She felt herself relax and soften against him, unable to fight the sweet languor that stole over her. The kiss went on and on, their tongues touching, his thrusting into her mouth with more urgent power. Both of his arms were around her now, and her hands found his broad shoulders and she clung to him, feeling his muscles flex and tighten. One of his broad hands was splayed over the back of her head, holding her lips to his own with a firm and steady hand. The other hand was caressing her back, sliding down her backbone, cradling her rounded bottom and molding her against the hard planes of his body—
She pulled her mouth away from his and gasped; pushing against his shoulders she managed to wrench herself from his arms. There was a spark of desire deep within his brilliant blue eyes. He was breathing heavily, panting almost. She was wretchedly aware of how much she longed to be back in his arms—how bereft she felt after tearing herself away—but she straightened her backbone and took a deep breath.
“That, my lord, is quite enough of that!” Her voice was trembling.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, advancing on her and holding out his arms. His voice was low and seductive, rasping the words and giving them dark, dangerous meaning, and his eyes were sea blue now, warm and inviting, offering bliss and fulfillment to her if she acquiesced. “Come back, Celestine, come back. You know you want to. Just for one more kiss.”
“No,” she said, backing away. She hastily twisted her hair up into an untidy bun and with clumsy fingers stabbed the pins she had retrieved from the floor back into it.
His eyes blazed. Why was she being so difficult? He had felt her melting against him like warm candle wax, molding her soft curves against his body. He had been surprised—no, amazed—at the shapeliness of her body under the hideous, high-necked gray dress she wore. Her curves were womanly, her hair like spun silk, her response to his touch lover-like in its passionate intensity. The kiss had lingered and become a mating, his tongue thrusting into her hot sweetness until he felt as though he would go mad with desire. Now if he could just get her to admit that she felt the same, maybe he wouldn’t stop at just a kiss to irk his sister-in-law. He was hungry for more. Beneath her prim exterior she was molten fire, a sensual volcano ready to explode.
“Celestine, don’t deny what is between us. I have had plenty of experience, enough to know that you would find more joy in my arms than you have ever felt in your entire life. You are a woman who needs to be loved.”
Her gray eyes went flinty, and she seemed to petrify in front of him. She straightened, her spine stiffening with indignation. “That will never happen, my lord. I ask you to leave my schoolroom. Immediately!”
His hand came up to caress one long strand of silky hair, a stray from the untidy bun, but she batted it away and moved to the other side of her chair, clutching it like a buoy.
St. Claire knew he would get no further at that moment. But she wanted him, he could feel it in his bones. She wanted his touch, and maybe more. Her face was pale, the light dusting of freckles under her eyes making her look ridiculously young, like a schoolgirl. He remembered how her waist-length, unbound hair hung over her shoulder like a silk scarf. Her lips were flushed pink from his kisses and glistened with a touch of moisture. He swallowed, knowing that his physical condition was such that she would be able to tell she had aroused him, if she knew what to look for. He did not want to risk frightening her just yet with his passionate response to the feel of her in his arms. A strategic retreat was called for.
“I suppose I should go back and work on turning my fairy tale into a play,” he said, picking up his sheaf of papers and holding them in front of his breeches. “Will you read it when it is done and tell me if you wish any changes?” He was aiming for a lightness of tone, to reassure her. He didn’t think he had quite succeeded, but she appeared to relax a little.
“I . . . certainly, my lord.”
A light tap came at the door. Both of them whirled at the sound and Lady Grishelda smiled. “I hope I am not interrupting anything?”
“No, of course not,” Celestine said, relieved that she had not arrived a few moments earlier. Or what if she had, and had just come back? That thought was horrifying and Celestine swayed dizzily, holding on to the chair for support. But there was no self-consciousness in the young woman’s face. “Please come in.”
“I thought we might have that talk, but if you are busy?” She looked inquiringly at the sheaf of papers in St. Claire’s hands.
“No. I was just leaving,” St. Claire said, bowing stiffly, his cheeks pink. “Excuse me, ladies.”
Celestine sighed with relief. How much longer was he to stay at Langlow, and how would she last? If he had any more torture devised for her in the guise of his expert kissing, she would have to think of ways to evade him. Her virtue alone was no protection, it appeared. She turned to her visitor and invited her to sit in the chair just vacated.
“Lord St. Claire was consulting me about a play he is writing for the puppet show the girls will be putting on for Christmas.”
Lady Grishelda gazed at her steadily, her gaze flitting over the flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and the stray strand of hair that trailed over her shoulder. “No explanation is necessary, Miss Simons. I will not carry tales that Lord St. Claire was visiting the schoolroom.”
Celestine shifted in embarrassment to have her light chat seen through so easily. There was such a thing as rather too much perspicacity and candor, she decided, and the young woman in front of her was guilty of both. “I did not think you would. Nonetheless, that was his reason for being here. Now, of what would you like to speak?”
Lady Grishelda’s calm eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she compressed her lips. But when she spoke, it was about her school and her desire to make it truly useful for the children of her village.
Celestine felt the tension leave her as they spoke. It was bewildering, after a year of virtual isolation, to find herself sought out by such a variety of people. Her aunt, so close and dear to her; Lady Grishelda, so intelligent and well spoken; and Lord St. Claire, so . . . so handsome and gentle and merry and . . . Try as she might, Celestine could not rid herself of the memory of Lord St. Claire’s kiss. Even as she spoke to the young woman in front of her, conversing about books and students, another part of her mind was dealing with the aftereffects of her first kiss.
She wanted to revel in it. She wanted to go somewhere quiet and relive every precious second, from the first touch of his hand until the moment when she had regrettably come to her senses. Regrettably? Yes, she was sorry she had parted from him. And yet, if they had stayed like that Lady Grishelda would have had a scandalous tale to tell, had she so desired.
For a few minutes she had been just a woman. Not daughter or niece or governess, not parishioner or friend or neighbor. Just a woman, being kissed and caressed by a man with fire in his veins. As inexperienced as she was, she had recognized the look in the nobleman’s eyes when he had at last released her and the naked desire there had thrilled her to the core, making her quiver. It was a powerful sensation to arouse a man like St. Claire, who was surely used to beautiful courtesans and lovely society ladies.
But he was a man, and according to a married friend of hers from the village where she grew up, men could get that way over any woman. Jessie, married to a successful draper in their small village, had called it “being in rut,” in a disdainful way. So maybe there was nothing so very wonderful in him feeling that way over her. It was a lowering thought.
She was conscious that her and Lady Grishelda’s conversation had become more personal. The other young woman was speaking of her intention never to marry.
“Never?” Celestine asked, watching the calm face before her.
“No. I believe that women surrender too much in marriage. We give up our self-determination.”
“But do we ever have that in the first place, my lady?” Celestine asked. “Aren’t we always subject to the whims of men? I escaped that only because nobody wants me in marriage, a
nd I have no close male relatives.”
The younger woman got up and paced to the window. “I will be frank, and what I say may shock you.” She stood staring out at the landscape, the hills dusted with a light layer of snow. “My mother has lived her life for men. She needs men; needs their support, their approval, their minds, their bodies. She is a leech, sucking strength and self-confidence from them. I disdain her way of life.”
“But that does not mean you must do without marriage,” Celestine said softly. “You are an intelligent, attractive, caring woman, and marriage—”
“Would end all chance that I would get to use my abilities in any way I wished!” She was vehement, turning from the window with a blaze of determination in her pale blue eyes. “I will live my life for myself! I will not become some man’s plaything, that he can discard when he has found a new toy.”
Celestine, taken aback by the twists of Grishelda’s conversation, was puzzled. But a ray of light pierced the dark. “You see your mother as being used by men, do you not?”
Grishelda nodded.
“Some might say that it is the other way around. That Lady van Hoffen is the one who has the ultimate freedom of choosing, instead of being the chosen. She is, after all, in control of her own life.”
Grishelda’s expression twisted. “That is not so. My mother is notorious, yes, but her ‘choices’ are limited. She is avid in the pursuit of admiration, and any man that feigns it will find himself in her bed that night. What kind of choice is that?”
Celestine was silent.
“I have shocked you.” She came back to sit down. She arranged her neat, modest dress around her and folded her long-fingered, elegant hands in her lap. When she looked up again, her eyes held a militant gleam. “I am sorry. Perhaps I have seen too much of life as a result of my mother’s . . . predilections. But I see it as revelatory. I see how men use and discard women. How women are only sought as long as they are young and attractive, or can at least pretend to those virtues. I abhor such treatment, and so I will forgo the pain of such abandonment in favor of a higher course, a course of service to the poor.”
“Very laudatory,” Celestine murmured. But she could not help thinking that in Lady Grishelda’s position, surely she could both continue her life of service and have a life of her own: a husband, children, love! If she had the young woman’s advantages of position and wealth, she knew exactly what she would do. She would make every attempt to attach St. Claire and marry him, whatever the future held. That was the truth of the matter. A lifetime of kisses and caresses like the ones he had given her would more than make up for the loss of self-determination she would suffer upon marrying. Perhaps if she was wealthy and independent like Lady Grishelda she would feel differently; she would never know.
Something inside of her told her that whether he knew it or not, Lord St. Claire was ready to change his life by taking a wife. There was a restlessness, a bored air, that told her that he was perhaps ready to start living as an adult instead of as an eternal youth flitting from affair to affair.
But she was a poor governess, with no beauty, no wealth and no position. And she had best not forget that, nor the fact that there would never be anything between her and the aristocrat beyond the sensual fulfillment he sought. The gap between their social positions was vast. More than a gap, it was an abyss. All he could offer her was ruin; she must remember that, or she would surely lose herself, or at the very least, her virtue.
Chapter Ten
St. Claire strode from the schoolroom to his bedchamber. It would not do to enter his sister’s parlor in a state of raging arousal. Unbelievable that he should be so affected by a prim gray mouse of a governess. He had bedded courtesans, society wives, some of the most beautiful women in England! He had thought himself in control of the situation, had expected to arouse her desire, then leave her hanging.
Instead it was Celestine who pushed him away, leaving him to deal with his problem. It was just being male, he supposed. She was a warm and willing bundle in his arms and his body had prepared itself accordingly. Too many years of mindless seduction; he was not used to having to exercise control.
Warm. Willing. When he had gazed down into her liquid gray eyes, he would have sworn she was beautiful in that moment, even though he knew better. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, like the very best bone china, with that enchanting sprinkle of freckles over her small nose. Her mouth was well suited to satisfy a man’s hunger; he had been right about that. He had plundered the depths of her mouth, erotic images flooding his brain as he had imagined her sensual lips employed in delectably arousing ways. As he thrust into her mouth he had wanted nothing more than to lay her back on the schoolroom table and show her how pleasurable was the sweet mating dance of man and woman. A fine sweat broke out on his brow.
Her hair, so mousy-looking bundled back into a bun, was a glorious silken mane that hung around her shoulders like a curtain. He could see it fanned across a pillow, her pale, perfect skin glowing with vitality from the passionate exercise he was giving her as she writhed beneath him while he thrust into her welcoming body.
He hungered for her. For her! He sat down on his bed and ran his fingers through his curls as he considered that fact. He need not go without fulfillment even here in the hinterlands of the Lake District. He knew that at that moment, in his condition, he could have found Lady van Hoffen and she would gladly have given him satisfaction. Her reputation preceded her to Langlow as a woman eager to lay down for any man with the time and inclination. She was well known in London, where her reputation as a vigorous and athletic lover was bandied about in every one of the men’s clubs he frequented.
But he didn’t want her. He didn’t just want a willing receptacle to pour himself into. For all her aristocratic pretensions, Lady van Hoffen was not circumspect when it came to choosing sexual partners, nor discreet in her amours.
Had that ever happened before, that he had passed up a willing woman when he was randy? Not in his memory. His lust had been aroused by more than one female ineligible to bed by virtue of being young and unmarried, and he had always satisfied himself with some willing courtesan. He would not be caught in parson’s mousetrap just for nibbling forbidden cheese. Any food would satisfy when one was hungry. But not this time.
He sighed and lay back on his bed, staring up at the rich, wine-colored brocade bed hangings and sturdy oak posts as his ardor finally began to abate. For the first time he thought of Celestine—really thought of her, and her life. He would swear that his kiss was her first, that she was a virgin in every way. But after the initial timidity, she had melted against him with a tender passion that aroused him all over again as he thought of it. She had met his darting tongue and searching kiss with ardor and tremulous yearning.
What was different about her, about her kiss and touch? Was it because he was her first? There was astonishing power in that thought, knowing she was absolutely untouched. He had never had a virgin and had always supposed his first would be his wife, whoever she was. What would it be like? Would it be awful, or awe-inspiring?
He supposed that would depend on the girl he chose, and her own response to his lovemaking. He was generally accounted to be a considerate lover, careful of his partner’s pleasure before his own, a fact which apparently had made the rounds in London. Lady van Hoffen had whispered as much to him earlier, as she squeezed his leg. But a virgin would require special care. It would help, he guessed, if the girl had a passionate nature, like Celestine.
There he was, back to her again. There must have been other men who were interested in her, in her first bloom. After all, though she was plain to most eyes, she was not ugly, and she had a softly rounded body, pleasing to a man. And her eyes kindled with a spark . . . His dark, thick brows drew down, and he absently plucked at the figured bedcover.
Had anyone else seen her eyes as he did? She seemed to become a different person in his arms, alight with an inner flame that burned hot and luscious. And yet he ha
d seen something there long ago, before he had kissed her. A sweet confusion in her glance when she looked at him, a wide-eyed look of wonder.
He knew other ladies thought him handsome and had professed to love him. He had been in London for twelve seasons and had his share of doe-eyed debutantes casting themselves at his feet, dying of love for him, or so the more indiscreet had said. He had been feted, complimented, sought-after for most of his thirty-two years.
But he had never felt such a magnetic pull as he had the night he and Celestine came home together with Elise and Mrs. Jacobs, in the carriage. He had longed to take her in his arms and hold her—just hold her, nothing more. He wanted to protect her from the vagaries of her life and soothe her pain, comfort her fears. And if the maid and housekeeper hadn’t been there, he would have.
He had attributed his tears in the church and tender reaction to Miss Simons’s fragility to the over-emotionalism he was occasionally prey to. He was the unfortunate inheritor of his mother’s disposition. He remembered as a lad occasionally coming upon her weeping over a sad novel or lovely piece of music, and knew it was to her he owed his sensitive nature. He had struggled to submerge that side of himself. There was no room in a man’s life for emotionalism. His father had made sure he knew that, and had beat him once for crying over a hurt puppy. But was that all that lay behind his urge to protect and shelter the governess?
He bounded from the bed with a snort of disgust. What in God’s name was coming over him? He was acting like a moonling with a first crush, and over a plain little dab of a governess! He needed rational male company: a bottle of port, a cigar and a game of billiards. That was the logical cure to this illogical burst of inappropriate lust. Surely lust was all it was.
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