Noel's Wish

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “But I wasn’t going back to the Continent; I told Mossy that a couple of days ago. I planned to stay here.”

  Mossy shook her head as if to say, silly adults! “Noël knew! I wished on a falling star that Daddy would stay home from now on. But I bet Noël wished for a mommy! And both our wishes came true.”

  Charles stood and took Ann in his arms as the clock struck midnight. “It’s Christmas,” he whispered. “And I have the loveliest gift I could ever hope for in my arms this minute.”

  • • •

  It was one year later, exactly. The clock struck midnight as Charles carried Mossy into his wife’s bedchamber after the midwife had gathered her things and left with a pocketful of gold. Noël, now an elegant and beautiful cat, raced ahead of them and sprang in a graceful arc to the bed, where he circled and curled into a purring ball.

  Charles put Mossy down and she tiptoed to the bed, fingering the silver locket she wore around her neck.

  Ann looked up and smiled. “Come and see your little brother, sweetheart.”

  Mossy moved forward and gazed down at the small bundle held in Ann’s arms as Charles sat down on the bed near his wife’s head. He wiped back the damp curls on her forehead and leaned down to kiss her.

  His daughter had a dissatisfied look on her face.

  “What’s wrong, sweetness?” Charles asked.

  “He’s . . .” She screwed her face up into a look of distaste. “He’s kind of ugly.”

  Ann laughed weakly. “He was just born two hours ago! It takes a while for them to get as beautiful as you.”

  “I guess he’s all right. But next year, could I have a baby sister for Christmas?”

  Ann smiled up into her husband’s laughing brown eyes. After thinking herself barren for so many years, the miracle of bearing her husband’s heir was almost too much happiness. But she wasn’t afraid anymore. At first, after she and Charles married on New Year’s Day, she had been so afraid it would all go away that she had crept unhappily around, worrying she would find that it was all a dream, and that her husband really did not love her as much as he said and with such gentle fire. But he had proved it to her every day for 358 days now, and she was finally convinced.

  And now they had the proof of that love.

  Charles winked at her and then gazed down at his daughter, who was peering at her baby brother with a critical eye. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that. With any luck at all, you’ll get your next Christmas wish.”

  “And Noël, too!” Mossy said.

  The cat looked up at the sound of his name, his green eyes blazing jade in the candlelight. He yawned, meowed and stretched, digging his claws into the counterpane. Then he curled back up to sleep.

  “I think he said he already got his wish, and he’s happy.”

  Mossy nodded in agreement with her father. “Me, too,” she said. “I think I like Noël’s Christmas wish best of all,” she said, her hazel eyes alight with love as she stared at Ann.

  Charles gathered his family to him. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Excerpt from Lord St. Claire’s Angel

  Keep reading for an excerpt

  from another Classic Regency Romance

  by Donna Lea Simpson,

  Lord St. Claire’s Angel

  Celestine Simons was of good family, but an untimely death and a shortage of funds forces the homely spinster to take a position as governess at the estate of Lord Langlow and his wife. Never one to bemoan her change in fortune, Celestine is content to spend her days raising and overseeing their children, knowing in her heart she will never have any of her own.

  Lord St. Claire Richmond, Langlow’s brother, is a rogue and seducer, content to while away his days pursuing pleasure—and driving his brother and sister-in-law mad by reducing their female staff to lovelorn fools with his flirtations. When he learns on his annual Christmas visit that the drab Celestine was hired as governess solely to thwart his dalliances, he devises a scheme to both stir her heart and spite his family’s interfering ways.

  But as his game unfolds, the cunning St. Claire discovers this conquest may be more challenging than expected when the thoughtful and intelligent Celestine begins to fire an ache in his own heart. And what began as an amusement to give the plain, timid miss an innocent thrill is turning into much more, as St. Claire realizes she may be the one giving him the thrill—and teaching him in a way only a governess can that real beauty lies beneath the surface and that true love is often found where you least expect it.

  One

  “Thank God she is so plain! We’ll not have the same trouble this Christmas that we had last year with your wretched brother!”

  Celestine Simons stopped outside of her employers’ drawing room, hesitating to intrude. The voice was that of her employer, Lady Elizabeth, Marchioness of Langlow. She was evidently speaking to her husband, and would not welcome interruption, perhaps.

  “True, Elizabeth. Miss Simons is not at all the sort of female St. Claire prefers. She is satisfyingly homely and aware of it, too, if I am not mistaken. It is her best protection from my brother.”

  Lord Langlow had a rich, booming baritone from making many speeches in the House of Lords, and Celestine heard every word with humiliating clarity. She shrank back against the ivory papered wall, knowing that she could not now enter without the most mortifying sensibility that they were discussing her. She hung her head, too stunned by the cruel accuracy of the words to retreat.

  “All too often governesses today seem to be pretty, pert little misses with ideas above their station,” Lady Langlow said, her light, feminine voice fading and strengthening as she evidently walked around the room. “And you cannot tell me that St. Claire was alone in the flirtation! Miss Chambly had her eye on him from the first moment he stepped across our threshold!”

  “I blame St. Claire, though, my dear. Her very position as our governess should have protected her from his predations! I don’t know what to do with that scalawag of a brother of mine. It is time he took a wife and stopped his alley-cat behavior.”

  “August, language!”

  “Really, my dear, I said alley-cat, not whoring . . .”

  “August!”

  There was a muffled shriek, then some whispering, the sound of a loud kiss, and then a rustle.

  “You, husband, are a scamp, very much like your brother.” Lady Langlow’s voice was breathless, but smugly pleased.

  “Ah, but I confine my ‘predations’ to my lady-wife,” the marquess growled. More rustling, and a low chuckle followed.

  Celestine, her cheeks burning with mortified heat, hustled away from the door toward the great curved staircase and began to ascend, embarrassed at having lingered long enough to overhear such an intimate exchange between her employer and his wife.

  Plain. She knew she was plain, but to know that she owed her employment in the Langlow household to that fact! She had never suspected that their quick hiring of her had to do with anything more than her accomplishments: French, Latin, a little Greek, history, a fair knowledge of mathematics and science, household arts and accounts. And all along it was mostly because she was ugly!

  She paused on a landing with one hand on the smooth wood banister, holding back the tears that welled in her eyes, and pressed one palm to a florid cheek. Then, as always, she dropped her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt, letting the cool gray fabric swirl over the gnarled knuckles and crooked fingers. Lord and Lady Langlow had nothing to worry about. Their brother was safe this year, for he would surely not force his attentions on an aging, plain, arthritic spinster-governess. She returned to the schoolroom and her duties.

  • • •

  St. Claire, astride his magnificent hunter, Alphonse, rode to the front door of Langlow Manor, hurled himself from the saddle and tossed the reins to a stable hand who had appeared at the sound of hoofbeats. His breath puffed out in steamy clouds as he raced up the stone steps and banged on the brass knocker.

  The butle
r opened the door and bowed him in, taking the coat and scarf St. Claire tossed at him.

  “Where’s the family, Dobbs?”

  “His lordship is in the library, and her ladyship is in the parlor with Lady Charlotte and Lady Gwenevere.”

  Without waiting for the butler to announce him, St. Claire raced down the hall, threw open the door and knelt on the soft Oriental carpet. “Where are my favorite girls?” he cried.

  Lottie and Gwen, seven and five years of age, respectively, looked up from the needlework their mother was showing them and gave shrieks of excitement. In a moment they had abandoned their mother and had raced across the room, flinging themselves at their uncle in gleeful disarray.

  “Charlotte! Gwenevere!” Lady St. Claire cried, striving to bring order.

  She was drowned out by the tumultuous wrestling match that now took place as St. Claire dared the girls to find a treat and they diligently searched his coat pockets, crowing with delight as they found some paper-wrapped bonbons.

  St. Claire, his dark curls tumbled across his high forehead, smiled over at his sister-in-law, who tried to look severe as he turned her daughters into tiny lunatics for a few moments. Finally Elizabeth laughed too, and stood, crossing to his side. He rose from the carpet and planted an affectionate kiss on her pale, soft cheek.

  He held her at arms’ length, looking her over from the top of her lace-capped head to the dainty slippers that peeked out from beneath the skirts of her rose muslin morning dress.

  “Sister, you look lovelier than ever! If my brother had not had the good sense to snatch you up—”

  “You would have trifled with my affections and then shunned me like an Almack’s tea cake once they were engaged. I know you too well, St. Claire.” Her tone was wry, but there was affection in it nonetheless.

  He laughed and glanced over at the two little girls, who had retreated to a settee and were comparing and sharing out the treats in some mysterious fashion. They were remarkably like their mother, with fine blonde hair and pale, perfect complexions, cherubic in their chubby, healthy good looks.

  “And what are you doing looking after your own children, my lady,” St. Claire said, a hint of sarcasm in his cultured voice. Dark thick brows rose above sparkling blue eyes.

  “I am demonstrating some needlework for them that their governess is not adept at—petit point.” The marchioness moved slightly and motioned to a chair near the hearth. Those who knew her well would have recognized the lift of her chin as a challenge. “This is the new governess, Miss Simons. Miss Simons, my brother, Lord St. Claire Richmond.”

  St. Claire glanced over at the chair and saw a drab little creature in an ugly gray gown. She had brown hair pulled back in a heavy, severe bun, and her face was pink from some unidentifiable emotion, or perhaps just from proximity to the fire that blazed in the hearth. She rose, hastily curtseyed, then sat again and cast her eyes back down to the mending on her lap.

  He gave his sister a quizzical glance. “What happened to the little charmer you had here last Christmas?” he asked quietly, a grin quirking his lips.

  “You know very well what happened,” Elizabeth said, her tone growing cold. “And I do not wish to discuss it.” She retreated to the settee and took the bonbons from the two girls before they could eat the whole lot. “Miss Simons,” she said, raising her voice. “Could you take the girls up and have Elise wash their faces and hands. They are sticky from candies.”

  The governess stood, her eyes downcast, and moved to the children, taking their hands in her larger ones. That was when St. Claire noticed. Her hands were malformed, the knuckles swollen and red, the fingers crook’d in an awkward-looking manner. He glanced in shock at her face and saw her eyes flutter to his, then widen as her cheeks flamed even more.

  She had fine gray eyes, large, with luxuriant dark lashes. They were her best, or more accurately, her only good feature. The rest of her face was undistinguished—her mouth too large, her nose merely ordinary and her complexion regrettably freckled under her eyes. She hurried from the room, the washed-out dress she was wearing making no sound as it dragged along the carpet.

  As the door closed behind her, he gave his sister a knowing look. “Making sure I don’t dally with the governess, Elizabeth?”

  “Absolutely correct,” she said severely, sitting down on the green patterned sofa and folding her perfect, smooth hands in her lap. “We had to get rid of Miss Chambly after the butler caught the two of you under the kissing bough last year.”

  “What’s a harmless kiss at Christmas?” He grinned, throwing himself in a chair and draping one long, lean leg over the arm.

  “You know very well what is wrong with that! I will not have my girls’ governess fluttering around trying to capture your hand!” she said angrily, picking up the needlework she had abandoned and stabbing at it with the fine needle. “Governesses! What a tedious tribe. With you around the silly girls inevitably get above themselves, have to be dismissed and it is such a bother to train a new one.” In spite of her best intentions, Elizabeth’s rosebud mouth quirked in a smile that held a trace of mockery. “I do believe we have outmaneuvered you this time, St. Claire. I defy you to flirt with Miss Simons!”

  He gave a mock shudder. “She looks a most frightful sort, plain and spinsterish enough to freeze the most intrepid rake’s marrow,” he drawled. “Check, my dear sis.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “And she shows a becoming humility and a tendency toward piety. Check and mate, my dear brother. Now, let me tell you our plans for the seasonal festivities.”

  • • •

  Celestine handed the two children over to Elise, their maid, and retreated to the schoolroom. It was a long, plain room on the third floor, but she had tried to make it comfortable with a worn carpet of uncertain pattern and some cast-off furniture that the marquess had allowed her to relocate.

  Her own bedroom, the children’s room, their maid’s room and the nursery all shared the floor, with sundry other rooms. Celestine’s room was small but pleasant, with a few creature comforts considered adequate for the governess. Most of her time was spent in the schoolroom. That was where the fire was most often going, and it was cold in Cumbria in December—bitterly cold sometimes.

  It wasn’t just the heat that drew her to the schoolroom, though. The room was on the east side of the mansion, and there was a window on one wall that overlooked the fells above Langlow, a sight she had come to love in the past year.

  When she had first arrived at the mansion, she had been overwhelmed by the ruggedness of the landscape, deep in Cumbria, the Lake District. It was wild, with low mountains, rushing streams and flocks of Herdwick sheep everywhere. But Langlow was a very close distance to Ellerbeck, a pretty little town in the valley, and she settled in easier than she had anticipated. The people, unlike the landscape, were friendly and hospitable, and after a short while she felt at home.

  Her life until then had been spent in gentle Devon, so the change in surroundings was complete, but she had come to appreciate and even love the wild landscape and the view of the fells, dark and brooding though they were, from the schoolroom window. There was something to be said for change, especially since her former life had nothing to offer her now except penury and hardship. How much better, to her mind, anyway, to be governess in a rich man’s household than a poor spinster living on the charity of the parish.

  She sat down in the shabby armchair by the hearth, empty this time of the day, and curled her feet up underneath her. A wave of fatigue that she had been fighting all afternoon swept over her, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The thought she had been avoiding by concentrating on the fells and the scene outside the window now invaded her brain. So that was the infamous Lord St. Claire Richmond. He was devastatingly attractive, just as Elise had confessed to her, sighing with lovelorn pleasure when she described the younger brother of the marquess.

  He was not nearly as tall as his brother, but he was as sturdily built, broad of shoulder,
his torso tapering down to narrow hips. His hair was a little long for fashion, but it curled crisply, chestnut in color and glossy, and his eyes were a sparkling blue, like the midwinter sky in the Pennines. Was it his eyes that had caused the curious tug in her breast? Or was it the smile that danced on his lips?

  She didn’t think she had seen any grown man who looked so mischievous. He looked like he found life to be a grand joke, and he the only one who was in on it.

  But she had heard he was shamefully irreverent, and from reports a devil with the ladies, throwing even the housemaids in disarray by his mere presence. Mrs. Jacobs, the housekeeper, had a time of it when he visited, keeping the maids from competing over who would take him his tea and open his curtains in the morning. Even the little tweeny seemed smitten, confessing to Celestine that she counted the moments when she tended his fireplace, cleaning the ashes and re-blacking the grate, as the happiest of her day, just to be in the same room where her idol had slept!

  But she was built along sterner lines, Celestine assured herself. She had been hired because she was plain and would not tempt his lordship into indiscretion, and she knew now that her employment depended on it. Not that she would ever have to worry about fending him off. She had seen his expression, veiled distaste as he looked her over, and then shock as his glance dropped to her hands.

  She twisted them together, rubbing the knuckles of her right, feeling the familiar pain shoot through them. The inflammation was always worse with the arrival of the cooler weather in the autumn and winter. Until now she had suffered only intermittent episodes and then the pain would gradually recede, along with the inflamed swelling. Most of the time her hands were as small and neat as any woman’s.

  But this winter was the worst she had suffered, and it had only started. Some mornings the pain was so bad her hands were almost crippled. Perhaps it was the strenuous work of taking care of two little girls, or the colder weather of the Lake District, but in just the few weeks since the inflammation started it had even become impossible to handle the fine, thin needle necessary for petit point, a form of needlecraft her ladyship was most adamant her girls learn. That was why she had taken them down to Lady Langlow for a lesson in the delicate art, and so had been there to witness the arrival of the infamous Lord St. Claire Richmond, breaker of feminine hearts.