St. Claire strode from the schoolroom to his bedchamber. It would not do to enter his sister’s parlor in a state of raging arousal. Unbelievable that he should be so affected by a prim gray mouse of a governess. He had bedded courtesans, society wives, some of the most beautiful women in England! He had thought himself in control of the situation, had expected to arouse her desire, then leave her hanging.
Instead it was Celestine who pushed him away, leaving him to deal with his problem. It was just being male, he supposed. She was a warm and willing bundle in his arms and his body had prepared itself accordingly. Too many years of mindless seduction; he was not used to having to exercise control.
Warm. Willing. When he had gazed down into her liquid gray eyes, he would have sworn she was beautiful in that moment, even though he knew better. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, like the very best bone china, with that enchanting sprinkle of freckles over her small nose. Her mouth was well suited to satisfy a man’s hunger; he had been right about that. He had plundered the depths of her mouth, erotic images flooding his brain as he had imagined her sensual lips employed in delectably arousing ways. As he thrust into her mouth he had wanted nothing more than to lay her back on the schoolroom table and show her how pleasurable was the sweet mating dance of man and woman. A fine sweat broke out on his brow.
Her hair, so mousy-looking bundled back into a bun, was a glorious silken mane that hung around her shoulders like a curtain. He could see it fanned across a pillow, her pale, perfect skin glowing with vitality from the passionate exercise he was giving her as she writhed beneath him while he thrust into her welcoming body.
He hungered for her. For her! He sat down on his bed and ran his fingers through his curls as he considered that fact. He need not go without fulfillment even here in the hinterlands of the Lake District. He knew that at that moment, in his condition, he could have found Lady van Hoffen and she would gladly have given him satisfaction. Her reputation preceded her to Langlow as a woman eager to lay down for any man with the time and inclination. She was well known in London, where her reputation as a vigorous and athletic lover was bandied about in every one of the men’s clubs he frequented.
But he didn’t want her. He didn’t just want a willing receptacle to pour himself into. For all her aristocratic pretensions, Lady van Hoffen was not circumspect when it came to choosing sexual partners, nor discreet in her amours.
Had that ever happened before, that he had passed up a willing woman when he was randy? Not in his memory. His lust had been aroused by more than one female ineligible to bed by virtue of being young and unmarried, and he had always satisfied himself with some willing courtesan. He would not be caught in parson’s mousetrap just for nibbling forbidden cheese. Any food would satisfy when one was hungry. But not this time.
He sighed and lay back on his bed, staring up at the rich, wine-colored brocade bed hangings and sturdy oak posts as his ardor finally began to abate. For the first time he thought of Celestine—really thought of her, and her life. He would swear that his kiss was her first, that she was a virgin in every way. But after the initial timidity, she had melted against him with a tender passion that aroused him all over again as he thought of it. She had met his darting tongue and searching kiss with ardor and tremulous yearning.
What was different about her, about her kiss and touch? Was it because he was her first? There was astonishing power in that thought, knowing she was absolutely untouched. He had never had a virgin and had always supposed his first would be his wife, whoever she was. What would it be like? Would it be awful, or awe-inspiring?
He supposed that would depend on the girl he chose, and her own response to his lovemaking. He was generally accounted to be a considerate lover, careful of his partner’s pleasure before his own, a fact which apparently had made the rounds in London. Lady van Hoffen had whispered as much to him earlier, as she squeezed his leg. But a virgin would require special care. It would help, he guessed, if the girl had a passionate nature, like Celestine.
There he was, back to her again. There must have been other men who were interested in her, in her first bloom. After all, though she was plain to most eyes, she was not ugly, and she had a softly rounded body, pleasing to a man. And her eyes kindled with a spark . . . His dark, thick brows drew down, and he absently plucked at the figured bedcover.
Had anyone else seen her eyes as he did? She seemed to become a different person in his arms, alight with an inner flame that burned hot and luscious. And yet he had seen something there long ago, before he had kissed her. A sweet confusion in her glance when she looked at him, a wide-eyed look of wonder.
He knew other ladies thought him handsome and had professed to love him. He had been in London for twelve seasons and had his share of doe-eyed debutantes casting themselves at his feet, dying of love for him, or so the more indiscreet had said. He had been feted, complimented, sought-after for most of his thirty-two years.
But he had never felt such a magnetic pull as he had the night he and Celestine came home together with Elise and Mrs. Jacobs, in the carriage. He had longed to take her in his arms and hold her—just hold her, nothing more. He wanted to protect her from the vagaries of her life and soothe her pain, comfort her fears. And if the maid and housekeeper hadn’t been there, he would have.
He had attributed his tears in the church and tender reaction to Miss Simons’s fragility to the over-emotionalism he was occasionally prey to. He was the unfortunate inheritor of his mother’s disposition. He remembered as a lad occasionally coming upon her weeping over a sad novel or lovely piece of music, and knew it was to her he owed his sensitive nature. He had struggled to submerge that side of himself. There was no room in a man’s life for emotionalism. His father had made sure he knew that, and had beat him once for crying over a hurt puppy. But was that all that lay behind his urge to protect and shelter the governess?
He bounded from the bed with a snort of disgust. What in God’s name was coming over him? He was acting like a moonling with a first crush, and over a plain little dab of a governess! He needed rational male company: a bottle of port, a cigar and a game of billiards. That was the logical cure to this illogical burst of inappropriate lust. Surely lust was all it was.
• • •
Lady Emily paced the conservatory, ostensibly enjoying the orchids and other fine blossoms. But what she was really doing was worrying, wringing her fine, soft hands together and pacing! She had been appalled at the way her niece had neglected herself in her time at Langlow. Only with the most strenuous care could she avoid extreme pain for a number of weeks or even months a year, and yet she didn’t give herself a second thought, devoting herself to those over-cared-for children of the St. Claires. But Emily saw a danger to her niece more insidious than the merely physical. In their long talk the night before, Emily had drawn Celestine out, gently encouraging her to talk about anything and everything.
She had been starved of adult company for almost a year, so it was no surprise that she poured her heart out, talking nonstop for almost three hours. And in those hours Celestine had unwittingly exposed more of her heart than she perhaps had intended. The girl was halfway in love with St. Claire. She had spoken of him going to choir practice, his quiet praise of her voice, the connection she felt to him in the carriage on the way home and his gentle treatment of her when her emotions brimmed up.
She spoke with puzzlement of his teasing and flirtation, but there was no anger or disdain. There was longing, tender, winsome, full-hearted longing that she no doubt did not realize she was revealing. She touched on his looks, but they did not seem to figure largely in her infatuation.
Celestine was the most sensible of women, but Emily realized that all too often that was the very kind to be taken in by a smooth-tongued rogue. And St. Claire was every inch a rogue, a devil with the ladies. In his years in London he had cut a wide swath through the ranks of debutantes and even the more experienced ladies of the ton.
Sometimes Emily thought that he wasn’t fully aware of his own powers, as ladies often languished on the sidelines, in the throes of absolute infatuation with him, when he had done no more than bow to them or said a kind word. There was something about St. Claire that called to a deep, yearning place in a woman’s soul, the place where tenderness resided. And yet he was a rakehell and a roué. Her sweet niece was falling in love with a cad who could not begin to appreciate her fine, deep qualities.
She did not think she was being too partial when she spoke or thought of her niece as sweet, loving, dutiful and intelligent. But there was more to Celestine. There was also a deep, abiding strength of character. And there was an awesome optimism, despite the uneven hand she had been dealt. She truly did not see herself as unfortunate, with the curse of arthritis and poverty heaped on top of loneliness and spinsterhood. Celestine had lost most of what mattered to her in life: her health, her father, her home and her position in society. And yet she had a determined cheerfulness of character that was motivated solely by her lack of self-centeredness.
And that was what Emily had been trying to say to St. Claire. Instead he had seen her interference as offensive, and had sneered at her enumeration of her niece’s sterling qualities. And this was the first man Celestine would fall in love with? As likable as St. Claire was, and it was impossible to hate him even when one saw him for the rogue he was, she still could cheerfully consign him to the devil that moment.
So what would she do? Watch and wait, she supposed, and be there to guard Celestine, or to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart when St. Claire revealed himself for the heartless cad he had always been. And hope that it would happen soon, so that Emily would be able to be there. She prayed that St. Claire’s visit did not outlast her own. From what she had heard, he intended to take himself back to town for the New Year’s festivities. Emily turned toward the door and headed back to the parlor and more empty chat with the empty-headed Stimson sisters.
• • •
The air sparkled with a crystalline brightness that Celestine didn’t think she had ever seen before. Lottie and Gwen raced down the path ahead of her, through the light covering of snow, laughing and screaming at the momentum that they built up. Lady Langlow would go into strong hysterics if she could see her girls acting like such hoydens, but Celestine was an advocate of the maxim that children must be allowed to be children, with all the attendant noise and occasional scraped knees.
She knew she was beaming, grinning in fact, and the sparkling weather or childish laughter could not be the only reason. After a quiet half hour’s reflection over the morning’s events, she had decided that there was nothing at all wrong with admitting that she had tumbled headlong in love with St. Claire. She felt joyous and free, youthful and energized just saying it out loud. “I have fallen in love with Lord St. Claire Richmond!” She laughed at the silliness of it.
Where was the harm? He would never know about it. No one would ever know about it. She would keep her full heart concealed from everyone and hug her secret knowledge to herself. Pain was inevitable, but right now she was going to enjoy his company when she had it and not feel ashamed of loving.
But she must not allow such trespasses on her person again. That could only lead to trouble, and she felt it was inherently unfair to engage in actions that would lead to unrealistic expectations on his side. Not that he would expect to court her as he would a lady he was considering marriage with, but he might think she would be amenable to a liaison of a less moral kind.
She acquitted him of any serious intentions. He did not conduct himself like a man who would be considering marriage or wooing. It was just his way, and how could he help that? Many girls must have fallen in love with a man so gifted, handsome and engaging as he was. She was not the first and would not be the last. She could do nothing about it now that the damage was done, so she must just relax and let time settle things.
She strolled down the snowy hill after the girls, feeling better than she had for ages. They were walking along a path that led to the edge of the St. Claires’ property, though the property line was not even in sight yet, and wouldn’t be for a while. It was a large estate, and they were the principle landowners of the area, employing hundreds of people in addition to the household staff: shepherds, dairymaids, gardeners, farmers, ostlers, a blacksmith . . . and many more.
But all the technical part of running the estate was behind Langlow. She was walking with the girls in the pleasure park, a landscaped area with wooded copses, rolling lawns and a small stream, frozen now in places, gurgling, bright and silver in others.
“Miss Simons!”
A voice, carried on the wind, reached her as she approached the wooden bridge over the small stream on the Langlow property.
Celestine turned and saw Mr. Foster, the vicar, following her down the path. He was a stark, black blot on the white and blue horizon. She called to the girls, then stopped to wait.
Panting a little, Mr. Foster said, as he reached her, “I am so glad I caught you. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”
“I am just taking the girls for a walk. This time of year excites the little ones so, they need to work off their fidgets.”
“They should be assigned some quiet work!” the reverend said, with a bit of a frown. “Contemplation is what they need, and perhaps a talk about the true meaning of Christmas.”
Celestine bit back the response that first came to her lips, and merely said, “Of course, sir. Perhaps you are right.”
Foster unbent a little, and with hands clasped behind his black-coated back, he fell into step with her. Lottie and Gwen were gathering pinecones under a deep green conifer, where the snow had not yet drifted in, and stuffing them into the pockets of their cloaks. They wanted to decorate the schoolroom and Celestine had agreed to help them.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” she asked. She smiled up at him, determined not to let the parson’s sometimes priggish attitude destroy her joy in the day.
He harrumphed once, blowing out his breath in a cloud of steam, and Celestine glanced over at him in some surprise. “I was dismayed, Miss Simons, at the apparent interest Lord St. Claire has taken in you. It cannot have an honorable intent, and I felt it my duty, as your religious advisor, to prepare you in the event he approaches you with an improper suggestion.”
Celestine gaped foolishly in her surprise.
Foster took her tiny gasp of outrage as her reaction to this surprising revelation, and said, “I know, Miss Simons. Quite shocking. Being a gently bred female, you will be unacquainted with male lust, and I would not want your womanly weakness to be exploited by a predatory type such as the marquess’s brother. The aristocracy have different codes, my dear, if I might be so bold as to call you that. I would protect you from women’s inherent weakness of morality. And I would like to offer my protection in a more solid form. As my betrothed wife, you would be removed from his sphere of influence. I hope you know I consider you everything that is amiable and feel that marriage between us would satisfy us both on many levels.”
He paused and glanced sideways at Celestine. Possibly he sensed hesitation from her, because he rushed back into speech. “I know you will think me hasty, but I have been observing you for some time, and my decision was not taken lightly. As a man of the cloth I must think of the worthiness of my wife to be a beacon among women, and must judge her ability to exemplify St. Paul’s admonition, in his letter to the Ephesians, that women be subject to their husband as their head, their master, as their husbands are subject to our Lord . . .”
The rest was lost on Celestine. Anger had bubbled up into her serene heart, darkening the beauty of the day. How dare he? It was one thing for her to acknowledge her own ineligibility as far as an honorable connection with St. Claire went, but for the vicar to so boldly state that she was clearly only an object of lust for his lordship! And he would protect her from her own weakness of morality? Inwardly she seethed, but she made a strenuous and not entirely successful attempt to keep her anger quelled.
“Lottie, Gwen! We have to go back now. Tea will be waiting!” Her voice sounded harsh, even to herself. Tears blinded her eyes, and she didn’t dare venture a word to the man at her side.
Luckily, he was readily able to come to an explanation for her silence. “I believe you are overwhelmed by my offer, my dear. I will give you time to digest it before informing your employers of our intentions. Indeed, I would not have come forward at this busy time of year, except that I feared for you in the same household with that . . . that libertine. I believe the knowledge of your impending marriage will strengthen you in your resistance to that animal’s lustful predation, but you must feel free to come to me at any time if you feel yourself weak in the face of his licentious and lascivious manner.”
Her continued silence and hurried footsteps did not register with the vicar as disapproval. He continued. “I have heard many things of Lord St. Claire Richmond. We both attended Oxford, myself a couple of years ahead of him, and even in those days he was a known gambler and fornicator. I will not shock your tender sensibilities with the raw facts: the soiled doves under his protection, the games of chance and dens of iniquity he was known to frequent. I may have already been too forthright, I fear, judging by your continued silence.
“But he has ever been addicted to the pleasures of the flesh. My sermon this week shall be ‘Lust, the deadliest of the seven deadly sins.’ It will be wasted on his ears, I know, if he even attends service, which I doubt. This is where I must part from you, my dear. I must pay my respects to her ladyship, and then return home.”
He turned to Celestine, his dark eyes intent. “I would like to celebrate our betrothal, my dear. Please do not take what I am about to do amiss. Never fear that I will view you with a lustful eye, for I am not given to a violence of emotions.” He stepped closer to her, gripped her shoulders in his hands and laid a cold kiss on her forehead, then turned and walked away.
Celestine was too shocked to do anything but submit to his odious, cold salute.
• • •
Over a hill St. Claire galloped on his gelding, which danced to a stop as he pulled back on the reins. In the distance, on her way back up the hill toward the house, was Celestine with Lottie and Gwen gamboling behind, skipping and running. But there was someone else with the governess, a dark figure. As he watched, the man in a black greatcoat turned an unresisting Celestine toward him and planted a kiss on her face, whereabouts St. Claire couldn’t quite tell. It was enough to see that she did not push him away, nor did she slap him after.
By God, it was that smarmy vicar, Mr. Foster! And their relationship must be farther along than he had ever thought for the man of the cloth to be kissing her in broad daylight in the view of the children. A cold swell of some bitter, unidentifiable feeling swept over St. Claire. He had been wrong, evidently, about her never having been kissed. Was she playing them both like fish on hooks, seeing if she could land one of them, it didn’t matter much which? His lips twisted in anger.
And he had thought her an innocent, an untouched, virginal spinster. Maybe she would come to his bed willingly, then, thinking to catch herself a husband that way. Maybe he did not have to spend his time at Langlow in vigorous exercise to quell the passion roiling through his veins.
He had won the contest he had set himself; that kiss in the schoolroom satisfied his bet with himself. And striking a blow for Celestine’s freedom from Elizabeth’s tyranny was a moot point if what he now believed was true and she was playing one man off the other in a bid for freedom of a more permanent kind. Now there was more to be won than just a kiss. Perhaps it was time to press her a little more closely.