Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  He turned his face in to her palm and kissed it, and then lowered his lips to hers. For a moment she felt the scratchiness of his whiskers, but then the sensation of his warm lips on hers obliterated every other thought. She felt his powerful arms tighten and the kiss deepened. Never had she experienced anything to compare to the wonder of that kiss. His tongue touched her lips, and with her little gasp of astonishment, her lips parted and he touched her tongue with his. A surge of passion coursed through her veins, and she thrust one hand under his damp jacket, feeling the steady thud of his heart against her fingertips.

  He pulled away with a groan and gazed down at her with fire in his blue eyes. “I don’t think this is too good for my sanity. I will want to anticipate the marriage vows if we continue.”

  She blushed and wriggled on his lap, trying to sit up more properly. Aware suddenly that she was very improperly clothed in just her night rail, with nothing underneath, her body came alive to the sensations of her breasts brushing against his chest and her bottom against his hard-muscled legs. She had never thought of the marriage bed before, though she was aware of what occurred there. Now it seemed enticing and wonderfully mysterious that in just a few weeks, perhaps, she and St. Claire would be . . . her mind shied away, and she started talking to ease her shyness. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.

  “A little bird left me a note,” he chuckled, stroking her cheek with his fingertips. “I think it was that grim-faced companion of your aunt’s. She said she knew I loved you, and to prove it I could follow you to this inn.”

  Celestine’s brow furrowed. “How would Dodo . . .” Then a smile wreathed her face. She remembered Emily’s insistence that they stop and spend the night at this particular inn. She nuzzled St. Claire’s chin. “I think Aunt Emily has some explaining to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Celestine told him and St. Claire chuckled, finally. “Devious wench,” he rasped.

  Gazing at him with concern, Celestine squirmed to slide off his lap, but he held her fast.

  “I should get some decent clothes on and get you something hot to drink and a blanket. You are frozen to the bone, and—”

  “Stop,” St. Claire said, placing one finger over her lips. “Stop trying to take care of me. Let me take care of you; give me that privilege.”

  He pulled her to him again, his strong arms holding her close, his fingers caressing her through the thin fabric. Loving hands skimmed her hips and her waist, her shoulders, and lightly touched her breasts. It was a tantalizing preview of what would follow after the exchange of vows that would join them forever. She shivered, feeling a swell of excitement coursing through her veins. She relaxed against him and closed her eyes, a deep sigh arrested by his warm lips closing over hers.

  From the depths of despair she had been raised to the pinnacle of joy. St. Claire loved her and wanted to marry her. He didn’t just pity her, he loved her and wanted her, no, needed her. Somewhere deep inside she had known it, though she would not let herself believe until now. She had known that the strong cord that stretched taut from his heart to her own was not woven of pity or compassion, but of love and desire, the sort of love that would last forever.

  Chapter Twenty

  Celestine gazed at herself in the cracked, scarred mirror over her dresser. It almost felt like the last twenty-four hours had been a dream. Yesterday morning she had set out from Langlow, leaving behind for good the man she had fallen in love with, knowing, or believing, that he could never really love her. Now she was back at Langlow, staring into her same mirror, in her same small bedroom. And yet everything had changed, everything but her own reflection. She was still just Celestine Simons, spinster governess, even if there was a new glow to her skin and her eyes sparkled when she thought of a certain wickedly handsome nobleman.

  They had set out this morning from the Fellswater Inn to return to Langlow, after much discussion between St. Claire and Emily. Her betrothed had at first wanted to go on to Emily’s home in Yorkshire so that Celestine could marry him from there. He claimed that he had no desire to ever see his brother and sister-in-law again, after the things they had said and the way they had sent her away.

  But Emily had pointed out that for a number of reasons it was really best if they returned and made an attempt to reconcile with St. Claire’s family. When he asked her, Celestine had added her voice to that of her aunt’s. She had no wish to see him divided from a family he loved so very much. The miracle of his love for her must not separate him from his blood relatives.

  And so they had traveled back, arriving at Langlow just an hour ago. They had been lucky to get there at all after the snowfall of the previous day, but a west wind had cleared the road somewhat, and they had slogged through, St. Claire’s horse tied behind and following, more easy for not having a rider. St. Claire had slyly held her hand the whole way, under cover of a lap robe, impatiently pulling off her glove and stroking her fingers until she tingled all over from the nearness of him. She was exhausted and yet invigorated. The night had been almost sleepless for her. She and St. Claire had sat for hours together on the chair, a blanket around them, talking in soft voices of the future and planning their lives.

  A bubble of happiness welled up in her even now as she glanced down at her serviceable lavender dress, when she remembered how he had talked about a lavish trousseau for her. They had had their first polite argument over it. Celestine called it clothing a pigeon in peacock feathers while he preferred to call it gilding the lily. But he insisted, gazing at her with love in his bright blue eyes as he planned to dress her in gold silk and ivory lace, topaz jewels and a diamond tiara. She had let him talk, loving to hear his voice, feeling it deep down in his chest where her body touched his as they rode side by side in the carriage. Dodo had snored part of the way, and Emily, probably wanting to give them some measure of privacy, had seemed lost in a book.

  Celestine pinned her gold locket over her heart and then opened it, gazing down at the tiny painting of her father. “Oh, Papa, you would be so happy for me today,” she whispered, her voice cracking and tears welling in her eyes.

  There was a light knock on the door and she ran to open it to find St. Claire, breathtakingly handsome in buff breeches and dark green jacket. He offered her his arm. “Shall we go down, my lady?”

  Nervously, Celestine swallowed. Their arrival an hour before had been anticlimactic. No one had been about, so they had gone to their separate chambers to wash and dress after the long carriage ride, agreeing to meet back downstairs again.

  But by now the marquess and marchioness would be aware of what had happened and would be awaiting them. Celestine was nervous. She gazed up into St. Claire’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry, my love, I will not let the lions eat you up. That is my privilege.” He chuckled and leaned over to nip her earlobe.

  She gasped at the light caress and leaned her heated cheek against the cool cloth that covered his chest.

  “Are you ready?” he said.

  She felt the steady thump of his heart against her cheek and felt his strength flowing into her. “I think so.”

  “Then let us descend.”

  They walked down the narrower stairs from the third to the second floor, then descended down the wide, carpeted stairs to the main floor. Dobbs hovered, smiling, in the great hall.

  “Where is the family, Dobbs, old man?” St. Claire asked.

  “Everyone is assembled in the drawing room, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” St. Claire started in that direction, guiding Celestine on his arm, when they heard Dobbs clear his throat. They stopped and turned back.

  Dobbs’s wide, pale face was split in a huge, uncharacteristic grin. “May I say, my lord, and Miss Simons, that on behalf of the staff, I wish you felicitations on your betrothal. We could not be happier.” His gaze rested on Celestine. “We mean that, miss. We wish you well.”

  Celestine smiled and stood straighter. “Thank you, Dobbs. That means a lo
t to me. Please thank the others, though I will be sure to do that myself, too.”

  St. Claire covered her hand on his arm with his other hand. “Shall we go?”

  She nodded and they entered the drawing room together. The Stimson girls were at the pianoforte, their heads bent over a piece of music, but they looked up as St. Claire and Celestine entered the room. Mr. and Mrs. Stimson were by the fire, and Lady van Hoffen was sitting with Emily and Dodo, probably trying to prod them for gossip. The look on the flamboyant redhead’s face when she glanced up and saw St. Claire with Celestine on his arm was a caricature of shock. Her rouged mouth dropped open and her eyes widened.

  “I would like everyone to congratulate me,” St. Claire said. He glanced down at the woman at his side and smiled. He felt as though he had made a long journey, a journey of the soul, and had come through it exhausted, but with a sharper appreciation for simple things, like the light, flowery scent his betrothed wore, and the soft translucence of her skin. “I have been fortunate enough to convince Miss Celestine Simons to be my wife.” He never took his eyes from hers, and felt the warmth glowing in their gray depths.

  A babble broke out around him and the Miss Stimsons were the first to rush up and make their congratulations. He watched as Celestine was drawn away from his side by the two girls, who pulled her over to a settee and settled on either side of her, questioning her avidly. His fiancée glanced back at him once and he grinned broadly at her.

  Lady van Hoffen glided to his side and gazed up at him, licking her lips. “And what indiscretion are you paying for with your freedom, dear boy?” she murmured.

  His eyes wide, he looked down at her. “Paying? I think you misunderstand.” He watched Celestine and listened to her quiet, dignified responses to the two girls’ prodding questions, and he felt the tenderness flood his heart as it did every time he looked at her. “My lady, whatever freedom I seemed to have was just an illusion. It took me a long time to learn, but I’ll share the lesson with you. Freedom comes when you give it up willingly, committing yourself to another. I’m free to love now and it’s a miracle to me.”

  Incredulity sparked in the lovely redhead’s eyes. “I wonder how long that’ll last,” she murmured, moving away from him and assuming a languid pose near the window.

  A footman approached him and bowed. “The marquess and marchioness request your presence in the library, my lord.”

  St. Claire nodded. He started toward the door and found that Celestine was at his side. He touched her arm, finding her skin cool to his touch. “I will go alone, my love. I will not have you offended by their plain speaking or Elizabeth’s sharp tongue.”

  She gazed into his eyes and a smile, the tiniest lifting of the corners of her mouth, flitted across her lips. “I am not such a poor creature as that, St. Claire.”

  He started to deny that he had meant that, but she lifted one finger and put it over his lips.

  “We’ll do this together.” Her words held a note of finality as she squared her shoulders.

  They walked together down the hall and into the library. August was sitting behind his massive desk and Elizabeth stood at his shoulder.

  “August, Elizabeth,” St. Claire said coolly. He drew Celestine’s arm through his own and strolled to stand in front of the desk. “By now, I think you probably know my intentions. Celestine has agreed to marry me. It took some convincing, but I prevailed at last.”

  Elizabeth snorted, a burst of unladylike sound in the quiet library. “This is a farce,” she started.

  But August put his hand up and she fell instantly silent. St. Claire glanced from Elizabeth’s frosty glare to August’s troubled gaze. He felt Celestine’s arm start to tremble and he felt anger well up in him, anger that they felt they had a right to tell him who was suitable for marriage and who was not.

  “I think,” he said, and his voice was hard, glancing off the walls of the library and echoing. “That congratulations to me and my chosen bride are in order.”

  August stood and circled the desk, standing in front of the couple, towering above them both. St. Claire felt his lips compress and his free hand ball into a fist. So help him God, if his older brother had the slightest thing to say against Celestine, he would land him a facer and walk right out of there. The older man’s troubled expression smoothed, and as his features relaxed, St. Claire felt the tension drain from him.

  “St. Claire, I am happy that you have found a woman to love, one who will put up with you. It must have taken some convincing for her to take on such a task as to make a respectable person out of you, and I wish her well of it.” He turned to Celestine and his brows, thick like St. Claire’s, rode down low over his blue eyes. “My dear, you have taken on a formidable chore. I love my brother, but he is a rascal.” He glanced at his brother affectionately. “But if you love him,” he said, his voice softer, “I think you will both be fine. Welcome to the family, Miss Simons . . . Celestine.”

  He took her hand and kissed it, holding it in his own for a long moment. “To you both I offer my most humble apologies. I never thought to see you in love, St. Claire, and that must be my only excuse for any ungraciousness on my part. Love was a long time coming, but I think it has been worth the wait, for you both. Good luck and God bless you with long life and many children.” He released Celestine’s hand and turned to Elizabeth. “Don’t you have something you wish to add, my love?”

  Elizabeth, with a stunned expression, heeded the subtle steel in her husband’s voice. She came around the desk and with a ghostly smile said, “Welcome to the family. I hope you will both be very happy.”

  And that was that. The marquess’s word was law.

  • • •

  “Miss . . . er, my lady, er . . .”

  Elise’s anxious voice caught Celestine’s attention as she drifted down the hall to her room to dress for dinner. A couple of days had gone by in a flurry of skating and music and gossip. Celestine was still not used to her new role as St. Claire’s betrothed, but was enjoying it more than she expected. She had been afraid it would be awkward, making the transition from member of the staff to member of the family. But it seemed that where the marquess led, others followed, and he had gone out of his way to be kind to his brother’s betrothed. That night was Christmas Eve, and dinner was to be a huge family affair with all of the children, followed by presents in the drawing room.

  “I am still Miss Simons, Elise,” Celestine chuckled.

  Elise bobbed a curtsey and thrust a parcel at her. “I know, but soon you will be Lady Celestine Richmond.” She breathed a happy sigh. “It’s like a fairy tale, like your puppet play, miss . . . my la . . . Miss Simons.”

  “What is this?” Celestine asked, gazing down at the bundle in her hands.

  “Open it, if you please, miss.”

  Celestine did, and found in the paper wrapping the two sets of dolls she had been making, their features finished in neat, perfect stitches. Tears welled in her eyes and she gazed up at the sweet, round face of the maid. “Oh, Elise!” She startled them both by putting her arms around Elise for a quick hug.

  The girl turned bright pink and shyly looked down at her shoes. “I knowed you wanted to finish ’em so badly, but your hands bein’ the way they were . . . an’ you bin so kind to me, I thought I’d like to pay you back. So I stayed up last night an finished ’em. I decided to do it when you left. I was gonna give ’em to the little girls, telling them it was your gift to them, since you couldn’t be here. But now you can give them to them yourself, ’specially now that you’re goin’ to be family.”

  Celestine could only smile at her through the tears gathering in her eyes.

  • • •

  Dinner was a noisy cheerful affair. Then in the drawing room they played silly games and sang Christmas songs in front of the crackling fire. Occasionally, when the doors opened, they could hear the strains of the fiddle from the servants’ hall, where a party was in progress among the staff. The whole house rang with joy. At long l
ast, when their excitement was at a fever pitch, the children were allowed to open their gifts.

  Celestine had not expected, with the abundance of gifts they got, that Lottie and Gwen would take much note of hers, but they did, Gwen especially whispering that it was her “fabrit” dolly. The little girls had been told that she would no longer be their governess and would become their new aunt, but of course they did not really understand.

  Gus did, though, and he politely thanked her for her work on the puppet play, his voice cracking under his uncle’s gaze as he shyly admitted he had liked it more than he had expected. Play-acting was not as babyish as he had thought, he said manfully. Celestine, holding a sleepy little Bertie on her lap at that moment, had to hide a smile as she saw the interaction between St. Claire, who was obviously coaching the young man through the steps of polite society, and Gus, who was desperate to please his uncle. What a good father St. Claire would make! She blushed at the turn her thoughts had taken and laid her flushed cheek against Bertie’s fuzzy head.

  She sighed tiredly. It had been a bewildering and exhausting few days, but in that time she had gained a husband and a family and a whole new life. The little boy on her lap gurgled happily and she felt contentment sweep through her soul. At last, after another hour of conversation, she felt she had stayed long enough and excused herself. St. Claire insisted on walking her upstairs.

  Slowly they mounted the wide staircase that was adorned with holly wound round the banister and big red bows attached every few feet. “You did not have to come with me,” she whispered in the hall, glad nonetheless for his strong arm to lean on. She started toward the door to the third floor, then remembered in chagrin that she had been assigned a chamber on the second floor because of her new status as part of the family.