestine blurted. “No, I will be fine.”

  “He didn’t . . . didn’t harm you?”

  St. Claire’s hair was mussed and his cravat askew. Celestine automatically straightened it for him, and then her fingers went up to smooth his hair, the fine silkiness slipping through her fingers as she looked up into his eyes, dark in the dim light of the library.

  “What made you come in here?” she asked.

  He looked down, sheepishly. “I was looking for you. I saw you leave the room, and I wanted to tell you . . . well, I wanted to let you know how fine you look tonight. Garnets suit you; you should always wear them.”

  Celestine pulled away from him, her emotions a jumble of fear at the attack, embarrassment that St. Claire should find her that way, and worry that Knight would retaliate in some way.

  “I think I deserve a little something in gratitude, don’t you think?” St. Claire said, his voice husky as he advanced toward her. He gazed down into her eyes as he pulled her close and lowered his face to hers. “Don’t you want to thank me, Celestine?”

  Before their lips touched, Celestine pulled away. “No, my lord. I must return, or go up to my room.”

  He expected favors out of gratitude! Celestine was burning with shame, and wondered if the scene he had witnessed left him thinking she had met Knight here, and that it had just gotten out of hand. Or did he think she was soiled goods now, to be pawed at will?

  “Don’t be a ninny! Let me comfort you, Celestine. I promise you, I shall make you feel much better.”

  “You are no better than he!” Celestine panted, circling the desk away from St. Claire. “Is that all men want? To impose themselves and their animal desires on women? I could have handled Mr. Knight, my lord, and I would appreciate it if you do not think you can claim my favors out of some misplaced gratitude!”

  It was more than she had intended to say. Indeed it wasn’t even fair, but she felt harassed, hunted, like a deer pursued through the forest by ravening wolves. There was a light in his eyes that she didn’t like in the slightest, and she must quench it. It worked. The brightness was extinguished to be replaced by coldness.

  “You would compare me to that . . . that beast who attacked you?”

  “Why not? So you handle yourself with more suaveness; you still want the same thing, don’t you?” There was more vehemence and bitterness in her voice than she had intended, but her anger built, anger at being toyed with by him for his own mysterious ends. And pain at the knowledge that there could never be anything more between them but an exchange of her favors for his protection; that was the only avenue available to a poor governess and a rich aristocrat.

  St. Claire drew himself up, a cool hauteur settling over his perfect features. “I had not realized that my friendliness was so repugnant to you. You seemed not to mind my caresses so very much, and I had reason to believe I was not the only one who sought your favors! And all because I wanted to give you a little romance, a little something to remember in your spinsterhood!” His face twisted in an ugly grimace. “I thought when you were old, it would be pleasant for you to look back and be able to say that once you were kissed by a lord! I felt sorry for you, but I see my pity was wasted. I will bother you no more!”

  He whirled and exited the room, but at the door he stopped. He was silent for a moment, then sighed. Not meeting her eyes, he said, his voice more gentle, more like his usual tone, “I will give out that I saw you in the hall, and that you were headed up to your room with a sick headache. Would you like me to send your aunt to you?”

  Celestine’s whispered “No” echoed in the still room and she watched him quietly leave, shutting the door behind him to give her some privacy.

  Humiliation rushed in on her, filling her eyes and aching in her breast, threatening to burst out and consume her. So that was what motivated his attentions. She was an object of pity, to be offered a couple of kisses and caresses to remember in her lonely old age. Self-pity washed over her and tears streamed down her face and dripped off her chin. And he wouldn’t bother her after that, not after what she had said to him! Had she really compared him to that animal who had attacked her? How could she have?

  If only she could go back a half hour, or even fifteen minutes! Go back and take back the words she had said. Maybe he wouldn’t have told her the truth, then. Maybe he would have kissed her again, and held her close to his heart, and she could have believed that he cared for her a little.

  But it was better this way, she tried to tell herself. Better always to know the trut
h. Better to have no illusions. Wasn’t it?

  And yet . . . she would give anything for one illusion, just to believe it for a while. She would give anything to feel herself loved by St. Claire, as far out of reach to her as the stars in the sky. Out of reach not only by virtue of his position but by his brilliance, his very being. How many other women felt as she did about him?

  Too many to count, perhaps. She sat down behind the desk and laid her head on the blotter, soaking it with the salty tears that poured from her eyes. And she just one of the many.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The water was starting to cool and Celestine reluctantly climbed from the copper hip bath, drying herself and dressing in the chilly confines of her chamber. The heat from the water had seeped into her bones and made it so much easier to get up and move around.

  She examined herself in the cracked mirror above the tall old dresser. She had sustained no bruises from Mr. Knight’s attack but she felt different somehow, more vulnerable. Should she tell someone? Did he do this to other women? Who would believe her, and what could they do about it?

  The helplessness of her position frightened her. If she did tell someone, she would almost certainly lose her position. Lady Langlow would never stand for a woman in her employ to be accusing a wealthy acquaintance of attempting rape. It was she who would become notorious, not him.

  That was what had happened to Mary Walmsley, the village woman she knew who had been raped. Mary had been a maid at a bishop’s house in London. One of the bishop’s acquaintances did the horrible deed to her, not once but repeatedly, and when she became pregnant and could hold her silence no longer, she was dismissed. It was bandied about that she had hoped to trap the man into marriage and was taking out her spite on him when it didn’t work. She was an immoral slut, gossip said, who had lured the man into her bed.