Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Celestine had retrieved a book from her luggage and was now hunched near the fire reading it, or more accurately, staring at the same page as she had an hour before. Emily, standing near the window, gazed over at her and wondered if she had done the right thing.

  Would he follow her? Did he love Celestine as she suspected? She had known St. Claire for a long time and his actions, as described by her niece, had sounded wholly unlike him. He had never had any patience with imperfection of any kind, and Celestine’s crippling arthritis would normally have been abhorrent to him. And so she had thought to test his supposed love.

  She glanced out the window at the snow that was being driven against it with furious force. She had not meant to test it this much! If he made it through this gale then his love would have to be judged strong, indeed. The St. Claire she knew, or thought she knew, would not venture out in such weather even for the promise of an evening of gambling and beautiful courtesans.

  Had he changed over the years she had been away from London? He was older, certainly, but from what she had gathered from Elizabeth his life had not changed a bit. Every season saw him back in London, gambling, wenching, drinking and carousing, with young ladies of the ton falling desperately in love with him, only to be spurned by the fickle aristocrat. So what had urged him to propose marriage to Celestine, but genuine love? It was a puzzle she would not be able to understand until she saw him again.

  • • •

  The wind howled and darkness closed in around him. Snow was blowing horizontally across the road and finally St. Claire slipped from Alphonse’s back. It was much too perilous to continue riding. If his horse fell he could break a leg, or land on top of St. Claire. God, it was cold! His ears and hands and feet felt like they were ready to fall off, for they had gone dangerously numb. And he was so wretchedly tired. He longed to lie down in a gully and sleep . . . sleep . . . tempting slumber . . . but he must not!

  To stop was to die.

  Leaning into the wind, he led his poor beast through the gale, desperately trying to keep them on the road, concentrating on sensing any change in surface or elevation that would signal that they had left the thoroughfare. It could be fatal if that happened. He searched for a light through the curtain of white that surrounded him. Surely there must be an inn somewhere? It had been hours since he had passed the last one, though there had been a couple of houses he could have sheltered at, if he was not so afraid of missing Celestine. But now his very survival was in question.

  Celestine. Would he see her again? Would he find her? He leaned into the wicked wind and closed his eyes against the freezing, wet snow. He must go on.

  • • •

  Emily pushed away from the window, where she had been gazing out at the harsh night, seeing little but the reflection of the fire against the glass, and returned to the hearth, taking the seat Dodo had vacated. She was terribly worried. In another hour she must fear the worst. But surely St. Claire would have sheltered at an inn, if he had followed them at all? Yes, she must believe he would have been sensible and stayed back. No soul would risk his life on horseback in such weather as this.

  Holding her hands out to the fire, Emily examined her niece. Celestine’s swollen fingers held the book up before her eyes, but she still wasn’t seeing it. Her eyes were misty and unfocused as she appeared to ponder something. Her brow was furrowed and her lips set, her pale complexion set aglow by the blaze.

  “Celestine,” Emily said gently, leaning over and taking the book.

  “Hmm?” she said. “What is it, Aunt? Do you wish to retire as well? I confess, I am tired.”

  “Tell me what you are thinking, my dear. We have not spoken much about . . . about St. Claire, and I would not have you avoid the subject.”

  Celestine shrugged with a sad smile and she sat up, stretching out her spine and laying her head against the back of the chair. “I have been thinking of little else, I must confess. I’m foolish, I know, but it seems so strange!”

  “What, my dear?”

  “That he should say what he said . . . do what he did! Why would he risk his family’s wrath by saying he wanted to marry me? I just don’t understand him.”

  “I have known St. Claire for many years, my love, and I know that he never does anything just to please someone else. Nor does he do anything just to spite someone else. And he has never asked anyone to marry him before. How did all this come about?”

  Celestine smiled, her gray eyes alight, the sorrow in them turning to a soft, dreamy pleasure. “I think it began as a way to annoy his sister-in-law.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “Maybe I should take back a part of that previous statement, for that certainly sounds like spite! What do you mean?”

  Celestine explained about the previous governess, which Emily, of course, already knew about. She told her aunt about the words she had overheard from Lady Langlow, about engaging Celestine partly because she was so plain. Then she went on and spoke of St. Claire’s determined pursuit of her. “I think he just wanted to annoy her ladyship by flirting with me in front of her. Either that or he just cannot help himself. But I expected him to stop when the other ladies arrived and he didn’t.”

  “Knowing him to be a heartless flirt, how did you come to give your own heart to him?” Emily watched the flickering play of light across the pale oval of her niece’s face. Her freckles were stark against the alabaster of her skin and her gray eyes wide and thoughtful. She stared into the fire. When she spoke her voice had the caressing tone of a lover.

  “He is not always what people see of him. Everyone sees the devil-may-care nobleman, the flirtatious lover of ladies.”

  Emily waited. There was more coming, and in the quiet of the low-beamed parlor, empty except for just them, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the tock-tock of a clock on the mantel. It was growing late, and the chance was that St. Claire had not followed after all. Given the weather, Emily had to hope that was so, for the gentleman’s very life.

  “Sometimes, when I sing,” Celestine said, after a long pause, “I feel like my heart is going to burst out of my breast and shatter into a million pieces.” Her gnarled hands covered her breast, over her heart. “I feel like a crystal vase after a rehearsal or a performance; one wrong word and I will crumble. St. Claire understands. I don’t know how or why, but he does.” Celestine’s voice became urgent and she looked up, gazing into her aunt’s eyes. “I feel, with him, that no words are necessary, that something in his heart reaches out and touches something in mine. Does that not bespeak a good soul, a tender heart?”

  Emily was deeply moved, for she understood. It was how she had felt about Baxter. Oh, not right away, as in Celestine’s case, but after they were married. She could look across a room and know what he was thinking . . . what he was feeling. They would exchange glances that held volumes. Baxter could sense when she was in pain or tired without a word said between them.

  She reached out and touched Celestine’s hands where they now lay, knotted together on her lap. “And so you fell in love?”

  “I fell in love. And I had meant to be so sensible! I was ready to accept an offer from Mr. Foster, if he made one. I thought all I wanted out of life was a home of my own, a family, perhaps, and the chance to be a wife and mother with someone I respected. But it wouldn’t have been right to marry Mr. Foster with love in my heart for someone else.”

  Emily nodded reluctantly. “Though many would call you a fool for letting go of a chance for independence with a respectable man like the vicar. I happen to agree with you though. If you were heart-whole there would be a chance for your marriage, but to carry love for another man into marriage . . . it just wouldn’t do.”

  “St. Claire is not what other people think him, Aunt. He is not shallow or vain. He can be so tender . . .” Her voice choked off, but then she cleared her throat. “It will be a lucky woman who does capture his heart and marry him.”

  Emily shook her head. She had made her gamble, and had appar
ently lost. It was getting late, and St. Claire had not come. Perhaps his love wasn’t strong enough to make him defy his older brother’s authority, or perhaps the snowstorm wailing outside had forced him to stop.

  Yawning, Celestine stood. “I think I will go up now. Are you coming?”

  “In a few minutes,” Emily said. She found and spoke with the landlord, who, with his wife, was sitting in comfort, with his boots off, before the fire in the dark, smoky kitchen. They would desire breakfast at eight and their carriage ready by nine thirty, she told them, weather permitting.

  She passed back through the drafty passage toward the dining room, when the door swept open and a blast of wind carried in a flurry of snowflakes and a greatcoated stranger. He was covered in white, and until he swept off his hat and coat she did not even recognize him as St. Claire. He wiped the snow from his eyes and looked about him, and then saw Emily.

  “Where is she? Where is Celestine?” he croaked, tossing his wet curls out of his eyes.

  “St. Claire!” Emily tried to keep the joy out of her voice. It had seemed impossible just moments before that he would really come, but now he was here, panting and wet, tossing aside the cumbersome frozen coat to the landlord’s wife. Mrs. Shruggs bowed and muttered that she would set the gentleman’s garments by the fire to dry.

  Emily did not want to carry on the conversation that must follow in the cold passageway and so she strode into their private dining room, knowing St. Claire would follow. He did not disappoint her. She shut the door behind him and turned. St. Claire was frozen-looking and shivering, his wet curls plastered over his forehead, but Emily carefully kept her concern from showing on her face. There would be time enough for that when they had sorted out a few things.

  “What do you want with my niece? Have you not cut up her peace enough already?” Emily needed to know his intentions before she allowed him back in her niece’s life. Though he had asked Celestine to marry him, Emily wanted to be sure that what he felt for her niece was love, and not pity, nor pique or frustration at her elusiveness. She wanted to judge the depth of his feeling.

  “It is not me that made her unhappy but you and my interfering sister-in-law. Between the two of you, you have fair ruined our lives!” He stood before her, dripping and shivering, but he ignored his discomfort. “Where is she? I need to talk to her. I need to find out if she is really engaged to that prissy vicar, or if she has been forced into anything by you meddling shrews, you and Elizabeth.”

  Emily’s heart pounded. She saw raw anger in St. Claire’s face and she had rarely seen any emotion there stronger than amusement before. He was never stirred beyond languid flirtation when it came to women, though he could attract them with just a simmering look from his brilliant blue eyes.

  “I am all Celestine has in this world, sir, and I will protect her from a roué and a cad.” Her words sounded stilted and theatrical, even to her, but St. Claire appeared not to notice.

  He circled her, his boots thudding on the flagstone floor. She could almost feel the anger radiating from him. He must have struggled to get through the miserable storm outside; anyone less in love would have sheltered at some house on the way and trusted to the morrow to find his intended. But still she would goad him.

  “You will protect her right out of love, Emily.” His voice was dangerously quiet, coming from behind her ear.

  Emily whirled and faced him again. “Love? From the most determined flirt and breaker of hearts in all of England? Perhaps she is safer with the vicar.”

  He glared at her. “Where is she?” His voice cracked with emotion. He looked like a man at the end of his tether.

  “I’ll not say.”

  St. Claire advanced on her again as she backed away. “The damned vicar doesn’t love her, he just wants a wife who will work herself to the bone for the parish. She needs someone who really loves her, someone who can protect her. Would you deny your niece love and someone to care for her because of your own failure?”

  He caught her unawares. “What do you mean?” Her voice echoed shrill against the bare walls.

  “Are you so bitter from your own broken marriage that you would deny others the opportunity to find love?”

  Emily’s backbone stiffened. “That was uncalled for!”

  “Was it? Then tell me why you won’t let me see her!” His angry stance lasted only a minute, then his voice broke and his manner changed. He flung himself down in a chair, his elbows on his knees, and hid his face in his hands. “Has she spoken to you? Told you she doesn’t care for me? Is that it?”

  Emily gazed down at him. The clock on the mantel chimed ten. It was love. Nothing else could turn Lord St. Claire, elegant, immaculate nobleman, into this wet, exhausted, heartbroken man. She couldn’t toy with him any longer. She was about to open her mouth to say that she would call Celestine down, when St. Claire began to speak in a low voice. At the same moment she caught sight of movement on the stairs. Celestine had come down at the commotion and stood in the shadows of the staircase, her long hair down around her shoulders.

  “Emily, please . . . listen to me. I am thirty-two. I thought I knew everything about love. I thought it was a pretty game that you played like any other, with winners and losers at the end. The one with the most hearts won. I thought love was seeing a pretty face across a room and falling into some mad infatuation.” He sighed and rubbed his face, then stared into the fire.

  Emily stayed silent. The step creaked again, but when St. Claire launched back into speech, Celestine stayed where she was.

  “And then I met a poor, plain spinster governess. Or so she would likely describe herself.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “I always thought beauty was something that people wore like a cloak, covering their outside, clothing it in a sparkling exterior. But Celestine . . . she is like . . .” He faltered, then whispered, “I don’t know how to describe it, but it is how a minister I once heard described the angels. Beauty shines out of her eyes; it pierced me right to the core, like a bright bolt of lightning that shot through me. And then when she sang, it was like heaven’s gate opened and she was allowed out, was allowed to come down to me. Me, of all people.

  “It is like she is turned inside out; other people are beautiful on the outside, while she is on the inside, and it just glows, Emily. It just glows.” His voice was a tortured murmur. “And now I can’t believe I ever thought her plain. Oh, Emily, her eyes! They are so lovely. There are no words. And her skin and her hair . . .”

  Emily let out a breath she didn’t even know she had been holding. “You love her?” Her voice trembled. Never could she have imagined St. Claire speaking like this.

  “Love her? I can’t live without her! I told her that, but I don’t think she believed me. I was afraid I would scare her away if I was too demanding. I want to marry her. I want to take her away to Questmere and spend the rest of my life looking after her and . . . and our children, if we should be so lucky. I feel . . . different when I am with her. Stronger, better, like there is some purpose in my life. She makes me . . .” He paused. “She makes me whole.”

  Emily could not believe that this was Lord St. Claire Richmond, rake of the ton, who spoke of love and marriage and children. He was as Celestine had said, loving and giving and tenderhearted. But it seemed that her modest niece wasn’t aware that it was loving her that had wrought the change. She glanced over at the dark shadows of the stairs. She put one finger to her lips, stole up the stairs past her niece and retreated to her room. Her job was done.

  Celestine crept the rest of the way down the stairs and stood, her feet bare against the frigid floor. She had already changed into her night rail and her long hair was down and brushed over her shoulders. She stood gazing in wonder at the man huddled on the chair by the fire. Her St. Claire. Her love. He was shivering, damp and miserable. He was cold and unhappy. How had he found her? And how long had he ridden through the blizzard to come to her?

  “I love her, Emily,” he said suddenly, scrubbing his hands ove
r his tired face. “I’ll never love anyone else. Help me convince her of that. Please, I beg of you. Do you think . . . do you think she will have me?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Celestine whispered.

  St. Claire’s head shot up and he turned and stared at her. “Celestine?”

  “Yes, St. Claire?”

  “Did you just agree to marry me?” His face held a mixture of hope and dread.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love me? Or can you learn to—”

  “Oh, St. Claire, I’ve loved you since the moment in the carriage when you pressed your kerchief into my hand! How could I not? My heart reached out that night and touched yours. I lost it that very second. You have had it this whole time, in your keeping.”

  “Celestine!” He leaped to his feet and crossed the short distance to her. He noticed for the first time that she was barefoot on the cold flagstone and in her night rail.

  “My love! What do you mean risking your health this way?” he scolded. Without warning he scooped her up and moved over to the hearth, cradling her on his lap as he pulled the chair closer to the fire.

  He stroked her hair gently and cradled her head against his shoulder, kissing her forehead. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice breaking with the wonder of it. “I love you more than words can ever say.” He held her away from him and looked down into her eyes, a smile creeping over his lips. “You know, they say that reformed rakes make the best husbands. I mean to make you a very good husband, indeed!”

  She blushed and giggled, a sound she had never thought herself capable of. She felt young and beautiful and cherished in his arms. She gazed up at him in wonder, at those blazing blue eyes and strong features. She stroked his chin, scuffing her fingers over the whiskers that had grown over the long day he had spent, and ran her fingers through his wet curls, smoothing them back off his forehead.