Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Why did everyone make such a fuss about a little harmless flirtation? He didn’t intend to bed her. He liked older women as lovers, and preferred beauties, not plain little spinsters. If he undressed her and touched her body with knowing hands, hands that had aroused many a woman, she would likely shudder and make him feel like a lecherous fiend.

  Or would she gaze at him with passion flaming in those huge, luminous eyes, and open her luscious mouth under his? He shook his head and snorted in amusement. That was the second time he had thought of her in that manner and it was quite ridiculous. One had only to look at her to see she was not formed for passion, but for goodness and contemplation: piety, good works, sainthood! He liked an earthier type to bed, preferably experienced.

  Of course that would never do when he chose a wife. He would not want a passionate little wench for a wife because he had no intention of sharing her with anyone else. When a woman was his, she was his, for however long the affair lasted, and a marriage was intended to last for a lifetime. He wouldn’t want a wife if he would always have to wonder with whom she was laying.

  A noise alerted him that he was no longer alone.

  “Ah, Lord St. Claire, how nice to see you again. We missed you this morning.” It was the vicar bustling cheerfully up the aisle, papers in hand.

  “Hello. I was enchanted by the beauty of the church when I visited for choir practice, but I am afraid I was occupied this morning and missed the service. So I made free to come in now to look around.” St. Claire held out his hand and shook the vicar’s. The man had a respectable grip, and was just deferential enough for their difference of rank.

  “Marvelous, sir. I must say I think it a charming building,” he said, glancing around with pride. “Though to someone who has seen the Abbey, or St. Paul’s, it does seem a trifle small.” There was just the hint of pretension in the man’s voice as he gave his little speech with the air of a man of the world to another such.

  “Yes, well, they are hardly meant to be compared, are they? But each has its charms. I am looking forward to your little Christmas presentation. Miss Simons has a lovely voice, do you not think so? She is a valuable addition to your choir.”

  “Most definitely,” the vicar said, blinking a little at the rapid change in subject. He continued, though, very quickly. “Miss Simons would be a valuable addition wherever she went,” the vicar said, his tone proprietary. “I confess, I shudder to think of her ever leaving Ellerbeck. In fact, I have thought of making her residence here a more permanent sort.”

  St. Claire caught the side glance from the vicar and wondered whether the man was warning him off or checking for approval. Warning, he decided. The man seemed too sure of his own good fortune if he should speak. And he supposed his attendance at the choir practice was odd enough to set tongues wagging.

  “More permanent . . . do you mean hiring her as your housekeeper? Is that proper? I hear she is from an excessively good family.” Mischief lit the nobleman’s eyes, but the vicar, without a humorous bone in his body, was appalled.

  “Of course I did not mean that, my lord! I would never . . . oh, I believe you jest, sir! Of course I mean to ask the young lady to be my wife. I have been observing her for some time and she conducts herself with just the sort of self-effacement and humility I would wish in a wife. And I have heard her family is good, though she is in reduced circumstances. I have no need of a dowry as I have an independent income, in addition to your brother’s generous allotment. I have reason to believe the lady would not be averse to my paying court.”

  Contempt welled in St. Claire’s heart. On the outside all deference, the vicar was really an upstart, a popinjay of the worst sort. He was evaluating Celestine’s worth for his hand! It was ridiculous. She had more than one title in her family background; what did he have?

  But the vicar had good reason to be confident, he feared. Celestine was not averse to him, and could probably be persuaded to think she was very lucky if he deigned to marry her. According to Emily, she did not think much of her own worth and would be grateful for the opportunity to marry and have children of her own. She would work herself to the bone trying to be worthy of the honor of being the vicar’s wife. And he would expect it of her, never giving a moment’s thought to her condition and how she should have some care, herself.

  The thought disturbed him more than he liked to think. Celestine Simons was a gentle soul, good with children, responsible, caring. Would the vicar appreciate her true worth? Did he love her, or was he just thinking about damned bloodlines and family history?

  St. Claire bid the vicar good-bye and strode back out into the wintry sunshine. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, foretelling some unsettled weather to come, he feared. It was matched by the gloom in his heart. He felt pulled down, depressed, or some such nonsense. This was rubbish. He needed to sweat it out of his system, that was all. Alphonse still had not got the vigor worked out of him, so once out of the village he gave the frisky gelding his head and they galloped up the hill to the crest and stopped to look over the other side, down at Langlow.

  Perhaps he could accomplish two goals at once by flirting with Miss Celestine Simons. He could frustrate Elizabeth, always a goal with him. He could not abide a managing female, and she was the worst of that sort. August gave her her head, as she did not dare try to manage him, or at least not in any way he noticed. But she was intolerably managing toward everyone else, and it was disgusting that she considered Miss Simons as no better than a chambermaid, with no right to a life, romantic or otherwise, of her own. He would thwart her insidious control. If he did not strike this blow against Elizabeth’s assumption of absolute authority, even a marriage to the vicar might be out of the question for the governess.

  At the same time he could perhaps elevate Miss Simons’s low opinion of herself. In his experience flattery, no matter how outrageous, always touched a deep need in a female to be appreciated. More than one young lady had come away from a flirtation with him with an overblown opinion of her own attractions. He counted it a kindness to flirt with some of the young girls in their first season. He knew himself to be attractive to them, and it did their self-esteem good to receive attention from him. If it stopped Miss Simons from allowing herself to be a doormat when she eventually married that vicar, what’s-his-name, then he would have done her a good turn, indeed.

  With a little glow of virtue, he trotted back to the Langlow stables and left Alphonse to a groom’s care. He had a flirtation to continue. All in a good cause, of course. Or mostly, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day the last members of the house party arrived, a Lady van Hoffen, who had attained her title through marriage with an aged European nobleman, and her daughter, Grishelda. Grishelda was a plain young lady with an intelligent expression and a cool smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her mother was a buxom, beautiful redhead of perhaps forty years, flamboyantly dressed and eager to flirt with St. Claire, whom she knew from London.

  He wondered at his lack of interest. A whispered word from him would have her slipping from her chamber to join him in his bed that very night, a temptation he would not normally have forgone. The lusty widow was eager to wed her daughter to him but would likely be just as eager to start an affair. And she might not find the two aims mutually exclusive.

  But something in him rebelled at her flirtatious glances and sly innuendoes. He caught the daughter watching him with thoughtful, intelligent eyes, and the knowledge that more than one person would know of their liaison made him squirm. He injected a frosty note in his replies to the lady and evaded her after that. She was a little too obvious for him.

  Outside the snow started, coating the fells with a light dusting first, then drifting into the valley where Langlow nestled among wooded copses. After the Sabbath pause, when much of the staff was given a half day off to attend evening services, life at Langlow was back up to full bustle.

  St. Claire found he was expected to join in with whatever activit
ies Elizabeth had planned, which that day consisted of conducting the young ladies on an extensive tour of the house, the conservatory, the library, and finally the gallery, with all the family paintings needing to be explained. St. Claire, bored to flinders with the Stimson misses, was grateful that Lady Grishelda was an intelligent young woman who did not seem to believe that every encounter with him must be spent in flirtation. How had she managed to escape the influence of her mother?

  Maybe there were women in the world who would make intelligent, conversable wives after all, St. Claire thought. Her demeanor was cool, though, without being haughty, and he was not sure she was the type of woman who could be heated up by passion. He couldn’t imagine bedding a woman like that, one who would remain well-bred and chilly even in the bedroom.

  They walked together along the hallway.

  “I really think that is it, ladies,” St. Claire said, pausing at the end of the hall, near the stairs, and turning back to the two Stimson sisters.

  “What is this door, here?” the younger one said, putting her hand on a brass doorknob.

  “That is just to the upstairs rooms, the third floor.”

  “And what are those,” the elder Stimson asked. “The attics? Where you keep the ghosts?” She giggled, tossing her ringlets and smiling at St. Claire.

  He smiled. “Nothing nearly so romantic, I am afraid. The servants’ quarters, of course. The nursery. And the schoolroom.”

  “Oh, is that where the little girls would be? Those darling little creatures we have hardly caught a glimpse of so far?” said Miss Caroline, her childish simper firmly in place. She turned the knob and started up the stairs. “I have a great love of children!” she called as she danced up the stairs. “And I wish to visit them.”

  “She hasn’t been long enough out of the schoolroom that I should think she’d want to go back so soon,” St. Claire muttered, drawing a smile from his companion, the sensible Lady Grishelda.

  Charlotte Stimson was already starting up the stairs behind her irrepressible sister, and Lady Grishelda shrugged. “I think we had best follow them up, or they are apt to cause havoc in the governess’s domain, and I should hate to add to her burden.”

  “Very true,” St. Claire said.

  When he got to the door, Charlotte and Caroline were already in the schoolroom, fluttering around and cooing over the little girls, causing, as Lady Grishelda had predicted, havoc.

  Lottie was in her element, preening for the admiring young ladies, her blonde head turning this way and that as she spoke to the two young women, but Gwen was frightened by their noise and fuss and was clinging to Celestine’s gray skirts. Lady Grishelda’s calm, thoughtful eyes took in the sight and she crouched down to speak softly to the little girl, drawing her out so that Celestine could attend to the Stimsons’ unending questions and repress Lottie’s spiraling spirits, which threatened to send the little girl out of control.

  There were, near a globe, a clustered bunch of holly and a sprig of mistletoe on the long table that served as a desk for the girls. Celestine had apparently been conducting a lesson on the origin of Christmas, since that was all Lottie or Gwen could be interested in at that time of year. They weren’t formal lessons, really, just something to keep them occupied and out of trouble, she said, her calm, melodious voice cutting through the babble of children and Stimsons.

  St. Claire listened to her as she explained that she had been speaking of pagan beliefs and the origin of the Yule log, mistletoe and the reason for bringing evergreen boughs in to decorate with, when the company had burst through the doors. Caroline Stimson picked up the sprig of mistletoe on the table and twirled over to St. Claire, her muslin skirts belling out around her as she held it over her head.

  “Give you any ideas, Lord St. Claire?” She giggled.

  Her older sister frowned and Lady Grishelda glanced up sharply from her murmured conference with Gwen. As a piece of flirtation it was over the top for a schoolroom miss. St. Claire was most interested in Celestine’s reaction, though, and when he saw the wide gray eyes fixed on his face, he smirked. Some devil in him induced him to mischief and he had been given the perfect opportunity.

  “Why, Miss Caroline,” he said, eyebrows raised and blue eyes glittering in the dim light from the window. “Are you sure you should be tempting a known rake such as myself with your lovely countenance? Do you know what you are asking for?”

  The girl laughed, a high, brittle sound as her cheeks reddened. Her elder sister frowned and snatched the greenery from her hand. “That’s enough, Caro,” she snapped.

  Lady Grishelda stood, her movement fluid and graceful. “I think we have interfered for long enough on Miss Simons’s time.” Her voice was steady and brooked no dispute.

  She would make a formidable mother and wife, St. Claire thought. If a man wasn’t careful, she would likely have him reformed into a boring, steady old married man before he knew what hit him. If she was even interested in marriage. Lady Grishelda emanated an air of stern practicality that seemed to preclude any of the softer feelings of love and desire.

  “I believe Lady Langlow mentioned a game of battledore and shuttlecocks in the large salon,” she said, with her eyebrows raised, her comment directed toward the Stimson girls, who were a few years younger than her.

  The two Stimsons swept out of the room, leaving a puzzled Lottie in their wake; they hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye to her. St. Claire drifted from the room, but Lady Grishelda paused in the doorway. She said good-bye to the children, then looked up at the governess. “I really am sorry, Miss Simons, that we interfered in that way. Your job is no doubt difficult enough at this time of year without the added stir of company in your domain.”

  Celestine smiled into kind, pale blue eyes. “It is quite all right, my lady. Lottie, at least, enjoyed the break. And it was kind of you to soothe Gwen. She is not one for fuss and noise, I am afraid. Most people frighten the poor little dear, but you have a way with her.”

  “May I visit without the accompaniment of the others sometime? Perhaps when the children are at luncheon or otherwise engaged? I have some need of information you are particularly suited to give me.”

  Celestine raised her eyebrows at this. “I, my lady? If I can be of any help, of course, I am at your service, but—”

  “Believe me, it is nothing onerous,” Lady Grishelda said. “I am forming a school in our village, and I am taking a survey of every professional educator of my acquaintance as to curriculum. Your opinion would be valued.”

  Celestine flushed with pleasure. It was a rare thing for her to be consulted on anything, and she felt a kinship with the plain young woman with the sensible manners. “I would be honored to help, my lady. Though I have been a governess for less than a year, I used to help out at our school in the village where I was raised. It was one of the joys of my life and it was a very successful school, so I may have some insights to offer.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to some rational conversation,” Lady Grishelda said, ruefully, glancing back down the hall, where she could still hear the Stimsons’ voices raised. “Until then,” she said, and smiled her farewell.

  St. Claire awaited her outside the schoolroom. “That was well done, my lady,” he said quietly, glancing back at Celestine’s smiling face and giving her a small wave. Celestine’s smile died and she looked away. Damn. That silly bit of horseplay with the mistletoe had offended her. Now he would have to make up lost ground.

  Lady Grishelda’s calm demeanor cracked slightly as they strolled down the hall. “Those Stimson girls should have shackles! They have no sense that there are other people in this world, people who must earn their living and who may not all appreciate a couple of little idiots bursting in on their day.” She cast a side glance at St. Claire. “My apologies for the slight to your sister’s guests, sir.”

  “No apology needed, my lady. Our opinions in this matter coincide exactly. May I hope that they always stay as closely aligned.” He grinned at her. />
  She narrowed her pale eyes and gazed into his with a puzzled expression. “I must say, sir, you are not at all what I expected when my mother spoke of you. And she did speak of you, at great and detailed length.”

  They descended the stairs together at a stately pace.

  “And what were you expecting?”

  “A wolf, sir. An attractive beast, but dangerous, so I am told.”

  St. Claire let out a shout of laughter at the young lady’s forthright disclosure. “Ah, but perhaps I am just a wolf masquerading in sheep’s clothing, my dear. The better to allay your fears.”

  Lady Grishelda slanted him an incredulous stare. “Lord St. Claire, I am no simpering debutante, nor am I a fashionable impure. There is no need of flirtatious asides with me, you know.”

  St. Claire grimaced. “Impaled,” he said, his hand over his heart. “You have cut me to the quick, my dear. And I was hoping for a spot of intelligent flirtation this season.”

  Lady Grishelda smiled. “You shall look to my mama for that, sir. She will indulge you in any type of flirtation you like, and maybe even one tailor-made to suit you.”

  • • •

  Celestine remained distracted long after her visitors retreated. The little girls were called for tea, and she tidied the schoolroom, then sat down with her sewing basket.

  Lady Grishelda. She embodied everything Celestine had ever thought a young lady of the ton should be. She was gracious and graceful, kind and intelligent. She would be an admirable foil for St. Claire’s high spirits and rackety ways. This Christmas season would, perhaps, see the start of a friendship between them that, given time, would blossom into something more. She was just the kind of woman to settle him.