Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  He was stunningly handsome in his dark greatcoat and dark wings of hair curling away from his face. She never tired of looking at him, tracing the lines of his square chin, high cheekbones and sensuous mouth time after time without familiarity dulling the pleasure. And the piercing joy she felt each time had nothing to do with his looks and everything to do with him, with the inner sweetness she had felt was an innate part of him. Which was why his mocking “proposal” had come as such a shock, and why she had reacted with uncharacteristic anger.

  She had come to know his many expressions: the teasing laughter, the sensuous gleam, the dark anger. But at this moment there was an unfamiliar expression there, crinkling his eyes in the corners and twisting his mouth. With a little frisson of shock, she realized it was uncertainty. St. Claire was never uncertain!

  He joined her at the stone wall, glancing over his shoulder at the children, who still laughed and ran up and down the paths, chased by the barking dog. There were stone urns and long planters, small fruit trees with snow clinging to their bare branches, and low hedges of herbs. Then he gazed out at the fells. His gloved hand brushed the snow from the top of the wall.

  “I dare say you’re angry at me,” he said, squinting into the winter sunshine.

  “Angry? No, I’m not angry, my lord. Not now.” It was the truth.

  “You do not think me serious, though.”

  “No. I do not think you are serious.”

  “And perhaps there is another reason you reject me. You have already accepted another man’s proposal.”

  Celestine’s eyes widened. So that was what this was all about! She had been casting around in her mind for a reasonable explanation for his sudden avowal of love and marriage proposal, outside of mockery, which was so unlike him. Was it possible that he was trying to steal her heart from Mr. Foster? She had heard that he liked to make girls fall in love with him, only to let them down and dance away from commitment like quicksilver. His competitive instincts had been piqued by the thought that she had a serious suitor for her hand. He intended to win her heart away from Mr. Foster! Well, she would not let him know he had succeeded.

  “That, my lord, is my business,” she said, glancing at his profile. He winced at her reply. Oh, he was a consummate actor! He had missed his calling in life, she thought, for he should have been onstage.

  “True, Miss Simons. I beg you to reconsider your betrothal with him, though.” He turned toward her and searched her face with an earnest expression. One gloved hand reached out and touched her gray wool-clad arm. “Please consider, my dear, the relative merits of our status. Mr. Foster, though no doubt a worthy man, is not rich. Your day-to-day life would be one of some toil, and you are not strong.”

  Celestine sighed. Would he stop at nothing to gain his point? He would even remind her of her infirmity. She had not thought him so low, and it hurt to know the depths to which he would sink. But she still loved him. She could be disappointed in him, even angry at him, but still love him.

  “I could keep you in luxury,” he continued. “And you would never want for anything. I am not as wealthy as August, but I am not poor. I could take you to London. We could travel! In winter I could take you to Italy; it is warm there, in southern Italy, throughout the year.”

  Celestine shivered and her eyes prickled, the ominous harbinger of tears. She blinked them back. When had she become so weak of spirit? It was just that his words conjured up moving pictures in her brain of her and St. Claire in the hot Italian sun, laughing and talking as they explored some ancient ruin or beautiful temple. Him with his arm under hers, supporting her as he gazed at her with those beautiful blue eyes, made brighter by reflected sunlight off the dancing waters of the Adriatic. She could see it, she could feel it, even. What luxury to surrender to loving him and . . . but it would never be. He was just waiting for her surrender, and then he would have won the game.

  Could she believe him so cruel? She must, for even Emily, as fair-minded a person as she had ever known, had condemned him as a heartless flirt. He had broken the hearts of countless beautiful heiresses. Was she to believe that he had fallen in love with one lonely, plain, arthritic spinster governess, when any woman in the country would have gladly accepted him as a mate?

  Life did not work that way, and she would not believe that some miracle had occurred. In this one instance she would not trust her heart, which whispered that not only did he love her, but that she deserved his love and could make him a happy man. A woman’s heart was a tender organ, full of romantic dreams and hopes. But wishing and hoping do not create reality, she thought. “Lord St. Claire, you must not say such—”

  “Ah, Miss Simons, I had hoped to catch up with you.”

  Celestine turned to greet Lady Grishelda, stylishly if simply clad in a royal blue pelisse with gold frogging. “Lady Grishelda, we . . . we were discussing Italy,” she improvised.

  The young woman’s calm, intelligent gaze went from Celestine’s flushed countenance to St. Claire’s grim, unwelcoming expression. “If I have interrupted a private conversation, please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing we could possibly be speaking of that would be private,” Celestine said. “As a matter of fact, I was just about to take the children in. It is time for their tea. Perhaps his lordship and you would like to take a walk, but I must go in. Please excuse me.”

  She turned and walked away, gathering Lottie and poor little Gwen, who was tired and cold. They went in, leaving Lord St. Claire and Lady Grishelda at the stone wall.

  • • •

  The children were exhausted from playing outside and so, after sharing tea with them in the schoolroom, Celestine consigned them to Elise’s care for a nap. Celestine went in search of her aunt, from whom she wanted some advice, but as she descended the curved staircase to the first floor a footman approached her, bowing.

  “If you please, miss, the mistress would like to see you in the library.”

  “Thank you. I will go there directly.”

  Outside the library door she paused, smoothed down her dress and took a deep breath. It was probably nothing, she reassured herself. It was most likely something to do with the children. She pushed the door open and entered, closing it behind her.

  Lady Langlow stood by the window in the masculine room that was normally her husband’s sole domain. She looked fragile and feminine by the sturdy oak table covered in map folios, and the large, comfortable leather chair, but Celestine was not deceived. The marchioness was a woman of strong will and acid tongue. She was capable of malice, but usually restrained it in favor of acidity. She turned and gazed at Celestine, her expression unreadable. “Have a seat, Miss Simons.”

  Celestine’s stomach started to tremble. This did not bode well. She gladly sat down in one of the chairs near the big oak desk that was the centerpiece of the room. Her employer crossed and took her husband’s chair behind it, looking dainty and diminutive in the large green leather armchair. She laid her small, neat hands palm down on the surface of the desk. “I have a few things I wish to say, first. My husband and I have been very happy with your work here. Aside from Gwen’s lack of progress in certain areas, we feel you are doing an adequate job.”

  Celestine grimaced internally. This sounded like a polite way to say she was being let go. The marchioness had never been happy with her younger daughter’s progress, refusing to recognize that Gwen had special needs, and patience was one of them. She was slower than Lottie and probably always would be, but she more than made up for it in a sunny, sweet personality, whereas Lottie could sometimes be the very picture of her mother, a miniature termagant. Celestine could hardly tell the marchioness that, though. “I am so glad you are satisfied with my work, my lady. I have enjoyed the past year.” Celestine sat up straight and folded her hands together, concealing the gnarled, knotted knuckles in the folds of her skirt.

  Lady Langlow toyed with her rings. “I hope you can continue to work for us.”

  “I hope so too, my lady.�
��

  “But there is a problem. My brother-in-law. He has some absurd notion to marry you; he says he has even asked you.” Her bright blue eyes flashed up at Celestine. “Is that so?”

  He had told them? He had told them that he had asked her to marry him? Her head whirled and she sat back, wondering what it meant.

  “I said, is that so?” The woman’s voice was harder, like flint now.

  “Y-yes, my lady.”

  The marchioness rose and paced behind the desk. Then she stopped and leaned over it, her small hands planted flat on the surface. “You must know that it can never be! You? Marry the brother to the Marquess of Langlow? It’s absurd!”

  Celestine was silent, numb in her amazement, too numb to even take exception to the contempt in her employer’s voice.

  “I want to know what you did to lead him to this end? Did you tell him you are breeding? Have you lain with him?”

  The numbness quickly subsided to be replaced by a cold pit of fury. Celestine rose. “And now you have insulted me beyond any measure, my lady.” Her voice was trembling. “I shall leave now.”

  “Wait!”

  Celestine paused, but did not turn back.

  “My . . . my apologies.” The lady’s voice was frigid with the effort at making an apology, an effort she rarely saw the need to make. “Occasionally my temper is too hasty. I would not have you carry tales of ill treatment back to my brother-in-law. I will assume that you have not lain with him; I believe you to be of good character, and Emily vouches for you.”

  Still Celestine did not turn back. Her anger burned, cold and dark, and she was grateful for it, as it gave her strength. She stared at the door and waited. Lady Langlow was clearly not finished.

  “We do not wish to lose you, Miss Simons. The children are sincerely attached to you, and you have done wonders with them. Also, I am very fond of your aunt, and would not wish to hurt her in any way. My solution to our little problem is this: you must go away. Just until St. Claire is gone, and he will return to London. He may fancy himself in love with you at this moment, but he has never stayed that way for long.

  “I have spoken with Emily already and she is prepared to take you back to Yorkshire with her and keep you there until we send for you again. I am not asking you to do this.” Her voice was steely, like a knife pressed to Celestine’s back. “It is the only way you can retain your position with us,” she continued. “Also, you must neither tell St. Claire that you are going nor where.”

  And so that was that. She could keep her position if she allowed herself to be sent away like a recalcitrant schoolgirl. Her voice surprisingly even, she glanced back at Lady St. Claire and said, “I shall consider what you have told me, and I shall tell you in the morning. We are having the puppet play tomorrow. I would hope your ladyship will at least allow me to stay to handle that. The girls have been looking forward to it for some time.”

  “Of course,” Lady Langlow said.

  Celestine turned back and walked quietly to the door. She stopped and looked back at the marchioness. With her chin lifted slightly, she said, “I never gave him reason to feel compelled to ask me to marry him. I would have you know that.” She walked out and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emily was outside of the library when Celestine emerged. She saw her niece’s white, shocked face, and her heart sank. Ever since Emily had known her, Elizabeth had had a hasty temper and tactless way of dealing with people. Down deep there was a good heart, but it was buried in so much awareness of her elevated rank, conceit for her own pretty looks, familial pride in her historic name and an acerbic tongue and acid personality, that sometimes Emily wondered how they had become friends and stayed that way over the years.

  And now she had likely put things all wrong to Celestine. It was a simple matter of protecting Celestine’s good name and peace of mind, but who could tell how Elizabeth had broached the subject? “My dear,” Emily said, touching her niece’s arm. “May we talk? I feel I should perhaps explain what Lizbet was trying to say.”

  Celestine turned tragic gray eyes to her and murmured, “She accused me of laying with St. Claire to entrap him into marriage.”

  Emily clenched her fists to her sides and cursed her childhood friend. Of all the stupid, idiotic, hurtful things to say! And to someone like Celestine: chaste, sweet, and utterly without deviousness or malice! She wanted to march right into the library and demand an apology from her supposed friend, an apology to Celestine.

  Instead, knowing that it would not do one iota of good, she put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders as the Miss Stimsons entered the hallway from a walk in the winter air. The girls greeted them and chattered about the fine weather, and whether it would snow again before Christmas, while footmen circled and abigails flew down the stairs to retrieve bonnets and muffs and heavy cloaks.

  Emily sighed and guided Celestine over to the stairs. “We need to talk, and we cannot do it in the drawing room or parlor. Those chatterboxes will never leave us alone.”

  After arranging with one of the hovering footmen for tea to be brought up to them, she led Celestine up to her room and settled her in a cozy armchair near the window. She took the matching chair and waited while a maid, who entered not long after, set a tray on the table between them. She had a comfortable room with a view down the valley. She was almost as fond of Cumbria as she was of Yorkshire. She loved the wildness of the scenery but realized it was starting to wear on her after two years with little change.

  Maybe they should go to London for the season coming up, open Delafont House and see the sights. She would love most of all to take Celestine with her, to take her to the routs and balls, the theater and the opera . . . but there was enough time to think about that later. Right now she must deal with this situation her beloved niece found herself in. She poured tea and handed a cup to Celestine, watching carefully as the shock eased from her narrow, pale face. It was that paleness and the fineness of her other features that made her niece’s eyes seem so huge, she thought. She was like porcelain, except for that spray of freckles across her delicate nose that had not faded as she reached maturity.

  What could she say to make things better for a niece she loved like a little sister? “Sometimes I wonder how I managed to stay friends with Elizabeth those years at school and then in London, when we were both married.”

  “She has a nasty streak,” Celestine said, warming her hands around the delicate china cup.

  Emily sighed. “She was not supposed to insult you like that.”

  Celestine looked up sharply over the rim of her cup. “You knew she was talking to me? And about what?”

  “I knew she was talking to you. I know what she was supposed to say to you. I wanted to speak to you myself, but she insisted that it must come from her. I have the feeling she did not adhere to the strict instructions I gave her.”

  “Did you tell her to threaten my job?” Celestine said dryly.

  “Threaten your job?”

  “I am to go back to Yorkshire with you if I want to retain my position at Langlow.”

  “Oh, Lord! I never suggested that. That is Lizbet, a hammer blow where a light tap would suffice.” Emily reached across the table and laid her plump hand over her niece’s. “No, my dear. There is no question of you losing your job. We all know there is no fault to be found in you. We just felt, and I agreed to this, that it might be more comfortable for you to be out of St. Claire’s way while he is here. I suggested that you come back to Yorkshire for a while to visit me and Dodo, and then return in a month. He is to think that you have decided to take a new position somewhere else. We will say that you did not tell anyone where.”

  Celestine grew quiet.

  “I have not pried, dear, because your life is your own. You are of age, and as sensible a woman as I have ever met. But even the most sensible of women fall for cads.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience, Aunt?”

  “Not exa
ctly. But let me ask you this; I have heard that St. Claire has asked you to marry him. Is that true?”

  “He did. I assume it is another step in his campaign to seduce me, or win me over from an attachment he believes I have formed.” Celestine put her cup down on the tray with a clatter. “I . . . I cannot believe that he told his brother and sister-in-law about it! What does that mean?”

  Emily considered that point. He had never come so far with any lady; she knew that of a certainty. Did that mean that he was finally telling the truth, or was it as Celestine suspected, a ruse to lull her into believing in him to further his seduction? But surely, to tell his brother . . . ! “Has he made improper suggestions or advances on you, my dear?” she asked finally.

  Celestine flushed and stared down at the floor, tracing a pink rosette in the cream and misty green pattern with the toe of her shoe. “Improper?”

  “Yes. Don’t go missish on me, Celestine. Did he suggest a liaison? Or did he touch you improperly?” Emily gazed at her, watching the flickering play of emotions over her niece’s delicate face.

  “Aunt! Now you are as bad as Lady Langlow! She accused me of laying with him to entrap him!”

  “I don’t believe she really thinks that!” She paused and sipped her tea. This was a delicate subject, made more so by Lizbet’s ham-handed interference. She must not offend her niece or suggest that she had done anything improper. She would start fresh, from the beginning. “What is your opinion of why he asked you to marry him, and then followed it up by telling his brother about it? In most men I would say that indicates sincerity and determination, perhaps even love.”