Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  • • •

  It was dark in the room, the morning sun having risen high enough to desert the east side of the building, and so the schoolroom. The governess was sleeping, St. Claire thought, peeking around the door. The schoolroom door swung in on well-oiled hinges, and he could see Miss Simons, her head back in the ratty, overstuffed chair that was drawn up to the fireplace. A tiny fire was almost out in the grate and she sat curled up with a pile of books on the table beside her and one on her lap. The two girls were downstairs with their mother, practicing at drinking tea in company, in preparation for the houseful they would have over Christmas. Elizabeth insisted they do that occasionally with her to accustom them to polite society and the expectations of adults.

  He closed the door quietly behind him and walked across the room, wincing when a floorboard creaked under the faded carpet. She was sleeping, or she would have heard him and opened her eyes. In repose, her plainness was all too evident. Her hair was a mousy brown and pulled back in a severe bun, too big for her fragile neck. A few tendrils had escaped and curled around her face. Her skin was pale but her complexion was freckled, an unforgivable blight, and her mouth was too big for fashion, though her lips were rosy and would no doubt be satisfyingly soft to kiss.

  He smiled down at her, thinking how surprised she would be if he did just that. Her figure was slight and the worn gray dress she wore did nothing to enhance it, probably hiding any attributes she did possess. She was a schoolroom mouse, the perfect governess, likely to tempt neither master nor servant to take liberties with her. What a sad life for a woman of so much intelligence and gentle wit as he had found her to possess in the hours he had spent with her.

  After Elizabeth’s intolerable accusations that morning he had ridden for two hours in a blind rage that contrasted sharply with the tranquility he thought he had achieved. His sister-in-law was an interfering harpy, and her demand for absolute control over those in her sphere was disturbing. Why should a governess not have a life of her own, the chance to savor the joy and sweetness other women took for granted? Was it evil to offer Celestine Simons a few stolen moments of romance?

  He thought not. She might not agree right now, but he felt sure that if she knew her job to be secure, she would sing another tune entirely. Her fear of him originated in her need for this paltry position; release her from the fear and she would welcome his attentions. He knew when a woman responded to him and had felt the suppressed longing radiate in waves from her. He would help her free that hidden core of passion.

  He would see that no ill befell her. There was no good reason why she should not enjoy his considerable skill at lovemaking, but to overcome her scruples without telling her that little secret; now that was a challenge worthy of him. She would be grateful, eventually, when he taught her how sweet stolen kisses could taste. It would give her something to dream about in her spinsterhood. And perhaps Elizabeth would learn a salutary lesson from the experience; she would find that one could allow one’s dependents the freedom to live a little, and no harm would come of it. Together he and Celestine would strike a blow for all of the meddling marchioness’s household.

  He knelt beside her and noted again her hands, folded together in her lap. The knuckles and joints were swollen and he wondered if they were painful. Her expression in sleep was smooth, with no hint of suffering, but she was really not old enough for lines of pain to have etched themselves permanently . . . yet.

  That would come, no doubt. In ten years, or even less, she would be even more faded and would have pinched lines between her brows, under her eyes and around her generous mouth. Soon even her limited attractions would have faded away, leaving a sad little songbird whose feathers had lost their luster. He felt a tiny pang at that moment and wondered if he had eaten something that had disagreed with him, for that small twinge was persistent, and he could only think of indigestion as its cause.

  Gently he lifted one hand from the other and caressed it, rubbing lightly the swollen joints. She shifted restlessly and her lips parted. He watched as she shifted again, and noted that under her ill-fitting gown there was a suggestion of small, well-shaped breasts and gently flaring hips. Odd that when one was this close the freckles under her eyes were charming, a dusting of tiny dots just over her nose. Her complexion was so fair that on her eyelids he could see the delicate tracery of blue veins under the milky whiteness. He raised her hand and touched his lips to the swollen knuckles of her right hand.

  “Mmmm?” she murmured and flexed her fingers.

  He did it again, letting his warm breath caress the back of her hand, then pressed his lips in turn to each painful joint. He watched her face as he did that and saw a tiny smile hover on her lips and a soft sigh escape as she murmured again.

  “St. Claire.”

  His name came out as a sigh, her voice soft and caressing, and a shiver ran down his spine. Her voice held the seductive warmth of a lover in the velvety darkness of the night. Ah, sweet success; it was so close he could taste the ambrosial flavor of his favorite dish! She clearly was already besotted with him. It was merely a matter of making her admit as much when awake. He waited for the triumph to flood his being. And waited.

  He shrugged.

  He supposed that would come when she admitted it to his face, as other ladies and not-ladies had done in his long career of seduction. It was a game that was won when a woman gave him her heart, or at least said she did, with winsome professions of undying devotion that he never believed for a second. He had no real illusions on that score. Few women gave their heart or their hand without a mercenary motive, and that was fine. The triumph was in capturing their undivided attention and tempting them into throwing away everything for him. It was a game that he seldom lost.

  The conquest would be all the sweeter this time, surely, because his motives were to some degree altruistic. He would win his bet with himself and show Elizabeth, at the same time, that a governess was also a woman and should be allowed a woman’s right to romance. All would emerge winners in this tender game, including Celestine Simons, who would have a brief, piquant season of love to remember.

  The governess’s large gray eyes fluttered open and she appeared disoriented. Her gaze fixed on St. Claire’s face, her eyes widened, and she snatched her hand from his grasp. “My lord,” she gasped. “What . . . what . . .”

  “I had hoped to be like the prince from the fairy tale and awaken Sleeping Beauty with a kiss.”

  She pressed the back of her right hand to her lips and her eyes widened. They really were the most remarkable shade of gray with a thick fringe of dark lashes, and looking so frightened and bewildered she was almost pretty, St. Claire thought. Almost? Perhaps he was being unduly harsh. Many a London debutante, boasting no more attractions than Miss Simons, had been called a beauty. Clothe her more elegantly and dress her hair in the latest fashion and she would not disgrace Almack’s.

  “No,” he answered the unvoiced question in her exquisite eyes. “I did not take that liberty. I merely pressed an ardent salute on your hand, the very hand you have pressed to your lips.”

  “Oh, my lord, you must not!” She rose in her agitation, a wince of pain flitting across her face as she stood. Her stance was hunched, and she straightened with difficulty. Not meeting his eyes, she picked up a pile of books from the table beside her chair and retreated to the library shelf. It was simply a low white shelf suited to the height of young children, situated behind her chair. A heavy tome dropped from her hands and he bent to pick it up for her as she rubbed her knuckles.

  “It was an innocent expression of my devotion to you, Miss Simons.” A smile played over his lips. He retrieved the rest of the books from the table and handed them to her one by one. “My, my. Gibson’s Book of Children’s Plays. Plays for the Very Young. Almanac of Plays Intended for a Youthful Audience. What is this all about?”

  She turned back to him and took another book from his outstretched hand. “The children are making puppets. We are planning a
play for the family, but I cannot find a suitable one for the season.” She frowned and bit her lip. “They are so excited about it, and I don’t want it to fall flat because of the wrong material.”

  St. Claire tilted his head to one side, considering the matter. “What about A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  The governess surprised him with a laugh, a light tinkling sound that would be the envy of many a schoolroom chit trying to learn social skills. “Does not the very title make it ineligible, my lord, as well as a hundred other things? Shakespeare is much too old for Lottie, let us not even mention Gwen.”

  “However, it seems to me that it has the right feel, if you know what I mean—fairies and enchanted forests. In fact, I seem to remember that the play was performed for her majesty Queen Elizabeth at Christmas. Tell you what.” He shelved the last two books for her, then took her hand and drew her back to her chair. “Sit, Miss Simons. I have a proposition for you.”

  She looked alarmed and the vague idea floating around in St. Claire’s brain solidified. The very thing! What he had in mind would bring him into much closer contact with her and allow him to break down her defenses that much easier. She was susceptible to him, he knew it. Her murmuring of his name had given it away even though she was not aware of it. But she had reservations that must be overcome, and he required time to do that. In the interests of a true challenge he had forsworn reassuring her that he would intercept her employer’s wrath and make sure that she was not turned off without a reference, that most feared of plights. That would make her too easy a pigeon to pluck, and he had long ago learned that the sweetness of success in any venture was commensurate with the uncertainty of the outcome.

  And so he would win this game without making it any easier for himself. If he involved himself in this puppet play it would require spending a little time with her and further his aims; Elizabeth would be suspicious, no doubt, but would likely not interfere in something to do with her daughters.

  Celestine pulled her hand away from him and her pale cheeks turned rosy. From any other woman he would have suspected coquetry, but there was no pretense in her. She folded her hands together and sat demurely looking down at them as he knelt beside her chair. He chuckled to himself, aware of the absurdity of his position. It was a picture of the gallant swain offering heart and hand to a young maiden. But he must focus on the matter at hand.

  “There is nothing suitable in the books, you say, and it must be something very special and suited to the season. Would you allow me to write a short play for my nieces? Just a brief one, with a nod, perhaps, to Will’s summer fantasy?”

  Her lips parted and she was startled enough to look up into his eyes. “You would do that?”

  He gazed at her lips, distracted for a moment in spite of himself. He looked forward to caressing their softness and becoming her teacher in a lesson of love. “For my nieces? Of course. It may not be fashionable to admit, but I love the little pusses.”

  “And they love you,” she said softly, those full petal lips curving in a smile that took his breath away. “They often speak of you, you know. I knew you before I met you, through Lottie’s stories. She was very disappointed when you didn’t come last summer. And it isn’t just the sweets you bring them. You have a way with them, my lord.”

  Her voice was low and sweet, not the affected, shrill tone of Miss Chambly or the overly correct diction of the one before her. A warmth spread through his inner regions and he smiled back up at her, surprised at how gratified he was that she had known of his existence and had spoken of him with his nieces. “Now, that’s another thing. If we are to work together, I want no more of this ‘my lording.’ And that is an order! You must call me St. Claire.” That one murmuring of his name hadn’t been enough; he wanted to hear her say it again, with just that soft tone she had used.

  She stiffened, and he saw that he had gone too far. “That would not be at all proper, sir.” She rose and shook the wrinkles from her dress. “I must see to the girls—”

  “Stop!” He took her arm. “You are doing it again, Miss Simons. You are running away.”

  “No, my lord, I am seeing to my duty. And it is not at all proper to be here with you alone.”

  “What? You are not some green girl who needs chaperoning, my dear. You are a grown woman.” He pulled her closer, wanting to dissipate the nervousness he felt tremble through her body. He spoke quietly with the reassuring tone that usually calmed the most giddy filly. He did not want her to be frightened of him; he only had the best of intentions. Besides, he could not believe she was truly frightened of him, only of discovery and the price she would pay; he would make sure she did not suffer from his attentions. He couldn’t explain that to her now, but . . . “Come, my dear, you have no reason to be afraid of me. I promise, I will never do you harm.” Almost against his own will he pulled her toward him until their bodies were touching at the knee and her bosom grazed his chest.

  Her eyes widened. “I must go, my lord.” She pulled away and ran from the room, her gray skirts billowing out behind her.

  Chapter Five

  Celestine almost collided with a footman on the landing as she raced inelegantly down the stairs from the third-floor schoolroom. As the footman bowed and continued on his stately way, not betraying by even a lifted eyebrow the surprise he must have felt at her precipitate descent, the governess stopped and put her hand over her heart. Lord St. Claire was right. She did run from him, and with good reason. She was ill-equipped to parry his teasing thrusts.

  How disappointed she was in him! The evening before he had been quietly kind, even deferential, and she thought his teasing, mocking flattery was over. But to suggest she call him by his given name . . . that alone was highly improper. And he had kissed her hand as she slept! She held her right hand to her flaming cheek.

  She gazed down at her swollen knuckles wondering why he had done that and how he had surmounted the distaste he must feel when he looked at her ugly hands. He was so elegant and perfect, and yet he seemed to be pursuing her, a plain governess, merely for sport. He was like a hunter that, denied his favorite game, would take up a gun to shoot at even a crippled deer or elderly hare just to keep in practice.

  Maybe that was it; maybe he just waited until more enticing targets presented themselves and then he would abandon the chase.

  It would be so much easier if she could just hate him, or even dislike him, but there was something within him that called out to her, that beckoned like a lover whispering softly from the shadows, and he haunted even her dreams now. His company was delightful when he chose to just be himself. Walking with him in Ellerbeck had been a revelation. She would never have suspected that one of the aristocracy could be so unaffected and relaxed. And they had spent whole afternoons together romping with the children outside, or cozy by the fireplace as he read adventure stories for Lottie in his low, cultivated voice. The gentleness he had revealed in the carriage on the way home from choir practice had finally shattered her self-control.

  Surely she could not be so much of a goose as to fall in love with him! No, it wasn’t that, she assured herself. It was just that he was beyond the realm of her experience and she did not know how to deal with him. He discomposed her, that was all. Celestine took a deep breath and sedately walked down the staircase to the first floor.

  Still, he was despicable to be taking advantage of her precarious position in the household as he was. And without even the excuse of attraction! For Celestine was a realist. She knew her attractions were few and not such as to send a young nobleman crazy with love or lust. She had lived in the world long enough to be aware that men favored a pretty face over inner beauty. No, he was amusing himself at her expense and she would not put up with it. Her peace—nay, her very future—depended on it.

  She composed herself and entered the drawing room. The scene there was one of domestic felicity. Young Augustus St. Claire, viscount and future Marquess of Langlow, had arrived home from school and with all the superio
rity of adolescence was studying his little brother Gilbert, the baby of the family, who sat on their mother’s lap. Lottie and Gwen were seated on either side of Lady Langlow on the heavy, green-brocade sofa.

  “Miss Simons,” the marchioness called out, seeing the governess lingering uncertainly by the door. “Come and help me with the girls. They have prepared something for their brother’s arrival, have they not?” Lady Langlow’s beautiful face was alight with maternal pride as she surveyed her brood, and indeed they were a fine-looking family.

  Celestine crossed the room and took the two girls to stand in front of young Augustus St. Claire. She knelt on the deep, soft carpet. “En Français, mes enfants,” she whispered, holding the little girls’ hands in her own.

  Lottie’s eyes lit up, but Gwen looked very uncertain and stuck two fingers in her mouth.

  “Bonjour, mon frère,” Lottie said, curtseying. “Et . . .” She stopped and looked at her governess.

  Celestine whispered a word to her.

  Lottie nodded. “Et joyeux Noël.”

  Gwen had remained silent and Celestine decided it was not best to prod her, as she clearly had no memory of the brief passage she was to say even though they had practiced it just that morning. Lady Langlow was adamant though, her thin, arched brows furrowed over her eyes.

  “Now Gwen!” she commanded, her voice stern. “Gwen, take your fingers out of your mouth and say what you are supposed to say.”

  The little girl looked frightened and eyed her big brother, who looked down at her with barely concealed impatience, with trepidation.

  “Well, say something, brat,” he said, his voice breaking awkwardly. He was very like his father, with a wide, high forehead and commanding presence even at his young age. He stood with his hands behind his back in unconscious imitation of the marquess.

  Gwen’s lower lip trembled and her blue eyes grew wide. She sniffed once and a fat tear rolled down her cheek.