Lord St.Claire's Angel Read online

  LORD ST. CLAIRE'S KISS

  "How can I help the prince find his princess?" His voice lowered to a caressing baritone. "He is so lonely, and the right woman is waiting for him, but how does he find her?"

  He was doing it again, Celestine thought, glancing with dismay into the aristocrat's expressive eyes. As if he didn't have enough ladies to flirt with!

  "I think you will find some way, my lord. If you will excuse me, I must find out if the girls are back from their walk yet." She rose to go.

  Justin caught her hand. "Don't go yet." He pulled her back. He stood and held her hand, touching it gently. "How are your hands today. Are they any better?"

  Celestine flushed with mortification. She wanted to snatch her hand away and hide it behind her, but he had a light but powerful grip on it. His long, strong fingers were curled around hers, and it wouldn't do to have a tug of war. His closeness was disconcerting—the warmth that radiated from his body, the scent of some hair pomade or cologne, the way his wide shoulders and sturdy body blocked every­thing else from her view. "They are a little better, my lord. Now I really must ..." She tugged on her hand, but he didn't let go.

  "Don't run, Celestine. Don't be afraid of me. I would never harm you."

  His voice was a low murmur and she felt herself falling under his spell—felt her heart throbbing and swelling with desire. What was he doing to her with just a touch, just a word?

  Then, before she could stop him, he turned her hand over and his lips caressed her palm in a lingering kiss....

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 1999 by Donna Simpson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "un­sold and destroyed" to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

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  First Printing: December, 1999

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is for Mick,

  who believed in me before I believed in my­self,

  and for Mom, Agnes Simpson

  One

  "Thank God she is so plain! We'll not have the same trouble this Christmas we had last year with your wretched brother!"

  Celestine Simons stopped outside of her employers' drawing room, hesitating to intrude. The voice was that of her employer, Lady Elizabeth St. Claire, Marchioness of Ladymead. She was evidently speaking to her husband, and perhaps would not welcome an interruption.

  "True, Elizabeth. Miss Simons is not at all the sort of female Justin prefers. She is satisfyingly homely—and aware of it, too, if I am not mistaken. It is her best pro­tection from my brother."

  Lord St. Claire had a rich, booming baritone from mak­ing many speeches in the House of Lords, and Celestine heard every word with humiliating clarity. She shrank back against the ivory-papered wall, knowing she could not now enter without the most mortifying sensibility that they were discussing her. She hung her head, too stunned by the cruel accuracy of the words to retreat.

  "All too often governesses today seem to be pretty, pert little misses with ideas above their station," Lady St. Claire said, her light, feminine voice fading and strengthening as she evidently walked around the room. "And you can­not tell me Justin was alone in the flirtation. Miss Chambly had her eye on him from the moment he stepped across our threshold!"

  "I blame Justin, though, my dear. Her very position as our governess should have protected her from his predations! I don't know what to do with that scalawag of a brother of mine! It is time he took a wife and stopped his alley-cat behavior."

  "August! Language!"

  "Really, my dear, I said alley-cat, not whoring . . ." "August!"

  There was a muffled shriek, then some whispering, the sound of a loud kiss, and then a rustle.

  "You, husband, are a scamp, very much like your brother." Lady St. Claire's voice was breathless, but smugly pleased.

  "Ah, but I confine my 'predations' to my lady wife," the marquess growled. More rustling and a low chuckle followed.

  Celestine, her cheeks burning, hustled away from the door toward the great curved staircase and began to as­cend, embarrassed at having lingered long enough to overhear such an intimate exchange between her em­ployer and his wife.

  Plain. She knew she was plain, but to know she owed her employment in the St. Claire household to that fact! She had never suspected their quick hiring of her had to do with anything more than her accomplishments: French, Latin, a little Greek, history, a fair knowledge of mathematics and science, household arts and accounts. And all along it was mostly because she was plain!

  She paused on a landing, one hand on the smooth wood banister. Holding back the tears that welled in her eyes, she pressed one palm to her burning cheek. Then, as always, she dropped her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt, letting the cool gray fabric swirl over the gnarled knuckles and crooked fingers. Lord and Lady St. Claire had nothing to worry about. Their brother was safe this year, for he would surely not force his attentions on an aging, plain, arthritic spinster governess. She re­turned to the schoolroom and her duties.

  * * *

  Justin St. Claire, astride his magnificent hunter, Al-phonse, rode to the front door of Ladymead Manor, hurled himself from the saddle and tossed the reins to a stablehand who had appeared at the sound of hoofbeats. His breath puffed out in steamy clouds as he raced up the stone steps and banged on the brass knocker.

  The butler opened the door and bowed him in, taking the coat and scarf Justin tossed at him.

  "Where's the family, Dobbs?"

  "His lordship is in the library, and her ladyship is in the parlor with Lady Charlotte and Lady Gwenevere."

  Without waiting for the butler to announce him, Justin raced down the hall, threw open the door, and knelt on the soft Oriental carpet. "Where are my favorite girls?" he cried.

  Lottie and Gwen, seven and five years of age, respec­tively, looked up from the needlework their mother was showing them and shrieked with excitement. In a mo­ment they had abandoned their mother and raced across the room, flinging themselves at their uncle in gleeful disarray.

  "Charlotte! Gwenevere!" Lady St. Claire cried, striving to bring order.

  She was drowned out by the tumultuous wrestling match that now took place as Justin dared the girls to find a treat. They diligently searched his coat pockets, crowing with delight as they found some paper-wrapped bonbons.

  Justin, his dark curls tumbled across his high forehead, smiled over at his sister-in-law, who tried to look severe as he turned her daughters into tiny lunatics for a few moments. Finally Elizabeth laughed, too, and stood, cross­ing to his side. He rose from the carpet and planted an affectionate kiss on her pale, soft cheek.

  He held her at arm's length, looking her over from the top of her lace-capped head to the dainty slippers that peeked out from beneath the skirts of her rose mus­lin morning dress.

  "Sister, you look lovelier than ever! If my brother had not had the good sense to snatch you up . . ."

  "You would have trifled with my affections and then shunned me like an Almack's tea cake once they were engaged. I know you, too well, Justin." Her tone was wry, but there was affection in it nonetheless.

  Justin laughed and glanced over at the two little girls, who had retreated to a settee and were comparing and sharing out the treats in
some mysterious fashion. They were remarkably like their mother, with fine blond hair and pale, perfect complexions, cherubic in their chubby, healthy good looks.

  "And what are you doing looking after your own chil­dren, my lady?" Justin asked, a hint of sarcasm in his cultured voice. Dark thick brows rose above sparkling blue eyes.

  "I am demonstrating some needlework for them that their governess is not adept at—petit point. "Lady St. Claire moved slightly and motioned to a chair near the hearth. Those who knew her well would have recognized the lift of her chin as a challenge. "This is the new governess, Miss Simons. Miss Simons, my brother, Lord Justin St. Claire."

  Justin glanced over at the chair and saw a drab little creature in an ugly gray gown. She had brown hair pulled back in a heavy, severe bun, and her face was pink from some unidentifiable emotion, or perhaps just from prox­imity to the fire that blazed in the hearth. She rose, hastily curtseyed, then sat again and cast her eyes back down to the mending on her lap.

  He gave his sister a quizzical glance. "What happened to the little charmer you had here last Christmas?" he asked quietly, a grin quirking his lips.

  "You know very well what happened," Elizabeth said, her tone growing cold. "And I do not wish to discuss it." She retreated to the settee and took the bonbons from the two girls before they could eat the whole lot. "Miss Simons," she said, raising her voice, "could you take the girls up and have Elise wash their faces and hands? They are sticky from candies."

  The governess stood, her eyes downcast, and moved to the children, taking their hands in her larger ones. That was when Justin noticed her hands were malformed, the knuckles swollen and red, the fingers crook'd in an awk­ward manner. He glanced in shock at her face and saw her eyes flutter to his, then widen as her cheeks flamed even more.

  She had fine gray eyes, large, with luxuriant dark lashes. They were her best, or more accurately, her only good feature. The rest of her face was undistinguish-ed— her mouth too large, her nose merely ordinary, and her complexion regrettably freckled under her eyes. She hur­ried from the room, the washed-out dress she was wearing making no sound as it dragged along the carpet.

  As the door closed behind her, he gave his sister a knowing look. "Making sure I don't dally with the gov­erness, Elizabeth?"

  "Absolutely right," she said severely, sitting down on the green patterned sofa and folding her perfect, smooth hands in her lap. "We had to get rid of Miss Chambly after the butler caught the two of you under the kissing bough last year."

  "What's a harmless kiss at Christmas?" he grinned, throwing himself in a chair and draping one long, lean leg over the arm.

  "You know very well what is wrong with that! I will not have my girls' governess fluttering around trying to cap­ture your hand!" she said, angrily, picking up the needle­work she had abandoned and stabbing at it with the fine needle.

  Then, in spite of her best intentions, Elizabeth's rose­bud mouth quirked in a smile that held a trace of mock­ery. "Well, I believe we have outmaneuvered you this time, Justin. I defy you to flirt with Miss Simons!"

  He gave a mock shudder. "She looks a most frightful sort, plain and spinsterish enough to freeze the most in­trepid rake's marrow," he drawled. "Check, my dear sis."

  Elizabeth nodded. "And she shows a becoming humility and a tendency towards piety. Check and mate, my dear brother. Now, let me tell you our plans for the seasonal festivities."

  Celestine handed the two children over to Elise, their maid, and retreated to the schoolroom. It was a long, plain room on the third floor, but she had tried to make it comfortable with a worn carpet of uncertain pattern and some castoff furniture that the marquess had allowed her to relocate.

  Her own bedroom, the children's room, their maid's room and the nursery shared the floor with sundry other rooms. Celestine's room was small but pleasant, with a few creature comforts considered adequate for the gov­erness. Most of her time was spent in the schoolroom. That was where the fire was most often going, and it was cold in Cumbria in December—bitterly cold sometimes.

  It wasn't just the heat that drew her to the schoolroom, though. The room was on the east side of the mansion, and there was a window on one wall that overlooked the fells above Ladymead, a sight she had come to love in the past year.

  When she had first arrived at the mansion, she had been overwhelmed by the ruggedness of the landscape deep in Cumbria, the Lake District. It was wild, with low mountains, rushing streams, and flocks of Herdwick sheep everywhere. But Ladymead was very close to Ellerbeck, a pretty little town in the valley, and she settled in easier than she had anticipated. The people, unlike the landscape, were friendly and hospitable, and after a short while she felt at home.

  Her life until then had been spent in gentle Devon, so the change in surroundings was complete, but she had come to appreciate and even love the wild landscape and the view of the fells, dark and brooding though they were, from the schoolroom window. There was something to be said for change, especially since her former life had nothing to offer her now except penury and hardship. How much better—to her mind, anyway—to be governess in a rich man's household than a poor spinster living on the charity of the parish. She sat down in the shabby armchair by the hearth, empty this time of the day, and curled her feet up underneath her. A wave of fatigue she had been fighting all afternoon swept over her, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The thought she had been avoiding by concentrating on the fells and the scene outside the window now invaded her brain. So that was the infamous Justin St. Claire. He was devastat-ingly attractive, just as Elise had confessed to her, sighing with lovelorn pleasure when she described the younger brother of the marquess.

  He was not nearly as tall as his brother, but he was as sturdily built, broad of shoulder, his torso tapering down to narrow hips. His hair was a little long for fashion, but it curled crisply, chestnut in color and glossy, and his eyes were a sparkling blue, like the midwinter sky in the Pen-nines. Had his eyes caused the curious tug in her breast? Or was it the smile that danced on his lips?

  She didn't think she had seen any grown man who looked so mischievous. He looked as if he found life to be a grand joke, and he the only one who was in on it.

  But he was shamefully irreverent, she had heard, and, from reports, a devil with the ladies, throwing even the housemaids in disarray by his mere presence. Mrs. Jacobs, the housekeeper, had a time of it keeping the maids from competing over who would take him his tea and open his curtains in the morning. Even the little tweeny seemed smitten, confessing to Celestine that she counted the mo­ments when she tended his fireplace, cleaning the ashes and reblacking the grate, as the happiest of her day, just to be in the same room where her idol had slept!

  But she was built along sterner lines, Celestine assured herself. She had been hired because she was plain and would not tempt his lordship into indis-cretion, and she knew now her employment depended on it—not that she would ever have to worry about fending him off. She had seen his expression of veiled distaste as he looked her over, and then shock as his glance dropped to her hands.

  She twisted them together, rubbing the knuckles of her right, feeling the familiar pain shoot through them. The inflammation was always worse with the arrival of the cooler weather in the autumn and winter. Until now she had suffered only intermittent episodes, and then the pain would gradually recede, along with the inflamed swelling. Most of the time her hands were as small and neat as any woman's.

  But this winter was the worst she had suffered, and it had only started. Some mornings the pain was so bad her hands were almost crippled. Perhaps it was the strenuous work of taking care of two little girls or the colder weather of the Lakes District, but in just the few weeks since the inflammation started it had even become impossible to handle the fine, thin needle necessary for petit point, a form of needlecraft her ladyship was most adamant her girls learn. That was why she had taken them down to Lady St. Claire for a lesson in the delicate art and so had been t
here to witness the arrival of the infamous Lord Justin St. Claire, breaker of feminine hearts.

  Sighing, Celestine sat up straighter, shaking off her sleepiness and pulling her needlework bag out from be­hind the chair to sort through her work. She might not be able to wield a petit-point needle, but she would get her presents for the girls done before Christmas. The soft cloth bodies of the dolls were done already; she had only the clothes to make and the features to do. That would have to wait for her hands to stop hurting, or for the pain to alleviate a little bit, because the expressions were very important.

  Gwen was getting a nurse doll cradling a tiny baby doll, and Lottie would receive a governess doll accompanied by a youthful student doll. The St. Claire seamstress had kindly donated some scraps of fabric, finer than anything Celestine had ever worn. The governess doll would be adorned in gray silk with a cap of white muslin trimmed in a bit of lace. The nurse doll would have a dark blue gown with a frilly apron over top.

  As she worked on the nurse's dress, her mind wandered back to Lord Justin St. Claire. What would it be like to be a lady he was attracted to, she wondered. Was her involuntary reaction to him, the tug of attraction she felt when she looked up into his eyes, a result of his good looks? She supposed it was, which made her as silly as Elise.

  But there was no harm in admiring a perfect form and beautiful eyes. One gazed at paintings to admire their beauty, so why not at a man? She gave a sharp little nod as she struggled to thread her needle, making several at­tempts before success was hers. That was true. She had merely an artistic appreciation for the symmetry of Justin St. Claire's perfect form and classic good looks. She could admire him as she would a Raphael painting or Michelan­gelo statue.

  She paused to rub her aching joints. Her fingers were especially bad, and she quelled a spurt of fear that this time the pain and swelling would linger and become more debilitating. Thinking about the handsome young nobleman she had just met was preferable.