She gazed up at him, eyes wide. Was he drunk, or just a little “to go,” as the phrase went? He was standing steadily enough, with no waver or stagger. Being so close to him was suffocating and she moved to duck under his arm, but he grasped her shoulder and pushed her against the wall.
And then he kissed her. His breath was perfumed with brandy, and his lips were warm and moist on her mouth. He folded her to his chest in a strong embrace and for a moment she surrendered, tasting the sweet liquor on his lips and melting into his warm body, feeling herself start to shiver to radiant life in his arms.
This was the glorious feeling she had been aware of the last time he had kissed her! She felt alive, like something stirred in her dormant body, kindled by the touch of this man. She was aware of a vague, poorly understood desire to cling to his heat, his strength, to mold herself to his muscle and sinew. But then the cold voice of reason intruded and she remembered what the vicar had said. Perhaps he was right after all. She was weak, and could easily give in to him. She felt it of herself, felt the sweet languor of love steal her breath away and leave her aching for his touch.
She pushed away from him and he released her, but would not let her out of the circle of his arms. His overpowering presence dominated her, and her hands, resting lightly on his shoulders, kneaded the muscles that knotted and flexed beneath her touch. His breathing was fast and harsh and her own matched his for pace. His gaze was deep blue and unfathomable in the dim light of his flickering candle.
“You like kisses, don’t you.”
It was a statement, almost an accusation. It puzzled her, but she had no time to think about it. It was imperative that she retreat, for if she were caught dallying in the hall with him in her night rail, inevitable conclusions would be drawn and her employment would be at an end, as would the good reputation of a blameless lifetime.
“You are drunk, sir.” She ducked out of his arms and retreated upstairs to her room to safety. For a few minutes she had been frightened that he would follow her and make a scene, but he hadn’t, and that had been that. Since then he had not accosted her or visited her in the schoolroom, a fact she should have been grateful for, though it left her feeling restless and dissatisfied.
Of course she had not told anyone about her amorous encounters with Lord St. Claire, but she knew her aunt felt something was wrong. Emily still came to her room every night for a talk and the ointment, and their discussions had been long and thorough, but they did not touch on the nobleman. She also did not tell her about the vicar’s proposal, if it could be called that.
Later, after their conversation, she had realized that Mr. Foster had assumed she would accept him. There was not even the pretense of asking for her hand; he had just said they would not announce their nuptials until after the holidays. And that angered her more than anything, even more than his assumption of her lack of morals, for some reason.
After the anger came the sadness that spelled the death of her hopes for an honorable marriage with Reverend Robert Foster. She could not even think of looking at him again, much less marrying him. He thought her immoral by nature; he clearly thought all women were impure.
She thought about his cold, chaste kiss on her forehead and how it compared with St. Claire’s hot, dangerous kisses. Would Mr. Foster’s kiss have been so lacking if she had never experienced St. Claire? She didn’t know. That was the problem with experience; you could never go back from it, never undo it.
And she could never retreat from loving St. Claire. She thought about him all the time, wondering what it was in him that drew her, but she knew she was right to keep him at arm’s length, and she should have been glad he seemed to be avoiding her. She caught the occasional glimpse of him with the Stimson girls or Lady Grishelda, and just that morning she had heard him flirting with Lady van Hoffen.
They were in the conservatory. Celestine had gone there to get a plant for the schoolroom and had become entranced just walking up and down the rows of greenery. When she heard a male voice she assumed it was Grundle, the gardener. She heard a feminine counterpoint and had realized too late it was St. Claire and Lady van Hoffen.
Their conversation had been light and flirtatious, with lots of double entendres and laughter, and then there had been silence for a few minutes. She thought they might have left, slipping quietly from the room without closing the door behind them. But moving from behind a palm tree she had caught sight of the pair, the ample redhead with her fingers buried into his hair as she gave him an openmouthed kiss. He had given her a little push after that and they had moved away, arm in arm, laughing.
A stab of pain and jealousy shot through her, but it finally put his behavior in context for Celestine. Now she understood him. Just as she had initially thought, he could not be around a female without flirting and making her in love with him. She was just one in a long line and she must bear that in mind next time he flirted with her. If he ever did.
And still, she could not hate him.
She bent back over her work, deftly sewing a cloak on Reginald, and tried to forget about St. Claire. But some things would live in her memory forever: his eyes following her around the room, his low voice, so seductive, in her ear, his kisses, so warm and passionate that any woman could be excused for falling in love with him. And that one perfect moment in the dark confines of the carriage when he had pressed his kerchief into her hand and she had felt a thread between them stretch taut and thicken, a cord binding their souls intimately. He might be unaware of it, but her heart was bound to his by more than lust or desire.
Was it just in her imagination, that connection? Was it for him some flimsy little cobweb that she had woven in her mind into strongest hemp? Perhaps, but still it bound her to him, and she would forever feel the tug of it wherever he wandered and whomever he chose to bed. Whether he knew it or not, he would always carry around with him her heart, pulsing with the strong beat of his own.
• • •
Elizabeth twitched the curtains back to look out on the gloomy December afternoon. “I think it will be perfectly marvelous,” she sang, dancing around the room in a rare display of high spirits. Her husband watched her fondly as she circled the room, touching an ornament here, straightening a cushion there. “It has been years since we have had a big Christmas party.”
“You have been a little taken up with childbearing and other necessary nuisances,” he chuckled.
He was a big man, stretched at his ease on a dainty brocade sofa at the moment, watching his slim wife with appreciation. Few people saw him smile, even fewer heard him laugh. Only with Elizabeth did he show those rare sides of himself. It had been an arranged match that had miraculously turned into love, and though they had had their troubles, he was forever glad that his parents had betrothed him to her when she was still in the cradle and he was in short pants.
“I think my plans are coming along brilliantly,” Elizabeth said. “Every day St. Claire is behaving himself better. He voluntarily took the Miss Stimsons for a ride this afternoon! On the whole, though, I believe that Lady Grishelda will suit him better.”
“If you can keep him out of the clutches of the mother,” August growled. “I know my brother, my dear. With a willing widow in hand, he is unlikely to think of marriage, a subject he avoids even when attending the marriage mart.”
Elizabeth stopped. “Do you think they are sleeping together?”
“Him and Lady van Hoffen? Probably doing damn little sleeping.”
“August!” She stopped before her husband and allowed him to pull her down on his lap. “Still, I swear that before this holiday season is over, I will have him betrothed!”
“You missed your calling, my dear.” He gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. She was adorable when she was scheming. It hardly seemed possible that she had a fourteen-year-old son, she still looked so youthful and slender. “You should be Cupid, and this should be St. Valentine’s, not Christmas,” he said with a teasing lilt in his voice.
“Tonigh
t I will test my mettle at our Christmas party. He will fall for one of my guests, just you wait and see.”
August St. Claire nuzzled his wife’s neck. “Don’t be so sure, my love. You are doomed to disappointment. I don’t know who will ever catch my rapscallion brother, but it will have to be someone swift and witty. And they had best be prepared to have him lead them a merry dance before he is snared.”
“He sounds more like a hare than a man, my darling.”
“More like a fox, if you ask me.”
• • •
St. Claire moodily stared out the window of the library, watching a few snowflakes dance against the pane as the day closed in, the sky darkening with twilight and a threatened storm. Elizabeth’s party guests were due to start arriving any time now, if they didn’t get caught in a ferocious snowstorm before then.
He was not looking forward to this irritating party his sister-in-law had cooked up. Somehow, the brightness had gone out of his holiday, and he couldn’t place a finger on the problem. He had been enjoying himself, even down to writing the damned play for Lottie and Gwen. And Celestine. He grimaced.
The other night he had been cupshot and had pawed her like some lecherous old lout. But it had only seemed her due after kissing him as she did in the schoolroom, then kissing that damned vicar, in broad daylight and in front of the children, no less. He ought to have told his brother. But as the vicar had as good as stated his intentions to St. Claire himself, in the sanctity of the church, he supposed that he really could not do anything.
But if she were as good as betrothed, what business had she had responding to him the way she did? How could she look at him with those great luminous gray eyes and sigh against his lips with the soft sweetness of ardor? He would have sworn he had given her her first kiss, but now he no longer knew. It made him doubt his instincts, which he had long relied on, and he did not like being in a state of doubt. He had sworn to bed her after witnessing that kiss between her and the vicar, but that resolution died after his unseemly drunken groping of her. No woman made him lose control . . . except her, it seemed. He didn’t like the sensation of losing mastery over his own body and actions, which was what happened every time he kissed her.
He paced away from the window. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Why did every thought begin and end with Celestine? He went back to the desk, determined to finish “The Lonely Prince.” Instead he found himself staring with unseeing eyes at the shelves of books on the other wall.
Christmas was just two weeks away. He had achieved his objective of some kissing and cuddling with the prim governess. She had led him much further than Miss Chambly had. By God, he had pressed himself against Celestine’s pliant body and felt her flicker to life against him! And their kissing had been far from a little innocent bussing on the lips. It had been the kind of deeply passionate embrace that leads to the bedroom and a night of hot, sweaty play under the covers. Or was it more the kind that led to vows of love eternal and all that rot? His mind scurried away from that concept. He should announce his success, mortifying Elizabeth and showing her she did not exert total control over her vassals, and get on with enjoying the holiday season, maybe even bed the willing widow and vent his unsated lust on a willing woman.
But for some reason he didn’t want to share what had passed between Celestine and himself, even to horrify Elizabeth. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was. A light flirtation? That was what he had intended, but it was different somehow. He had known that in that moment in the conservatory when the amorous Lady van Hoffen had kissed him, pressing her lush body against his, grinding her hips against him and promising more with her darting tongue and experienced hands.
What he had felt in that moment was distaste, and he had compared it to his shared embrace with Celestine. The kiss of Lady van Hoffen had been tawdry and lewd somehow, whereas with the governess kisses had seemed rich in meaning and shared passion. He had pushed Lady van Hoffen away and laughed it off, though he had known she would expect him in her bed that night. She was doomed to disappointment.
He threw down his pen with an exclamation of disgust and ran his fingers through his hair. Celestine. Somehow she was under his skin. Why? Was he getting a conscience?
He sat up straighter and his eyes narrowed. That might be it! It was guilt he was feeling, guilt for having lured a virginal governess off the narrow path of virtue. Miss Chambly had gone out of her way to try to entrap him. He had felt no qualms about accepting her kisses. But Celestine was a virtuous young woman apparently destined to become the wife of the local vicar. He had started to doubt whether she was as innocent as she seemed after seeing the vicar kiss her, but he could not remember a single instance of her encouraging him, even that late night on the stairway landing, so perhaps he should absolve her of any fickleness.
He nodded with some satisfaction. He had hit on the solution and he would find a way to soothe his conscience. He would talk to her and tell her that she need not fear him anymore, that he would keep away from her. He remembered his intentions the morning after escorting her home from choir practice. He should have followed through with what was clearly his better self, but he had not been able to bear being lectured by Elizabeth. Their conflict went back to the first days of his brother’s assumption of the marquess’s title, when she, insecure in her new position, had played lady of the manor and had tried to tell him his business. He did not like it then, and it still grated on his nerves.
Perhaps this would be a lesson to him. He would set Celestine’s mind at ease and assuage his conscience. Anything to stop this fixation on a plain, frumpy governess and get on with his Christmas celebration.
That was what he would do. The play was almost done. Perhaps while everyone else was busy with the party that night he would take it to her and confess what he had intended, and tell her he would bother her no more. Then he could stop thinking about her all the time. He set back to work on the play, his pen scratching across the surface of the paper at an even pace.
Chapter Twelve
“But, Aunt Emily, this is not at all the thing!” Celestine cried, gazing at herself in her aunt’s cheval glass.
Emily gazed at her niece’s reflection and sighed happily. Celestine was dressed in a deep rose gown of watered silk, cut low enough on the bust for fashion, high enough for modesty. It was crossed with heavy burgundy ribbon, which served to emphasize her well-shaped bosom, and had an overdress of ivory lace. At the bottom were three rouleaux of contrasting silk, the top one dancing in an elegant, swirling pattern around the skirt. It was simple and elegant, perfect for her niece.
“Please, don’t spoil my enjoyment of this party!” she said, glancing up into Celestine’s fine gray eyes.
The younger woman set her lips in a determined line. “Aunt, I know your intentions are the best, but the marchioness will perish from rage if she sees me dressed up to rival her other female guests! That you wrested an invitation out of her for me to join the festivities is bad enough, but she will expect me to appear in my dowdy governess grays, not dressed like some debutante.”
“Oh, surely not a debutante, my dear,” Emily replied, her head on one side. She examined her niece with a thoughtful gleam in her eye, then retreated to her wardrobe and a velvet case on one shelf. Her maid, Agnes, moved competently in the background, restoring order to the piles of dresses and fabric on the bed. Emily came back to the mirror and in one deft movement fastened a lovely string of garnets set in gold around Celestine’s slender, arching neck.
Celestine stood, hands down at her sides, and gazed at herself in the semidarkness. Agnes had not pulled the curtains yet, and outside a light snow drifted against the window. “It is dressing mutton to look like lamb, Aunt, and you know it,” she said quietly. “And not even choice mutton, but the poor scrag end of the flock.”
“I’ll not have you speak of yourself that way,” Emily said sharply, glaring at her niece’s reflection. Her voice softened. “It sounds like bitterness, my dear, a
nd I have never known you to be bitter.”
“Oh, Aunt!” Celestine turned to Emily and threw her arms around her, feeling the unaccustomed sensation of a soft, silky chemise under the dress, rubbing against her naked skin. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just don’t think it is fitting, and I am sure Lady St. Claire will not, either!”
“Let me handle Lizbet. She seems very ferocious but she is really a lamb if approached the right way.”
“We seem to be heavily into sheepherding tonight, with both mutton and lambs,” Celestine said with a wry twist to her smile. Still doubtful, she turned to stare at herself in the oval, tilted mirror. Her cheeks burned at the knowledge that a seamstress had designed the gown, an old one of her aunt’s, to lift and amplify a woman’s natural attributes. She was not overendowed, but had always felt her reasonable bounty in that area to be immodest at best, lascivious at worst. A governess must blend in to the background, and right now she did not do that very well, at least not in that dress.
The rose material of the gown, altered to fit her slenderness, gave her pale skin a luster she had never noted before, and the garnets gleamed in rich perfection on her throat. Emily’s clever maid, Agnes, had been busy on her hair, too, pomading it until it shone and coiling it so it looked like chestnut silk, with one long tendril caressing her slender neck.
What would St. Claire think? Her heart pounded at the thought of spending an evening near him, gazing at him, perhaps even conversing with him. If Lady Langlow didn’t take one look at her and demand that she march upstairs and divest herself of her borrowed finery, which was likely going to be the case.
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