The next day the last members of the house party arrived, a Lady van Hoffen, who had attained her title through marriage with an aged European nobleman, and her daughter, Grishelda. Grishelda was a plain young lady with an intelligent expression and a cool smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her mother was a buxom, beautiful redhead of perhaps forty years, flamboyantly dressed and eager to flirt with St. Claire, whom she knew from London.
He wondered at his lack of interest. A whispered word from him would have her slipping from her chamber to join him in his bed that very night, a temptation he would not normally have forgone. The lusty widow was eager to wed her daughter to him but would likely be just as eager to start an affair. And she might not find the two aims mutually exclusive.
But something in him rebelled at her flirtatious glances and sly innuendoes. He caught the daughter watching him with thoughtful, intelligent eyes, and the knowledge that more than one person would know of their liaison made him squirm. He injected a frosty note in his replies to the lady and evaded her after that. She was a little too obvious for him.
Outside the snow started, coating the fells with a light dusting first, then drifting into the valley where Langlow nestled among wooded copses. After the Sabbath pause, when much of the staff was given a half day off to attend evening services, life at Langlow was back up to full bustle.
St. Claire found he was expected to join in with whatever activities Elizabeth had planned, which that day consisted of conducting the young ladies on an extensive tour of the house, the conservatory, the library, and finally the gallery, with all the family paintings needing to be explained. St. Claire, bored to flinders with the Stimson misses, was grateful that Lady Grishelda was an intelligent young woman who did not seem to believe that every encounter with him must be spent in flirtation. How had she managed to escape the influence of her mother?
Maybe there were women in the world who would make intelligent, conversable wives after all, St. Claire thought. Her demeanor was cool, though, without being haughty, and he was not sure she was the type of woman who could be heated up by passion. He couldn’t imagine bedding a woman like that, one who would remain well-bred and chilly even in the bedroom.
They walked together along the hallway.
“I really think that is it, ladies,” St. Claire said, pausing at the end of the hall, near the stairs, and turning back to the two Stimson sisters.
“What is this door, here?” the younger one said, putting her hand on a brass doorknob.
“That is just to the upstairs rooms, the third floor.”
“And what are those,” the elder Stimson asked. “The attics? Where you keep the ghosts?” She giggled, tossing her ringlets and smiling at St. Claire.
He smiled. “Nothing nearly so romantic, I am afraid. The servants’ quarters, of course. The nursery. And the schoolroom.”
“Oh, is that where the little girls would be? Those darling little creatures we have hardly caught a glimpse of so far?” said Miss Caroline, her childish simper firmly in place. She turned the knob and started up the stairs. “I have a great love of children!” she called as she danced up the stairs. “And I wish to visit them.”
“She hasn’t been long enough out of the schoolroom that I should think she’d want to go back so soon,” St. Claire muttered, drawing a smile from his companion, the sensible Lady Grishelda.
Charlotte Stimson was already starting up the stairs behind her irrepressible sister, and Lady Grishelda shrugged. “I think we had best follow them up, or they are apt to cause havoc in the governess’s domain, and I should hate to add to her burden.”
“Very true,” St. Claire said.
When he got to the door, Charlotte and Caroline were already in the schoolroom, fluttering around and cooing over the little girls, causing, as Lady Grishelda had predicted, havoc.
Lottie was in her element, preening for the admiring young ladies, her blonde head turning this way and that as she spoke to the two young women, but Gwen was frightened by their noise and fuss and was clinging to Celestine’s gray skirts. Lady Grishelda’s calm, thoughtful eyes took in the sight and she crouched down to speak softly to the little girl, drawing her out so that Celestine could attend to the Stimsons’ unending questions and repress Lottie’s spiraling spirits, which threatened to send the little girl out of control.
There were, near a globe, a clustered bunch of holly and a sprig of mistletoe on the long table that served as a desk for the girls. Celestine had apparently been conducting a lesson on the origin of Christmas, since that was all Lottie or Gwen could be interested in at that time of year. They weren’t formal lessons, really, just something to keep them occupied and out of trouble, she said, her calm, melodious voice cutting through the babble of children and Stimsons.
St. Claire listened to her as she explained that she had been speaking of pagan beliefs and the origin of the Yule log, mistletoe and the reason for bringing evergreen boughs in to decorate with, when the company had burst through the doors. Caroline Stimson picked up the sprig of mistletoe on the table and twirled over to St. Claire, her muslin skirts belling out around her as she held it over her head.
“Give you any ideas, Lord St. Claire?” She giggled.
Her older sister frowned and Lady Grishelda glanced up sharply from her murmured conference with Gwen. As a piece of flirtation it was over the top for a schoolroom miss. St. Claire was most interested in Celestine’s reaction, though, and when he saw the wide gray eyes fixed on his face, he smirked. Some devil in him induced him to mischief and he had been given the perfect opportunity.
“Why, Miss Caroline,” he said, eyebrows raised and blue eyes glittering in the dim light from the window. “Are you sure you should be tempting a known rake such as myself with your lovely countenance? Do you know what you are asking for?”
The girl laughed, a high, brittle sound as her cheeks reddened. Her elder sister frowned and snatched the greenery from her hand. “That’s enough, Caro,” she snapped.
Lady Grishelda stood, her movement fluid and graceful. “I think we have interfered for long enough on Miss Simons’s time.” Her voice was steady and brooked no dispute.
She would make a formidable mother and wife, St. Claire thought. If a man wasn’t careful, she would likely have him reformed into a boring, steady old married man before he knew what hit him. If she was even interested in marriage. Lady Grishelda emanated an air of stern practicality that seemed to preclude any of the softer feelings of love and desire.
“I believe Lady Langlow mentioned a game of battledore and shuttlecocks in the large salon,” she said, with her eyebrows raised, her comment directed toward the Stimson girls, who were a few years younger than her.
The two Stimsons swept out of the room, leaving a puzzled Lottie in their wake; they hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye to her. St. Claire drifted from the room, but Lady Grishelda paused in the doorway. She said good-bye to the children, then looked up at the governess. “I really am sorry, Miss Simons, that we interfered in that way. Your job is no doubt difficult enough at this time of year without the added stir of company in your domain.”
Celestine smiled into kind, pale blue eyes. “It is quite all right, my lady. Lottie, at least, enjoyed the break. And it was kind of you to soothe Gwen. She is not one for fuss and noise, I am afraid. Most people frighten the poor little dear, but you have a way with her.”
“May I visit without the accompaniment of the others sometime? Perhaps when the children are at luncheon or otherwise engaged? I have some need of information you are particularly suited to give me.”
Celestine raised her eyebrows at this. “I, my lady? If I can be of any help, of course, I am at your service, but—”
“Believe me, it is nothing onerous,” Lady Grishelda said. “I am forming a school in our village, and I am taking a survey of every professional educator of my acquaintance as to curriculum. Your opinion would be valued.”
Celestine flushed with pleasure. It was a rare thing for her to be consulted on anything, and she felt a kinship with the plain young woman with the sensible manners. “I would be honored to help, my lady. Though I have been a governess for less than a year, I used to help out at our school in the village where I was raised. It was one of the joys of my life and it was a very successful school, so I may have some insights to offer.”
“Splendid. I look forward to some rational conversation,” Lady Grishelda said, ruefully, glancing back down the hall, where she could still hear the Stimsons’ voices raised. “Until then,” she said, and smiled her farewell.
St. Claire awaited her outside the schoolroom. “That was well done, my lady,” he said quietly, glancing back at Celestine’s smiling face and giving her a small wave. Celestine’s smile died and she looked away. Damn. That silly bit of horseplay with the mistletoe had offended her. Now he would have to make up lost ground.
Lady Grishelda’s calm demeanor cracked slightly as they strolled down the hall. “Those Stimson girls should have shackles! They have no sense that there are other people in this world, people who must earn their living and who may not all appreciate a couple of little idiots bursting in on their day.” She cast a side glance at St. Claire. “My apologies for the slight to your sister’s guests, sir.”
“No apology needed, my lady. Our opinions in this matter coincide exactly. May I hope that they always stay as closely aligned.” He grinned at her.
She narrowed her pale eyes and gazed into his with a puzzled expression. “I must say, sir, you are not at all what I expected when my mother spoke of you. And she did speak of you, at great and detailed length.”
They descended the stairs together at a stately pace.
“And what were you expecting?”
“A wolf, sir. An attractive beast, but dangerous, so I am told.”
St. Claire let out a shout of laughter at the young lady’s forthright disclosure. “Ah, but perhaps I am just a wolf masquerading in sheep’s clothing, my dear. The better to allay your fears.”
Lady Grishelda slanted him an incredulous stare. “Lord St. Claire, I am no simpering debutante, nor am I a fashionable impure. There is no need of flirtatious asides with me, you know.”
St. Claire grimaced. “Impaled,” he said, his hand over his heart. “You have cut me to the quick, my dear. And I was hoping for a spot of intelligent flirtation this season.”
Lady Grishelda smiled. “You shall look to my mama for that, sir. She will indulge you in any type of flirtation you like, and maybe even one tailor-made to suit you.”
• • •
Celestine remained distracted long after her visitors retreated. The little girls were called for tea, and she tidied the schoolroom, then sat down with her sewing basket.
Lady Grishelda. She embodied everything Celestine had ever thought a young lady of the ton should be. She was gracious and graceful, kind and intelligent. She would be an admirable foil for St. Claire’s high spirits and rackety ways. This Christmas season would, perhaps, see the start of a friendship between them that, given time, would blossom into something more. She was just the kind of woman to settle him.
Celestine sighed. She rather hoped so. It would do Lord St. Claire good to have someone serious to set his feet on a more mature, intelligent path. She ignored the painful little voice in her own heart that pleaded for notice, arguing that she was that same type and perhaps with more appreciation for his lightheartedness, and firmly set her mind on her work. The elegant, attractive and witty aristocrat was not for such as her, even if things were different and she had been blessed with beauty as well as wit. Her situation was such that it precluded an alliance with a man of his exalted position.
And anyway she was not confident that she would have the vigor to reform a rake. That would require a woman of unusual strength of character, combined with a serious disposition and determination. Lady Grishelda van Hoffen.
She yawned. She was so tired in the afternoons. She struggled to stay awake as she sewed some basic garments for the puppets, the heads of which were now drying on a side table along the north wall of the schoolroom. There were enough for six characters. She hoped that would be enough.
Her eyes drifted shut and she slept, drifting immediately into a vivid dream.
She was walking in a grove of pine trees, their scent heavy on the cold breeze. She glanced down at herself and found she was cloaked in a red velvet cape trimmed in ermine, and she started. Where had she ever gotten such a fine garment? There was snow all around but she knew, for some reason, that she must stay right there and wait.
For what?
She wasn’t sure, but she was to wait. Her breath came out in steamy puffs and she could hear the trees creaking in the cold, weighed down as they were with a blanket of snow. Darkness was closing in, and she thought that she should be getting back home or she would be trapped out in the dark with a snowstorm coming.
She heard a thundering of hooves through the forest and a great black horse came into view, with a rider clad in a black cape. He swung himself down from his mount and came toward her. “St. Claire,” she whispered, gazing up into his handsome face. His expression was one of desperate need, desire, even. His blue eyes glittered like sapphires in the dim light.
“Celestine,” he said and clasped her into his arms, holding her close. Then he bent his head and his lips touched hers, softly, warm and reassuring in the cold breeze. “Come away with me, my love, and I will give you everything your heart desires. I will treasure you all the days of my life. I don’t care what my brother says, or Elizabeth, I love you. Come away with me.”
Celestine’s lips curved in a smile as she relaxed into a deep sleep, curled up in her chair in the darkening schoolroom.
• • •
The evening was dark, with a howling wind that rattled windows and blew down the chimneys. The company was gathered in the drawing room after dinner, the men drinking port and the ladies taking coffee. Small groups had formed and St. Claire restlessly moved from one to another, listening to the conversation and trying to avoid Lady van Hoffen’s winks and grimaces.
He was feeling irritable and out of sorts and he didn’t know why. He approached the hearth and gazed into the crackling blaze, swirling his drink in his stemmed glass. What in God’s name was wrong with him? He had everything a man could hope for in life, and more: wealth, title, health, family, and even good looks, to top it off. Enough women had extolled his manly virtues that he did not think it was vanity to believe himself good-looking. When he looked in his own mirror he only saw the usual set of features, arranged in the usual way, but women seemed to find his appearance pleasing enough. He would be a fool not to notice that and take advantage of it.
All of that aside, why was he staring broodingly into the fire instead of flirting with the voluptuous widow who wanted to warm his bed, or even with the giddy, pretty Stimson girls? He glanced around the room. Charlotte and Caroline Stimson were at the piano, working out a duet. Their glossy dark heads were bent together as they worked out the music. Elizabeth sat with Dodo and Emily, and Mrs. Stimson listened in as she did some kind of complex needlework.
Mr. Stimson, August and Lady van Hoffen were by the coffee tray. The widow was flirting with August, or trying to, at least. He wished her well of it. August was a painfully righteous gentleman and would likely not recognize it for what it was, an attempt to draw St. Claire over, or even for what it wasn’t, an attempt to draw the marquess into her bed. Lady Grishelda was looking over a book, seemingly needing no outside companionship.
He envied her self-containment. She appeared to need no one, perfectly content to go her own way and live with her own thoughts. That was the result of unblemished morality, no doubt. St. Claire tossed back the rest of the port, grimaced and set the glass on the mantel. Was he getting maudlin again? What did he want to be doing right now?
Strangely enough, he longed to get back to writing his little fable for the girls. He wondered if Celestine would like it. Would she frown and criticize, or just cast her luminous eyes down and say, “It is fine, my lord,” just because he was her employer’s brother? Or would her glowing eyes turn up to meet his as she said, “Oh, well done, St. Claire! It is perfect!”
Damn. That was ridiculous. Even if she approved, she would hardly use his given name. She had made it perfectly clear that such a privilege was not what she aspired to. It was just that the one instance she had used it, when she was asleep and had murmured it, had given him a hunger to hear her say it again. He didn’t think he had ever heard a woman say his name in quite that tone. It had sounded like an endearment on her lips.
He wished he knew what her reaction would be to his play. It was important to him that she approved, though he hardly knew why. Why did it matter? And why had he attempted that tawdry bit of flirtation in front of her in the schoolroom that afternoon? Had he expected to see hurt, anger, jealousy? All he had surprised in her fine gray eyes was puzzlement and disapproval.
What did she do in the evening, he wondered. The girls were in bed, or in Elise’s care by now, and so there were no more demands on her time. He found himself possessed by a powerful curiosity. He excused himself to Elizabeth and slipped from the room.
She would likely be in her own room, a sanctum he could not invade, but it was just possible she was in the schoolroom preparing for the next day. He took the stairs two at a time but slowed before he got to the third floor. No need to alert her to his presence too soon by galloping like a racehorse.
It was quiet up there. The maids and footmen would no doubt be sitting down to dinner in the servants’ dining hall. Perhaps that was where Celestine was, too. But no, there was a light in the schoolroom. Silently, he crept forward and looked in the partially open door. She was by the fireplace, but there was no fire lit. He frowned.
She was sewing something gray by the light of a dim candle on the table beside her. Every few stitches she would stop, rub her knuckles, then go on, laboriously setting stitch after stitch in a straight line. At one point, she sighed and set the sewing on her lap and leaned her head back. Her eyes fluttered to a close and she seemed almost to sleep for a moment. Then she shook herself and continued with her work.
St. Claire remembered what Emily had said about Celestine’s ailment. Her hands were painful, almost crippled, when she was in the throes of an attack of arthritis. And she failed to take care of herself as she should. How did one take care of arthritis? He cast his mind back to his uncle, who had suffered from the ailment.
Uncle Solomon had sworn by the mineral water baths at Bath. That connected with something Emily had said in her little speech to him. St. Claire headed back the way he had come, his face a mask of concentration.