The stitching was clumsy, even to his untutored eye, not at all like the fine work done on the rosebud lips. There, the stitches were flat and smooth, laying so close together they formed a surface like satin. But the eye was coarsely done, with uneven stitches stabbed haphazardly into the creamy cloth.
“What is wrong?” he asked, rubbing her swollen knuckles, feeling how cold and stiff her fingers were, despite the tiny fire in the schoolroom grate.
“N-nothing, my lord,” she muttered, pulling at her hand again.
“It is not nothing, Celestine. You are weeping.” With his free hand he traced the trail of tears down one cheek to where it dripped from her firm, small chin, touching it gently with the pad of his thumb.
She turned her face away into his palm, and he felt her lips move. Was it a kiss, or was she speaking? He longed to know. “What is it? Please tell me.”
Her shoulders shook and she wept harder, sniffling and sobbing, ineffectually wiping at her eyes with one hand. St. Claire pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and she was about to take it from him, but he held on to it and dried her tears himself, gently wiping the delicate skin under her eyes and the pink, swollen skin of her eyelids.
She had gone still and closed her eyes under his ministrations. He took the doll and laid it on the table beside the chair. “Now, tell me what is wrong. Maybe I can help.”
A watery chuckle escaped her. Her voice was thick, clogged with more tears, and she sniffed. “Unless you are adept at fine embroidery, my lord, you cannot help.”
“This?” he asked, pointing to the doll. “This is what is upsetting you?”
She turned tragic eyes toward him. “Partly. The . . . the doll is for Gwen. It is a Christmas present, and Christmas is only a week away, and m-my hands . . .”
She broke down again, and St. Claire gazed down at her crabbed, gnarled hands, clasped in her lap, twisting together. He took them between his own hands and rubbed them, the knotty joints and tender swelling. She would not meet his eyes and he felt a pang deep in his heart, like it wanted to split in two. If only there was some way he could trade places with her, give her his strong, capable hands, his vigorous health!
He eased himself up on the wide old chair beside her, hearing it creak in protest at its double burden. Then he encircled her in his arms and pulled her close. At his gentle touch she wept, sobbing into his cravat, and he murmured soothing words, nonsense words. Her sobs subsided into shuddering sighs and then she grew quiet. Her breathing was more even, and deeper. She had cried herself to sleep in his arms and he felt a tender wonder steal across his heart. A hard lump deep within him melted with gratitude. This was what he had wanted to do in the carriage the night of the choir practice.
He cradled her against his heart, pulling her to him until she was settled across his lap like a child. He caressed her tear-stained cheek and soft brown hair and gazed at the embers of the fire in the grate.
This was what love was. This was it, what August had spoken of. The pain when she hurt, the desire to protect her. The urgent wish to shelter her and give her his strength. He sighed. The irony did not escape him, that of all the beautiful women who had thrown themselves at him over the years he should finally lose his heart and soul to one plain spinster governess.
Plain in everyone else’s eyes. Plain no more to him. She was beautiful; more beautiful than the painted courtesans of London, or the wide-eyed debutantes of Bath. More beautiful than Botticelli’s angels. This angel had the loveliness of spirit no painting could ever capture, and a voice to pierce the heart of God.
He knew the answer now to what was missing from his life and what he needed to make him whole. Other people had a sense of their own worth and they took it for granted, not realizing what a precious commodity it was. August knew the valuable role he played in the world, and Elizabeth took her identity from that. But he had never felt a part of anything, needed by anyone, wanted. But here and now, in this bare schoolroom, with a sputtering fire and a woman sleeping in his arms, he found his purpose.
Celestine needed him. She might not love him as he loved her, but she needed him. Would it be enough? He inhaled deeply her lavender fragrance and shifted her slightly to be more comfortable. There was something so unutterably right about holding her. Surely she would feel it too, and know she could trust him.
This had nothing to do with passion. Oh, he felt that for her, too, but more importantly he found that he could not imagine going back to his daily routine in life: the friends, the wasteland that was London, the clubs, the women. He wanted to make a life with Celestine. He rubbed his cheek against her hair and felt her stir. She put one hand up on his chest and he bent his head to kiss the swollen knuckles. A smile drifted over her face and settled on her lips. They curved up, and he watched in fascination how a tiny dimple that he had never noticed before appeared at the corner of her mouth. He longed to kiss it, but he would not disturb her.
He cradled her in his arms and closed his eyes. Now all that was left to do was convince her to marry him. In the past he would have assumed she would jump at the chance, as would any other woman. Now he was not so sure.
Chapter Sixteen
She came awake slowly, not wanting to leave a delicious dream she had been having. Was still having. St. Claire held her on his lap and was whispering that he would take care of her always, that he would make everything better for her. And then he kissed her brow, tenderly and without the abandon he had displayed at other times. He kissed her as though he loved her, not just lusted after her. She smiled and decided to indulge the hazy remnants of this dream, so much more tactile than other dreams, snuggling against the raspy chin above her, St. Claire’s strong, square chin. He smelled of tobacco and hair pomade, a spicy mixture all his own.
And when she rubbed her cheek against him, she could feel the strong pulse of life in his neck. She brushed her lips across the pulse point and felt the rumble in his chest of him murmuring her name. How real this dream was! Not at all like the one of meeting him in the glade with a red velvet cloak on.
Her eyes sprang open. She was in the schoolroom. In the chair. On St. Claire’s lap!
She scrambled with little dignity to her feet, wiping the sleep from her eyes with swollen knuckles. “My lord! You must excuse me; if I had known . . .”
He grinned up at her with that delightful, lazy, wicked twinkle. “Now, I was rather enjoying that. Why don’t you come back and wiggle around on my lap some more.”
He patted his lap and she fully realized what she had been doing. She felt a fiery blush rise in her breast, neck and cheeks. Her whole body was probably pink! “Please accept my apologies for my inappropriate behavior, my lord,” she said in her most prim, spinsterish voice.
“Well now, I liked it better when you were asleep and called me St. Claire.” He had a vaguely dissatisfied expression on his handsome countenance.
Celestine backed away from him, gripping her hands behind her back. His expression changed and he stood, straightening his riding breeches and rubbing his legs as though massaging the feeling back into them.
“Please, sit down, Celestine. I have something to say to you. I won’t tease again, or make you uncomfortable, I promise.” His voice was gentle and his expression thoughtful.
She sidled around him and took her seat, sitting on the edge with her hands clasped together, staring down at them. “How . . . how long were we . . . seated like that?”
“How long did you sleep in my arms? Perhaps an hour. Maybe a little less.”
Her eyes opened wide and her startled glance flew to meet him. “Th-that long? Why did you allow it, my lord?”
His blue eyes were unusually serious and he knelt by her side. “I had my reasons. Do you want to know what they were?”
She remembered, now, that this was how he had been at first, when he found her crying. He had knelt by her side and begged her to tell him what was wrong. The pain had become excruciating, she had told him, and she was weeping b
ecause she had had to admit that she would not be able to get the dollies done for Lottie and Gwen in time for Christmas. Her hands were not only too painful but too clumsy. Straight stitching she could still barely handle, but the fine embroidery of the features was beyond her.
It seemed a silly reason to weep and perhaps there was more to it than that, but she would never admit as much to herself. She had felt hopeless in that moment, and the reality of her life had flooded in on her in a rare moment of self-pity. She was a poor, plain spinster who would go from governess position to governess position, until she was too crippled up with her disease to be able to do the work anymore. And then she would become some rich woman’s companion, perhaps; if she was very lucky she could become her aunt’s companion. She was ashamed, now, of the self-indulgence and weakness she had displayed, but the pain had wracked her and made her vulnerable.
And then he had spoken so softly and sympathetically, his low voice a balm to her, and the strangest feeling had swept over her. His voice was like a warm robe, encircling her, enfolding her in delicious warmth and comfort. She thought, if only she could have him near her, speaking to her and with her always, she wouldn’t mind the pain anymore. She did not remember what she had been thinking when he had joined her on the chair and pulled her onto his lap. Perhaps she was no longer thinking of anything. Safe and warm, leaning against his broad chest and feeling the steady thump of his heart, the fresh bout of tears had been for all that could never be. Suddenly she was a watering pot, with an endless supply of water!
She didn’t understand herself. She never gave in to tears, never! When her father died she had wept, for she had loved him deeply, but then she had called an end to tears and had gone about the business of making all the arrangements. She had heard a woman from the village whisper that it wasn’t natural to have so much self-control, but she had needed it over the years of caring for her sickly father or she would never have been able to function. That was her strength, the ability to rise above pain and sorrow and go on.
But today she had released the flood gates, and look what had happened. She had made a fool of herself in front of the only man she would ever love. She realized that he had not said another word, and looked up to find him waiting patiently, watching her, still kneeling at her side. His eyes were shadowed in the growing dimness of the schoolroom, and they shone with the blue of the twilight sky.
“What . . . what did you ask?”
“I asked if you knew why I held you in my arms?”
“Nooo,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t know why. You are very kind to me.”
“Fustian,” he said. He took one of her hands and stroked it.
It tingled, and she realized that the pain was less than it had been before he held her, as though his strength was seeping into her. “Why, then?”
“Celestine, I love you. You are my good angel, and I want you to marry me.”
She froze. His voice was so serious. His eyes were beseeching. His attitude was one of supplication. As if such as he would ever have to beg for anything! He was mocking her, and she had not thought him so unkind. She pulled her hand away, and with great dignity, stood up. “How could you do this to me?” she asked, in tones of dark bitterness, her voice trembling and low. “How could you?”
She turned and fled from the room.
• • •
Now he reaped the bitter harvest of all his womanizing ways. First Celestine had refused to believe he was serious, or at least that was how he interpreted her unaccountable words to him, and now this! He stalked around the library, his long fingers thrust through his hair until it stood on end.
“But it is true! I want to marry Celestine Simons! I intend to marry her!” He turned and hammered on the desk, making an inkwell and wax pastille jump. “Why can neither of you believe that!”
“Because it is utterly outrageous and in wildly bad taste!” Elizabeth confronted him, doing the talking for both her and her stunned husband, who sat behind the desk staring into space. “This jest would be bad enough, but coming when we have a house full of guests, at Christmas! You have gone too far.”
St. Claire’s sparkling blue eyes flashed. Many a man in London had backed down when faced with the anger in those eyes, but Elizabeth was too enraged herself to be cautious. And she knew she had the support of her husband in this, at least.
“I have not gone nearly far enough! I intend to ask Lady Sedgely, as Celestine’s nearest relation, for permission to court her properly.”
“Court her!” Elizabeth threw her hands up in the air. “Court the governess!” A sharp peal of her bitter laughter echoed in the room. “If this is some Christmas farce you have cooked up for us, St. Claire, I must congratulate you. It is bizarre enough to be talked of for many a season.” She had paced away from the desk, but now she whirled and strode up to face him. “This is your revenge, isn’t it, you bounder, you . . . you . . . ooh! You are just avenging yourself on me for telling you to stay away from her. And so you will ruin my whole house party and even our Christmas for your cruel jest?”
St. Claire gazed at her with an incredulous expression. “Spoil your party? You think I mean to spoil your party by courting Celestine?” He turned and headed toward the door, but stopped and turned back to glare at her. “I know I have brought on this reaction by my previous philandering ways, but hear me, both of you!” He stabbed an accusing finger, including his grimly silent brother in the gesture.
“I will marry her, if she will have me. I intend to ask her again, and again, and again until she says yes, and then take her away from here. We will depart for Questmere, where we will be married, and I swear never to enter your home again until you can show proper courtesy to my wife.”
He whirled from the room without another word, and Elizabeth and August were left staring after him.
“I think he is serious,” the marquess finally said. His deep voice echoed in the chilly room. “I think my little brother really means it.”
• • •
“I will toss her out on her scheming little ear, I promise you, Emily!” the marchioness screeched. “If I find out that your niece had anything to do with this scandalous charade, I will send her to purgatory!”
Emily’s face had grown cold with anger. “Elizabeth,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I would stop speaking of my niece as if she were a scheming harlot if I were you.”
Elizabeth raised her neat chin and said defiantly, “This is my house. I will speak of whomever I want however I want.”
“Fine.” Emily whirled in her tracks and started out of her friend’s dressing room.
“Emily! Where are you going?”
“I am taking my niece and we are heading back to Yorkshire. I will not have her subjected to your tirades, nor your brother-in-law’s predations.”
Elizabeth flew past her friend and put her back to the door, not allowing Emily to leave. “I’m sorry! I am, Em, dearest, but I am just so upset!” She put one trembling hand up to her forehead. “I am as much worried about dear Miss Simons as I am about that scamp of a brother of mine. Please, you must be realistic. You know he is not serious about her. He breaks the heart of beautiful, wealthy accomplished ladies every season. Do you truly think he is serious about marrying her?” She put her small, fine hands on Emily’s plump shoulders. “He could hurt her, badly, and ruin her in the process. He has never done so before, but I feel he is so furious with me he might not think of the consequences.”
Emily’s heart sank as the truth of Elizabeth’s concerns struck home. Celestine loved St. Claire, deeply and truly. But St. Claire was a gallant who enjoyed making the ladies love him, only to turn fickle after they had given their hearts. He had never gone so far as this before, it was true, but what other explanation was there? Even she, who knew and loved her niece for who and what she was, could not imagine a conceited coxcomb like Lord St. Claire Richmond plighting his troth to Celestine in seriousness.
Of course Elizabeth was seei
ng the whole disaster in a highly personal light, but that was her way. She naturally first thought of the affects on her: her comfort, her family, her peace of mind. That didn’t change the essential facts. She crossed to Elizabeth’s bed, sat down and patted the space beside her. “Come tell me everything, Lizbet, and we will try to think of a solution together. I don’t want you going off and muddling things worse.”
• • •
Celestine walked to the long wall of the frozen garden. Snow blanketed everything, but she put her arms up on the rough stone and listened to the sounds of the children behind her playing with the stable dog and their big brother, Gus. They were trying to play fox and hound, but Clydemore, the hound, would not cooperate.
She stared off at the purple fells, mantled now with a coating of white. She had come to Langlow grateful for the position and looking forward to making a life for herself there, and she had done just that. The children loved her and she had made friends in the village, or at least friendly acquaintances. She had joined in the life of the church and community.
It was a calm, orderly, quiet existence, and unutterably lonely. She had grown up among people she had known all her life and was now cut off from them, except for the occasional letter. Consigned to the barren world of “governess,” she was neither family nor servant, and barred from the joys and tribulations of both.
And then came St. Claire, striding into her life like a bright beam of dancing sunlight, a herald of joy and light and vigor. How could she not have fallen in love with him? Which was why, when Mr. Foster had finally proposed, she had had to say no. She remembered the shock on his face. He had been sure of her, complacent in what he could offer, and she had nothing to say except that she “did not think they would suit.” And all because she could not wed one man while loving another. It wouldn’t be fair to him nor her. She became aware that she was being watched. She turned and saw St. Claire. He approached her.
Lord St. Claire's Angel Page 19
