Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  But then she softly touched the keys again and started singing. St. Claire stopped, mesmerized. Her head was thrown back and she sang a ballad, in Italian, of lost love and heartbreak, surely an odd choice for a woman just betrothed. Stealthily he crept in and stopped in the middle of the thick carpet, not wanting to announce his presence just yet. He closed his eyes, too, and felt it once again, the unexpected tug, almost pain, under his ribs that he felt when he thought of her.

  He let her voice surround him, caressing him into hazy unawareness of the dim, chilly room and the impropriety of being alone there with the governess. A warmth suffused his body and his fingers itched to touch her, to smooth her silky hair, to hold her trembling body close to his. He wanted . . . he wanted . . .

  He wanted to give her his strength, to shore up her own. He wanted to protect her and release her from the pain of her arthritis. He wanted to shelter her from a life that had no place for her except as a plain little governess, ignoring her extraordinary gift of song, and taking only her care for the children as worth barter. He sighed. He wanted the unattainable.

  “My lord!” She had heard him and whirled on the piano bench.

  “Celestine,” he said, approaching her.

  She stood and started around him, avoiding his eyes. He grasped her arm and pulled her to a stop. She gazed up at him in the gloom, the only light the illumination from a branch of tapers brought in by Foster. Her eyes were huge and dark in the dimness.

  She would marry the reverend and her delicate body would probably bear him a dozen children, if she didn’t die in childbirth, and she would work herself into an early grave in gratitude for his condescension. She would be dead by the time she was forty. It must not be, he thought, feeling a wave of fierce longing pierce his soul. She was a brilliant bird, with wings to touch the face of God, and all Foster, or any other stupid male for that matter, could see was her drab little mud-hen exterior.

  St. Claire pulled her close, his blue eyes glittering in the candlelight. Even the marquess would not have recognized his laconic, lazy brother at that moment. To Celestine, in that moment, he looked like an avenging archangel, with sparkling blue eyes and tousled gleaming hair, perfect of form and visage.

  “Celestine,” he whispered. “Your name means heavenly.”

  She trembled in his hands, shivers running through her whole body. He gripped her tighter, and she gazed up at him. “S-s-singularly inappropriate, is it not, my lord?”

  “No, entirely appropriate, my dear. You have the voice of an angel, and the spirit and soul to lift up a mortal man until he can almost see heaven.”

  “My lord?”

  St. Claire gazed down into her smoky-tinted eyes, then down at her trembling, blush pink lips. Her whole body was shuddering under his fingers and she smelled deliciously of lavender water and woman, an intoxicating combination. He pulled her against him and took her lips in a kiss. She ignited, cool lips turning to hot coals against his, and chaste, softly rounded body molding sensually against him. He tentatively flicked her lips with his tongue and felt her body jolt with awareness, and her succulent lips open like rose petals to rain.

  He dipped into her mouth, relishing the heat of her, the taste of her, drunk with the wine of Celestine in his blood. He wanted her and she wanted him, and flames licked his loins as he thought of lowering her to the thick pad of the carpet and ravishing her right there and then. He tried to steer her toward a sofa along the wall, only to find her strangely resistant. He came up for air to find that she was struggling in his arms, her poor strength not enough to free her from his powerful grasp.

  When he released her lips, she whimpered, almost sobbing, “Please, my lord, let me go!”

  At that moment he heard genuine fear in her voice, and he gazed into her eyes, startled. There was terror there, fear, of him! In surprise, he let go of her arms.

  “Celestine, I . . .” Words would not come.

  She whirled and stumbled to the door, not even looking back once before throwing herself out the door and racing away, up the stairs judging by the sound of her slippers slapping against the marble.

  Oh, God, what had he done? He thrust his fingers into his thick, tousled hair. He had taken a girl who had been attacked by a monster just days before and held her against her will while he forced himself on her! And his intentions had been completely dishonorable. What must she think? What was she feeling? His first instinct was to go after her, but he restrained himself. He was the last person she wanted to see, the last one who could comfort her.

  He faced the loathsome truth. He was destined for more of this as he got older. He would become one of those elderly roués, their faces haggard from dissipation and too many days in the unhealthy air of London. He would leer at women and grapple with younger and younger girls, watching them turn from him in horror at what he had become.

  He made himself sick.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving? It’s a week until Christmas! What’s going on, St. Claire?” August paced back and forth in front of the huge picture window of the billiards room. He stopped and glared down at his brother from his towering height. “What have you done?”

  St. Claire sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept at all the night before and had come to this decision after much soul searching. He could not stay and see what he had done to Celestine. She was afraid of him, for God’s sake, and he was afraid of himself. Afraid of feelings stirred so deeply it seemed like life would never be the same for him again. “I have unfinished business, and really think I should get back to London and take care of it. And I have to go to Questmere first, settle up with my bailiff before I go.”

  “Unfinished business?” August gazed at him in open astonishment, which changed to cynical smugness. “You mean some doxy left unseduced, don’t you? What, Lady van Hoffen was too easy? Are you bored by quarry that succumbs too easily?”

  Anger flared in the pit of St. Claire’s stomach. He took a swig of his coffee and choked back the angry words that threatened to spill out. He would not quarrel. “Not at all. I have not had that particular honor, brother. In light of the shameless way your wife has been throwing those three girls at my head the last week, when would I have had time?”

  August paused in his perambulation. “Is that what it is? You know, I can call Elizabeth off. I think she is doing this because she thinks it will please me.” A fond gleam entered his eyes and a rare smile danced over his thin lips. “I happened to say that I looked forward to the day when you chose a wife and got serious about life, and I think she took that as a command to find you a suitable parti.” He chuckled.

  St. Claire gazed at him. When he was young, his brother had seemed like some perfect god to him. August was six years his senior, and their father was forever holding him up as an example of what St. Claire should be like. “St. Claire, why are you not more like August: as smart, responsible, bookish, well-spoken . . . everything!” And so St. Claire had turned from his example and become almost the opposite.

  Surprisingly, he and August had never really fought. In fact, his older brother had always turned a fairly indulgent eye to his little brother’s escapades. Did it confirm his own superiority? St. Claire abandoned that thought. August had no need of any boosting for his self-worth. He truly was superior in every way, and maybe that was why St. Claire had always tried so hard to make himself so different. He was good at being wicked, the one thing he could surpass August at, and so he had seduced and drank and gambled his way through season after London season . . .

  But there came a time when sin became boring, an endless idle searching after new depravities. What was left after bedding innumerable wenches, drinking his way through enough wine for a vineyard and gambling every night for a month, except the more degenerate pleasures? Friends whispered of brothels where you could get any kind of fantasy fulfilled. Virgins could be bought, twisted hungers sated, every form of human degradation offered. He had never participated
, because his tastes had never run that way. And he had never gambled more than he could afford to lose, and never drunk so much he didn’t remember what he did the night before. At least he did not have those evils to regret.

  Was it time for him to take the opposite track? He gazed up at his brother, who stared thoughtfully out the window. August was a big man, handsome and bluff, and . . . well, happy. He was happy. St. Claire was cheerful most of the time, but Gus was deep-down happy. Was that what marriage did for a man? He took a deep breath and said, “Gus, what does it feel like?”

  “Mmm? What does what feel like?”

  “Being in love. Does your stomach feel like it’s on fire all the time, and your thoughts always center on that one woman? And when she’s around, you want just to watch her and listen to her, even if she’s not paying any attention to you?”

  August stopped in front of his younger brother and looked down at him. St. Claire was lounging back in a large green wingback chair, one booted foot negligently propped on the other knee, and he stared up at his brother uneasily. Had he said too much? What was he talking about anyway?

  Blue eyes narrowed, August examined his face and said, “So that’s it, is it? Who is it? Someone here, or someone back in London? Are you running away from her or running to her?”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” St. Claire said petulantly, sitting up in the chair and examining his hands, clenched together now between his knees.

  The elder brother opened his mouth to speak, and then gazed down at St. Claire again. He sat down in the twin to his brother’s chair and said, “You know, I was going to just toss off a witty remark about love being hell, or something like that, but you asked a question, and I think I’ll try to answer. Do you know what love is? Love is being bored with the friends that you used to think were so entertaining, because you would rather be at home with your wife, just sitting together in front of the fire. Love is wishing you could take away every little trouble, or pain, or sorrow from her, because you can’t bear to see her unhappy.

  “Love is longing to get home again, when you’ve been forced to be away, because you know she is waiting there for you and nothing is the same without her. Love is hating yourself when your wife is screaming in the agony of childbirth, knowing you caused her that pain, and yet loving beyond anything the miracle you created together.”

  August lumbered to his feet and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “The burning stomach and desperate yearning? That is all the preliminary, when you are not sure your love is returned. That is fear, little brother. If you have to go, I will understand and speak with Elizabeth about it. But if you are running away from love, don’t do it. It’ll follow you. It did me.” He strode from the room.

  St. Claire threw himself back in the chair and stared at the figured ceiling. August didn’t know the half of it. It was terrifying to think that he might be in love with a woman who loathed the sight of him! And worse than that, feared him! He wasn’t sure about all of what August had said about love, but he knew that he couldn’t think of anything but Celestine, and she couldn’t even bear the sight of him, avoided him like he had some horrible disfigurement. No, that wasn’t fair. If he was merely disfigured, she would not turn from him in disgust. He was tainted with his past, condemned to suffer because of his reputation as a womanizer.

  And then, in a fit of complete honesty, he admitted that he was the author of his own misfortune. At every turn he had put forth efforts to seduce her, rather than just treating her with civility and kindness. She turned from him in revulsion and fear because of his treatment of her, and for no other reason. Wouldn’t August laugh if he knew! Wearily he rose and decided to tell Dooley to start packing. They would go to Questmere first, then on to London.

  • • •

  Celestine sat close to the fire in the morning parlor listening to the ladies talk.

  “Oh, yes, shako hats are completely exploded,” Caroline said, her voice languid and bored.

  A desultory conversation concerning fashion drifted among the Stimson girls and Lady van Hoffen, occasionally joined by Lady Langlow. In another small grouping Grishelda van Hoffen, Emily, and her aging companion and aunt-by-marriage, Dodo Delafont, sat quietly talking about village schools and the necessity, with all the changes in society, of educating the illiterate and more importantly, the children of the illiterate.

  “It breaks my heart,” Emily said, her low, silken voice full of emotion. “To see the children, most especially, whose parents will not allow them to come to the school I have set up. I understand that they are needed at home, but that is why I set up the curriculum so that some could attend only half days and still receive the benefit.”

  Dodo nodded sharply. “Shortsighted,” she said. Her voice was sharp and vinegary. “Parents should be encouraging their little ones to learn their letters. It’s the only way to move up for a child of poverty.”

  Grishelda, her eyes bright with interest, added, “That way the boys could get better paying jobs as secretaries and bailiffs. Or even stewards. And the girls could marry better, or work as governesses or housekeepers.”

  Celestine listened for a while as she stitched a straight hem on a length of dark green cloth. It was intended to be the curtain for the puppet theater Gus and the blacksmith had constructed. The boy showed a talent, for he had designed it and was now painting it with bright colors. He had shown it to her that morning, out in one of the succession houses.

  She had offered curtains for it using old ones from the attic and cutting them down to fit. She had lost much of her enthusiasm for the puppet play but the children, Lottie and Gus especially, could talk of nothing else, and she could not disappoint them.

  She had read the play St. Claire had written, and she had been touched and impressed by his ability. It was worlds away from the simple fairy tale he had started with. It contained the essence of poetry, she thought, sharply flavored with broad humor, the perfect touch of tart among the sweet. But out of it all came a simple love story between a lonely prince and the princess who didn’t know she was a princess. Where did he learn to write such beautiful words filled with longing and love? Of course, she thought, she should have realized that such an accomplished lady’s man would have all the right words.

  That was what had scared her the previous evening. She had been terrified by the depth and profundity of her emotion toward him, frightened out of her wits by the desires that raced through her heated blood like silvery, darting minnows in a fast-flowing stream. She was cool! She was sensible! But St. Claire, roué and seducer, could melt her into a puddle of womanly desires and needs with the touch of his hand and the sound of his sensual voice whispering her name. She knew he would do nothing against her will. She did not fear him as she had Mr. Knight. Her fear was of herself, and the seductive whispers in her heart that would have her abandon virtue for the sake of one perfect moment of love.

  The marquess came into the parlor and whispered something to his wife. She looked startled, then left with him. The marchioness had maintained a haughty distance from her lately, and Celestine worried that her position was still in jeopardy. But maybe it would be best for her if she went elsewhere.

  Somewhere she could be sure of not seeing St. Claire all the time.

  She caught a glance from Emily and bent her head over her work again, trying to ignore the pain shooting through her knuckles. They were getting worse again, but she had so much to do! Aunt Emily had offered to help, but she just could not hand over the precious labor of making the dolls for Gwen and Lottie to someone else. They were a gift from her heart to her young charges, and she would finish them before Christmas Eve, somehow. She glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It was time to go up and retrieve the girls from their nap.

  • • •

  “It’s all done, my lord,” Dooley said, meeting St. Claire in the hall.

  “Good. Excellent. I shall ride Alphonse, as before, and you and Lester can follow me,” he said, speaking
of his groom. “We shall bide at Questmere for two days and then head to London. With any luck, I shall have you back with your family by Christmas morn, Dooley.” The valet bowed and headed back up the stairs. St. Claire sighed deeply and headed into the parlor to make his good-byes. He paused outside the door.

  He was being a coward. He could not leave things as they were. He turned and headed back into the hall, and then up the wide, winding staircase. It was afternoon, and he knew that she would be alone, because he had seen Elise take the children out a half hour before to play in the snow with Gus and the stable dogs.

  He opened the door to the stairs to the third floor and walked up to the hallway. The schoolroom door was ajar and he glanced in, hoping he would not disturb her too badly. He needed to make amends and tell her that she would never be burdened by his attentions again. He had to set her mind at ease.

  She was by the fireplace in the lumpy chair, with her sewing basket beside her. The woman never stopped, he thought with a smile. But her head was bowed and her shoulders shook! In the silence of the schoolroom he heard a soft sob and saw her hands twisted in her lap, one rubbing the other. A doll lay on her knee, with lips and a nose and the beginning of one eye, with the needle sticking out of the cloth.

  Had she stabbed herself? Another choking sob split the silence and without another thought he pushed open the door, made his way to her side, and knelt by her. “My dear, what have you done?” he asked, taking her gnarled hand in his own. “Did you stab yourself?”

  With a soft gasp she looked up, into his eyes. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held it firmly. He glanced down at the doll. It was a soft cloth doll, with lips embroidered in rose silk threads. A nose was delicately traced in charcoal thread, and one eye was started, but it appeared that something had gone wrong.