Lord St.Claire's Angel Read online

  Had she ever felt that little tug before, the one deep in her breast that happened when she looked into the sparkling blue of his long-lashed eyes? No, never, she de­cided, but one did not expect to come face to face with a living work of art. That must be it. She bent back to her needlework.

  Something rankled in Justin St. Claire's breast as he indulged in a cigar in his brother's billiards room. His sister's cynical assessment of his lack of interest in the new governess was somehow disturbing, but for what rea­son, he could not fathom. The gentlemen of his set were all in favor of dalliances with the lower orders, if the girl was pretty enough, but not one would have called Miss Simons anything but a drab little field mouse. So Eliza­beth knew that and took advantage of his taste in fe­males—so what?

  He knocked a couple of balls into the pockets of the gorgeous mahogany table, then threw down the cue stick and paced over to the maroon-velvet-shrouded window that overlooked the terrace. This time of year nothing adorned the low-walled terrace, which stretched the whole length of the east side of the building, but he stared out anyway, gazing at the leaden sky, the clouds a solid wall over the deep purple-gray fells.

  Did it bother him that Elizabeth knew him so well? Was he annoyed his sister-in-law knew he had no restraint where a pretty face was involved? He blew out a puff of smoke and knocked the ash from his cigar into a dish on the dark wood table. He hadn't ruined silly Miss Chambly, for God's sake. He was not such a cad as that. It really had been just a kiss—or, rather, a series of kisses and some light caresses.

  The chit had been aiming to catch herself an eligible parti, and he had no intention of being caught in parson's mousetrap. He was too old and wily a fox to be caught in any trap, he chuckled to himself. Someday he would marry, he supposed, but perhaps not until he was in his forties. Then he would turn into a lecherous old man and snag himself a wife of seventeen or eighteen.

  He had no need to marry at all, as the succession of Ladymead was assured. August had dutifully sired an heir, his namesake the young Viscount Augustus, who was at school at the moment, and a follow-up in little Lord Gil­bert, the youngest child at two—Bertie to everyone who loved the blue-eyed, blond-haired tyke.

  He was glad to leave all the responsible work to August so he could go on with his life of idle pleasure. Wasn't that the whole point of being an aristocrat? His brow clouded momentarily. His friends all lived their lives the same way. It wasn't as if he were the only one, damn it! He liked London, his clubs, and his pleasures.

  But back to the problem of the governess. It was an­noying Elizabeth should outmaneuver him like that, then crow about it. It would serve her right if he did make love to the new governess. As plain as she was, she would fall for him like a stone. Ripe for the plucking, no doubt. Wouldn't Lizzie be livid! He grinned and nodded to him­self, turning away from the window and the bleak land­scape. This Christmas might turn out to be even more entertaining than last year's.

  Lovemaking was all very well, as pleasant a pastime as a man could wish for, but there might be more pleasure in tweaking his snobbish sister-in-law's nose—and he would be giving the plain little governess something plea­surable and romantic to look back on, too. He felt a little glow of satisfaction. Surely that was what the charity of Christmas was all about, giving to the less fortunate. He would give her her very own romantic Christmas Eve.

  Two

  "Lottie, watch out for Gwen, dear. She's little, and we don't want her falling into the river."

  Celestine watched her young charges carefully as she walked along the road into Ellerbeck, carrying a parcel wrapped in crinkling paper and amber twine. The road descended the hill away from Ladymead, sloping down toward the town as it curved around a low fell. For a distance it followed the river, then crossed a bridge and meandered into the village. It was a long walk, but it did them all good to get exercise.

  The old stone bridge that spanned the sparkling stream had no railing. Celestine had questioned its safety when she first arrived, but had been informed most bridges in the Pennines didn't have railings. This was to facilitate the wide packs horses often carried, laden with goods and wool. Some trails were impas-sable by cart or carriage, and much was conveyed by packhorses. Learning about her new home had been a constant pleasure and endlessly fascinating.

  Gwen tripped to the edge of the bridge, and Celestine felt her heart lurch. Rushing to the girl's side, Celestine pulled her back. "You must be more careful, dear," she said, kneeling on the dry gravel in front of the child and holding her hands. She looked directly into Gwen's bright blue eyes, so big and so uncomprehending. "Listen to me. It could be dangerous to run to the edge like that, and you could end up in the river, very cold and very wet. Would you like that?"

  The child shook her head no, then took her older sis­ter's hand and walked sedately across the rest of the bridge. She was very young for five, Celestine thought. She did not understand much that went on around her, gazing at the world with big, blank, blue eyes that pro­truded slightly. And she rarely spoke—at least not in words anyone but her older sister understood.

  Lottie was very protective of her little sister, and held on to Gwen's hand as a carriage went by so the child would not wander onto the road and get run down. Ce­lestine breathed deeply, gazing around with some plea­sure at the beautiful landscape.

  Low mountains rose to the east, hazy and purple, the highest ones already shrouded in snow. In the valleys the air was clean, pure, and crisply cold on this early Decem­ber day. There was no snow yet in the valley, but Celestine had already lived through most of one winter at La­dymead and knew the snow would come, deep and plen­tiful. That was one of the first differences she'd had to adjust to.

  But it turned out to be one of the things she enjoyed most. The Lake District, as it was known for its long, nar­row, glacier-carved lakes, was beautiful in all seasons, but if not for the painful inflammation of her arthritis at this time of year, winter would be her favorite. The other sea­sons were flamboyant in their radiant green and gold and crimson, but winter was subtle, clothed in melancholy hues of umber and sage and dark conifer-green.

  Then would come the fresh contrast of snow drifting on the slate rooftops and lining the naked trees. Blue-gray shadows would settle in the hollows between the hills and even the bright winter sun would not take away the world's mellow tinge. It suited her, she thought as she walked down the sloping road, the girls ahead of her stop­ping to gather some dried weeds.

  In a meadow near the base of the hill she could see a flock of Herdwick, the sheep of the Lake District. They were hardy creatures, as were the people who lived and scrabbled their existence from the rocky soil of the Pen-nines. The marquess himself spent many hours talking to area farmers about sheep and pasturing. Even the parson had his animal flock, so much more easily guided than the human type.

  "Ah, Miss Simons. Out for a rather lengthy walk?"

  Celestine froze at the sound of a voice she had not been able to get out of her mind since the previous day. Long into the night she had heard its mocking tones in her mind.

  She turned and gazed at Lord St. Claire, who strode up behind them, his cheeks pink from the cold air. "My lord." She nodded in acknowledgment of his greeting. "Yes. I remember as a child I always could settle down to schoolwork better if my energy was worked off in some way. I had some errands in Ellerbeck and the girls needed a walk." She was proud of herself. Her tone was cool, unengaged, and light.

  He fell into step with her as they closed the distance between themselves and the girls.

  "What a refreshingly sensible governess you are, to be sure. Most would say, 'Work before play!' I think play be­fore work is infinitely more pleasant." He slanted her a sideways look.

  She didn't know how to respond and, to her mortifi­cation, felt her cheeks burn. It seemed the moment she was in his company she began to blush. She must conquer that tendency. Luckily, at that moment Lottie and Gwen caught sight of their uncle and ran to his side, insis
ting on each taking a hand. Celestine felt they made an ab­surdly domestic picture strolling along the road into the village, as if they were a squire and his lady with their two children. How deceiving were appearances!

  She searched for a neutral topic of conversation, some­thing that should surely be easy to come up with, with a stranger. "I understand you visit Ladymead every Christ­mas, my lord. Do you visit only in the winter?"

  "I generally make a visit in the summer, as well. This year I went to Brighton instead, or I would have had the pleasure of meeting you sooner."

  Celestine caught his glance and was puzzled at the faint suggestion of heat as he let his gaze wander down her pelisse, over her body. Was something disarrayed about her clothing? She glanced swiftly down at the dark gray pelisse that covered her plain wool dress. No, all was but­toned as it should be, not a thing out of place.

  She glanced back up into his blue eyes and her brow furrowed. What was different about his treatment of her today? The previous day he had dismissed her without a second glance, repulsed, as Lady St. Claire had intended him to be, by her plain face and swollen hands. She re­alized she was staring at him when she tripped over her own two feet, and he let go of Lottie's hand to grasp her arm.

  "Whoops." He laughed.

  "The . . . the road's a little uneven," she gasped, un­comfortably aware of the strength of his fingers searing her through the wool.

  "Perhaps you grow a little tired," he suggested, smiling down at her and not letting go his hold.

  She pulled away. Even though he was closer to the truth than she dared admit, she said, "No, not at all. I am fine."

  They walked the rest of the way into town, past stone­walled, frozen gardens and a small orchard, with St. Claire making conversation with his nieces about Christmas. He seemed in no hurry to go on his own way. Celestine had no idea what his errands in town consisted of, nor did she dare ask. It would seem too much like she was inter­ested.

  They walked along the curved main street of Ellerbeck, past tidy stone cottages with shuttered windows and brightly painted doors, slowly approaching the commercial section of town where butcher and baker, draper and chandler huddled side by side, cheek by jowl, as if for warmth. The nobleman gazed about him with interest at the tidy homes, not having walked through the village much in recent years.

  When their father died and his brother ascended to the title, Justin was a young man about town, spending most of his time in London, only visiting with his brother when he and Elizabeth made the long trip there from Ladymead for the Season. In recent years, with Elizabeth so occupied with bearing and caring for the children, August and Elizabeth had not ventured all the way to London together. August had come to London for the sitting of the House of Lords, but he lived a solitary exis­tence in his Mayfair house. Justin had been forced to make a twice-annual foray to Cumbria himself if he wanted to see his sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, and he always enjoyed the visits. He was sincerely attached to his family, and the month he spent at Ladymead over Christmas and the two or three weeks in the summer sped by.

  The buildings in Ellerbeck were constructed of glacial rock quarried or picked from the meadows and fields, and they huddled along roads that were curved, following the lay of the land. Early Cumbrians were wise enough to compromise with nature, rather than try to impose straight lines in country where there were none.

  And so the houses and commercial buildings seemed almost a part of the landscape, the colors and materials blending into the surrounding fells and meadows. Justin compared them to the worker's cottages he had seen in London, most of them adrift in a sea of squalor and dirt, covered in the soot that was pandemic throughout the city. In the clean air and sweeping vistas, the modest homes looked fresh-scrubbed. The simplicity and honesty of construction was pleasing to the eye and warming to the heart. Curls of smoke puffed from chimneys and cheerful birds chirped from the barren trees.

  For some reason he felt absurdly happy walking along the road into Ellerbeck, making dilatory conver-sation with the plain governess and accompanying his romping nieces. Miss Simons turned out to be an intelligent woman, with a surprising knowledge of the Lakes District for one so recently moved there.

  "I have made it my business to learn about the area," she explained, gazing around with clear gray eyes. "Lottie has so many questions about everything from sheep to glaciation. I am ill-equipped to answer them, so I resort to books, which your brother is kind enough to allow me free access to."

  "Kind!" Justin snorted. "It is hardly mere kindness. You are his daughters' governess. Surely the better in­formed you are, the better taught they will be."

  "Ah, but that is where your brother differs from other men," Miss Simons said, glancing up at him around her bonnet, her unusually fine eyes bright from exercise and fresh air. "He wants his daughters to be well-taught and intelligent. So many gentlemen wish for their daughters to be taught only such social skills and accomplishments as are deemed necessary to catch a husband. Often they learn little more than the art of flirtation."

  Justin cast a sly glance sideways. "And will you teach them that as well? The fine art of flirtation?"

  "One cannot teach what one does not know," she re­plied softly.

  "And will you resort to books for instruction, as you did for the history of this area? I would advise the penny novels for romance. They are filled with innocent young maids whose attractions drive noblemen to kidnap them and carry them off to Gretna."

  "That kind of instruction would hardly be conducive to familial harmony, my lord," she said, dryly. "Nor would it facilitate an honorable and happy marriage when the girls are young ladies. If my task were to make them fit to occupy the scandal columns of the London newspa­pers, then certainly Mrs. Radcliffe and her ilk would be my resource material."

  He glanced at her in some surprise, but her face was hidden by her hideous bonnet. That she might have a sense of humor had never entered Justin's head. In his experience, governesses were either dry old sticks or meek, frightened girls, beaten down by life—or, in Miss Chambly's case, flirtatious, impertinent little chits. Miss Simons was none of those. He judged her to be in her twenties. Though her personality seemed retiring, she did not speak meekly, flirtatiously, nor even censor-iously. She spoke to him as an equal would. How intriguing!

  The little girls had run on ahead of them again, and as they entered the commercial heart of Ellerbeck, Miss Simons called them back and took them firmly in hand.

  He accompanied them to the draper's shop, where the governess checked on an order of silk and lace Lady St. Claire was anxious for. Apparently she was having dresses made up for the little girls for Christmas, as well as new garments for herself. The shop assistant deferred to Mr. Ducroix, the owner, who bowed and smiled so much Justin thought his eyes would pop from his head. As they were leaving, the man slipped a wrapped bundle to Miss Simons and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  He wondered if there was some understanding between the governess and the draper. He was a mincing fellow with a faint French accent, he noted with disgust, for all he was kind to the little girls and deferential to Justin himself. Miss Simons was about to put the small package under her other arm, already being burdened as she was with her bulky, paper-wrapped parcel, but Justin insisted on taking charge of it.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her look startled, but she acquiesced with good grace, and they all proceeded to the subscription library to pick up some romances for Lady St. Claire and a book of receipts for the house­keeper, Mrs. Jacobs. The St. Claires had rather progress-sive ideas and provided usage of the subscription to any of their staff ambitious enough to want to read. Few of them took their employer up on that generosity, although Dobbs was known to have a not-too-secret addiction to the penny dreadfuls.

  Justin took charge of the books, too, and the little girls giggled as he pretended to grunt and strain under the burden. Miss Simons turned a bright pink when he took her arm down the slippery step,
even though he released her very quickly after.

  She was ripe for the plucking, he thought with some satisfaction. He had known it would be this easy. A plain spinster against his practiced charms did not stand a chance. She would be eager for his touch, her fine gray eyes alight with passion and her ripe mouth slightly open in anticipation of his kiss ... he halted himself in his thoughts.

  Shaking his head as they strolled down the street, he wondered how much of his customary seduction was mere habit. He was allowing himself to get excited over a spinster, for God's sake!

  He examined her critically, as another man might look over a painting he considered purchasing, or a horse he was bidding on at Tattersall's. Maybe her mouth was too wide for fashion, but it would be satisfying to kiss. And the curves under the worn pelisse were feminine and al­luring enough to promise a comfortable tumble ... a tumble? His eyes widened at the turn his thoughts had again taken.

  Since when did he intend to take her to bed? He had no intention of disgracing the girl, just flirting enough that she would commit an indiscretion—just to show Elizabeth she could not thwart his holiday fun. Another kiss under the kissing bough or a cuddle in a dark corner, that was all. Then he would confess to Elizabeth he had done it just to spite her and promise not to look at the girl again, if she would just not fire her. That would be the end of it as far as he was concerned, and they would both have pleasant memories from a mild flirtation. And to that end he must continue to charm her.

  "And what does Miss Simons want for a special Christ­mas present?" he asked, harkening back to his conversa­tion with the girls. They walked down a curved road by a low stone wall, the governess walking beside him and the two girls in front.

  "Books," chirped Lottie, glancing over her shoulder at the two adults.

  "A dolly," offered Gwen, one of her rare understand­able utterances.