Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  • • •

  Lady Emily paced the conservatory, ostensibly enjoying the orchids and other fine blossoms. But what she was really doing was worrying, wringing her fine, soft hands together and pacing! She had been appalled at the way her niece had neglected herself in her time at Langlow. Only with the most strenuous care could she avoid extreme pain for a number of weeks or even months a year, and yet she didn’t give herself a second thought, devoting herself to those over-cared-for children of the St. Claires. But Emily saw a danger to her niece more insidious than the merely physical. In their long talk the night before, Emily had drawn Celestine out, gently encouraging her to talk about anything and everything.

  She had been starved of adult company for almost a year, so it was no surprise that she poured her heart out, talking nonstop for almost three hours. And in those hours Celestine had unwittingly exposed more of her heart than she perhaps had intended. The girl was halfway in love with St. Claire. She had spoken of him going to choir practice, his quiet praise of her voice, the connection she felt to him in the carriage on the way home and his gentle treatment of her when her emotions brimmed up.

  She spoke with puzzlement of his teasing and flirtation, but there was no anger or disdain. There was longing, tender, winsome, full-hearted longing that she no doubt did not realize she was revealing. She touched on his looks, but they did not seem to figure largely in her infatuation.

  Celestine was the most sensible of women, but Emily realized that all too often that was the very kind to be taken in by a smooth-tongued rogue. And St. Claire was every inch a rogue, a devil with the ladies. In his years in London he had cut a wide swath through the ranks of debutantes and even the more experienced ladies of the ton.

  Sometimes Emily thought that he wasn’t fully aware of his own powers, as ladies often languished on the sidelines, in the throes of absolute infatuation with him, when he had done no more than bow to them or said a kind word. There was something about St. Claire that called to a deep, yearning place in a woman’s soul, the place where tenderness resided. And yet he was a rakehell and a roué. Her sweet niece was falling in love with a cad who could not begin to appreciate her fine, deep qualities.

  She did not think she was being too partial when she spoke or thought of her niece as sweet, loving, dutiful and intelligent. But there was more to Celestine. There was also a deep, abiding strength of character. And there was an awesome optimism, despite the uneven hand she had been dealt. She truly did not see herself as unfortunate, with the curse of arthritis and poverty heaped on top of loneliness and spinsterhood. Celestine had lost most of what mattered to her in life: her health, her father, her home and her position in society. And yet she had a determined cheerfulness of character that was motivated solely by her lack of self-centeredness.

  And that was what Emily had been trying to say to St. Claire. Instead he had seen her interference as offensive, and had sneered at her enumeration of her niece’s sterling qualities. And this was the first man Celestine would fall in love with? As likable as St. Claire was, and it was impossible to hate him even when one saw him for the rogue he was, she still could cheerfully consign him to the devil that moment.

  So what would she do? Watch and wait, she supposed, and be there to guard Celestine, or to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart when St. Claire revealed himself for the heartless cad he had always been. And hope that it would happen soon, so that Emily would be able to be there. She prayed that St. Claire’s visit did not outlast her own. From what she had heard, he intended to take himself back to town for the New Year’s festivities. Emily turned toward the door and headed back to the parlor and more empty chat with the empty-headed Stimson sisters.

  • • •

  The air sparkled with a crystalline brightness that Celestine didn’t think she had ever seen before. Lottie and Gwen raced down the path ahead of her, through the light covering of snow, laughing and screaming at the momentum that they built up. Lady Langlow would go into strong hysterics if she could see her girls acting like such hoydens, but Celestine was an advocate of the maxim that children must be allowed to be children, with all the attendant noise and occasional scraped knees.

  She knew she was beaming, grinning in fact, and the sparkling weather or childish laughter could not be the only reason. After a quiet half hour’s reflection over the morning’s events, she had decided that there was nothing at all wrong with admitting that she had tumbled headlong in love with St. Claire. She felt joyous and free, youthful and energized just saying it out loud. “I have fallen in love with Lord St. Claire Richmond!” She laughed at the silliness of it.

  Where was the harm? He would never know about it. No one would ever know about it. She would keep her full heart concealed from everyone and hug her secret knowledge to herself. Pain was inevitable, but right now she was going to enjoy his company when she had it and not feel ashamed of loving.

  But she must not allow such trespasses on her person again. That could only lead to trouble, and she felt it was inherently unfair to engage in actions that would lead to unrealistic expectations on his side. Not that he would expect to court her as he would a lady he was considering marriage with, but he might think she would be amenable to a liaison of a less moral kind.

  She acquitted him of any serious intentions. He did not conduct himself like a man who would be considering marriage or wooing. It was just his way, and how could he help that? Many girls must have fallen in love with a man so gifted, handsome and engaging as he was. She was not the first and would not be the last. She could do nothing about it now that the damage was done, so she must just relax and let time settle things.

  She strolled down the snowy hill after the girls, feeling better than she had for ages. They were walking along a path that led to the edge of the St. Claires’ property, though the property line was not even in sight yet, and wouldn’t be for a while. It was a large estate, and they were the principle landowners of the area, employing hundreds of people in addition to the household staff: shepherds, dairymaids, gardeners, farmers, ostlers, a blacksmith . . . and many more.

  But all the technical part of running the estate was behind Langlow. She was walking with the girls in the pleasure park, a landscaped area with wooded copses, rolling lawns and a small stream, frozen now in places, gurgling, bright and silver in others.

  “Miss Simons!”

  A voice, carried on the wind, reached her as she approached the wooden bridge over the small stream on the Langlow property.

  Celestine turned and saw Mr. Foster, the vicar, following her down the path. He was a stark, black blot on the white and blue horizon. She called to the girls, then stopped to wait.

  Panting a little, Mr. Foster said, as he reached her, “I am so glad I caught you. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

  “I am just taking the girls for a walk. This time of year excites the little ones so, they need to work off their fidgets.”

  “They should be assigned some quiet work!” the reverend said, with a bit of a frown. “Contemplation is what they need, and perhaps a talk about the true meaning of Christmas.”

  Celestine bit back the response that first came to her lips, and merely said, “Of course, sir. Perhaps you are right.”

  Foster unbent a little, and with hands clasped behind his black-coated back, he fell into step with her. Lottie and Gwen were gathering pinecones under a deep green conifer, where the snow had not yet drifted in, and stuffing them into the pockets of their cloaks. They wanted to decorate the schoolroom and Celestine had agreed to help them.

  “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” she asked. She smiled up at him, determined not to let the parson’s sometimes priggish attitude destroy her joy in the day.

  He harrumphed once, blowing out his breath in a cloud of steam, and Celestine glanced over at him in some surprise. “I was dismayed, Miss Simons, at the apparent interest Lord St. Claire has taken in you. It cannot have an honorable intent, and I felt
it my duty, as your religious advisor, to prepare you in the event he approaches you with an improper suggestion.”

  Celestine gaped foolishly in her surprise.

  Foster took her tiny gasp of outrage as her reaction to this surprising revelation, and said, “I know, Miss Simons. Quite shocking. Being a gently bred female, you will be unacquainted with male lust, and I would not want your womanly weakness to be exploited by a predatory type such as the marquess’s brother. The aristocracy have different codes, my dear, if I might be so bold as to call you that. I would protect you from women’s inherent weakness of morality. And I would like to offer my protection in a more solid form. As my betrothed wife, you would be removed from his sphere of influence. I hope you know I consider you everything that is amiable and feel that marriage between us would satisfy us both on many levels.”

  He paused and glanced sideways at Celestine. Possibly he sensed hesitation from her, because he rushed back into speech. “I know you will think me hasty, but I have been observing you for some time, and my decision was not taken lightly. As a man of the cloth I must think of the worthiness of my wife to be a beacon among women, and must judge her ability to exemplify St. Paul’s admonition, in his letter to the Ephesians, that women be subject to their husband as their head, their master, as their husbands are subject to our Lord . . .”

  The rest was lost on Celestine. Anger had bubbled up into her serene heart, darkening the beauty of the day. How dare he? It was one thing for her to acknowledge her own ineligibility as far as an honorable connection with St. Claire went, but for the vicar to so boldly state that she was clearly only an object of lust for his lordship! And he would protect her from her own weakness of morality? Inwardly she seethed, but she made a strenuous and not entirely successful attempt to keep her anger quelled.

  “Lottie, Gwen! We have to go back now. Tea will be waiting!” Her voice sounded harsh, even to herself. Tears blinded her eyes, and she didn’t dare venture a word to the man at her side.

  Luckily, he was readily able to come to an explanation for her silence. “I believe you are overwhelmed by my offer, my dear. I will give you time to digest it before informing your employers of our intentions. Indeed, I would not have come forward at this busy time of year, except that I feared for you in the same household with that . . . that libertine. I believe the knowledge of your impending marriage will strengthen you in your resistance to that animal’s lustful predation, but you must feel free to come to me at any time if you feel yourself weak in the face of his licentious and lascivious manner.”

  Her continued silence and hurried footsteps did not register with the vicar as disapproval. He continued. “I have heard many things of Lord St. Claire Richmond. We both attended Oxford, myself a couple of years ahead of him, and even in those days he was a known gambler and fornicator. I will not shock your tender sensibilities with the raw facts: the soiled doves under his protection, the games of chance and dens of iniquity he was known to frequent. I may have already been too forthright, I fear, judging by your continued silence.

  “But he has ever been addicted to the pleasures of the flesh. My sermon this week shall be ‘Lust, the deadliest of the seven deadly sins.’ It will be wasted on his ears, I know, if he even attends service, which I doubt. This is where I must part from you, my dear. I must pay my respects to her ladyship, and then return home.”

  He turned to Celestine, his dark eyes intent. “I would like to celebrate our betrothal, my dear. Please do not take what I am about to do amiss. Never fear that I will view you with a lustful eye, for I am not given to a violence of emotions.” He stepped closer to her, gripped her shoulders in his hands and laid a cold kiss on her forehead, then turned and walked away.

  Celestine was too shocked to do anything but submit to his odious, cold salute.

  • • •

  Over a hill St. Claire galloped on his gelding, which danced to a stop as he pulled back on the reins. In the distance, on her way back up the hill toward the house, was Celestine with Lottie and Gwen gamboling behind, skipping and running. But there was someone else with the governess, a dark figure. As he watched, the man in a black greatcoat turned an unresisting Celestine toward him and planted a kiss on her face, whereabouts St. Claire couldn’t quite tell. It was enough to see that she did not push him away, nor did she slap him after.

  By God, it was that smarmy vicar, Mr. Foster! And their relationship must be farther along than he had ever thought for the man of the cloth to be kissing her in broad daylight in the view of the children. A cold swell of some bitter, unidentifiable feeling swept over St. Claire. He had been wrong, evidently, about her never having been kissed. Was she playing them both like fish on hooks, seeing if she could land one of them, it didn’t matter much which? His lips twisted in anger.

  And he had thought her an innocent, an untouched, virginal spinster. Maybe she would come to his bed willingly, then, thinking to catch herself a husband that way. Maybe he did not have to spend his time at Langlow in vigorous exercise to quell the passion roiling through his veins.

  He had won the contest he had set himself; that kiss in the schoolroom satisfied his bet with himself. And striking a blow for Celestine’s freedom from Elizabeth’s tyranny was a moot point if what he now believed was true and she was playing one man off the other in a bid for freedom of a more permanent kind. Now there was more to be won than just a kiss. Perhaps it was time to press her a little more closely.

  Chapter Eleven

  Days passed. The house party was lively enough, thanks to the children and the Miss Stimsons. And it was informal enough that the children occasionally came down to the parlor and entertained the adults with their prattle. Gus was allowed to play billiards with the men and ate at the table with the adults, a rare treat for him. He slavishly copied St. Claire’s every move and mannerism, and took to tying his cravat in an untidy copy of the intricate style that Dooley had created for his uncle.

  Lottie and Gwen were included in trips into Ellerbeck for gift shopping and even a sleigh ride into the countryside for greenery to decorate with. Celestine worked alone on the puppets, keeping St. Claire’s characters in mind, but she didn’t see anything of him and felt the shine go out of her days.

  How silly she had become, she thought, as she dressed the Reginald puppet, thankful that her hands felt so much better and were not as stiff as they had been. She worked in silence by the big window in the schoolroom and contemplated her so-short acquaintance with her employer’s brother. She had begun to think that she was in some way special to him, that he appreciated her and found her desirable enough to want to be around her. He hadn’t been feigning that, she had thought. But then, he was an acknowledged favorite of the ladies. He probably had that knack of making each and every one of them feel special.

  Or his efforts at staying away from her could have another source. There was that one puzzling moment that was likely the cause of him avoiding her.

  It had been very late at night, and Celestine was sleepless. The hot bath every morning and Emily’s ointment was starting to make her feel better. The swelling was starting to go down on her hands and she was not so fatigued all the time. Awake with an unusual bout of insomnia, she decided to try some milk from the kitchen, and had crept down the back stairs from her third-floor room. On the landing of the second floor she had heard a noise and had shrunk back against the wall, momentarily frightened. A shadow, long and menacing, had crept up the wall, and the scuffle of footsteps echoed.

  Then a figure hove into view! It was St. Claire, and with a whimper of relief she had sagged against the wall, hand to her breast over the thumping of her foolish heart. He saw her then and, a little the worse for a bottle of brandy, he had peered at her in the gloom.

  “Celestine,” he whispered. “That you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back.

  He came the rest of the way up the stairs and stared at her, holding his candle high and raking her body in its soft, worn night rail, wi
th his eyes. He came closer and closer, until he filled her vision. All she could think of was Mr. Foster’s admonition to her and his warning about St. Claire’s nature.

  It had angered her at the time but it had humbled her as well, and she had rethought her idea that it didn’t hurt to love him in silence. Now, with him in front of her, his cravat askew, his jacket missing, his sleeves rolled up over thick forearms and his hair even more tousled than usual, she could not think at all. She couldn’t concentrate on loving him or hating him or avoiding him, not with him this close.

  “I . . . I was just going . . .” She started to skitter past him, to head down the stairs. It was too dangerous even being near him. Though she might resent the vicar’s lack of faith in her virtue, there was much sense in his warning to her. Lord St. Claire Richmond was a man entirely out of her experience, with seductive wiles she hadn’t imagined until she was subjected to them. If she was vulnerable to his caresses in the schoolroom, in the middle of the day, what might he tempt her to in the middle of the night, with only her night rail and housecoat on?

  He put out one arm and arrested her movement. She gazed down in fascination at that arm, the cord of muscle across it, the bristling dark hairs and lightly tanned skin. She could see the golden tint to his flesh in the dancing candlelight. What did he do outdoors that left his skin tanned, even after summer was gone? Her ungovernable imagination raised the question of whether he was golden all over—his shoulders, his chest, his . . . she turned her face away in confusion.

  He put his guttering candle down on a nearby table and fingered her hair with his other hand, grasping a handful of it and burying his face in it. His action so startled her that she lifted her face and watched him in fascination. He rubbed it over his face and against his lips, taking deep breaths of her scent. He wound it around his fingers and kissed the silky strands. He finally released her hair, but some stayed snagged on the bristles of his late-day shadow.