Lord St. Claire's Angel Page 3

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 Langlow and a book of receipts for the housekeeper, Mrs. Jacobs. The marquess had rather progressive 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.

  St. Claire 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? She did not stand a chance. She would be eager for his touch, her 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 an ugly spinster, for God’s sake! Though she really wasn’t ugly, merely plain, he thought, glancing over at her. He examined her critically, as another man might look over a painting he considered purchasing, or a horse he was bidding on at Tattersalls. Maybe her mouth was too wide for fashion, but it would be satisfying to kiss. And the curves under the worn old 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, to show Elizabeth that 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 that 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.

  To that end he must continue to charm her.

  “And what does Miss Simons want for a special Christmas present,” he slyly asked, harkening back to his conversation with the girls about Christmas presents. 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.

  “She’s too old for a dolly!” Lottie said scornfully. When her little sister’s face became pinched with a hurt expression and Celestine gave her an admonishing look, the older girl put her arm over her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Gwenny. A dolly then.”

  The two girls joined hands and ran down the walkway and up some steps into the confectioner’s shop, where they knew Mrs. Gruett would have a sugarplum for them each. It was smack up against the baker, and when a door opened, an elderly, smiling woman nodding to them as she exited, the fragrant scent of cinnamon and ginger assailed their nostrils.

  “What is it to be? Books or a dolly?” St. Claire grinned.

  Flustered, Miss Simons stared straight ahead. “I . . . I don’t receive gifts . . . I mean . . .”

  “Oh, come. Every lady likes gifts.” St. Claire lowered his tone to a coaxing, seductive rasp. He took her arm as they prepared to enter the confectioner’s to fetch the two girls. She started to pull away, but his arched brow and questioning expression confused her and she lowered her eyes. He retained her arm and murmured, “Some French perfume? Lace handkerchiefs?”

  “I have little experience of gifts . . . I mean, since I was a girl.”

  “And that was, when? Last year?”

  “Many years ago, sir,” she said quietly, withdrawing her arm from the crook of his elbow. “It has been many years since I was a girl.”

  He watched as she bustled forward through the door and exchanged a few pleasant words with Mrs. Gruett, then guided the girls back out into the winter sunshine. She hunched down to retie Gwen’s bonnet, her gloved hands clumsy enough that it took a few tries. He wondered what was wrong with her hands and why they were so swollen. He had thought that kind of inflammation only came with age. It was not something he could ask about, and certainly was nothing she would volunteer.

  She was a puzzle, this plain, quiet, dignified little governess. She would not allow him to flirt with her, seeming to prefer real conversation to the teasing kind of talk he was used to having with women. In fact, when they conversed he forgot for long periods his intentions toward her, losing himself in intelligent, interesting discourse. It was a novelty to just talk to a woman, but he shrugged and decided if that was what she wanted, that was what she would get . . . for now.

  They chatted and walked together along the streets of Ellerbeck as she discharged her duties one by one in the shops that huddled along the sloping streets. She must have asked everyone in the house if she could do something for them in town, he thought. She had been at Langlow less than a year, but it seemed that everyone in the town knew her, all muttering a pleasant good morning, or nodding, or tipping a hat, before making their more formal obeisance to him.

  He knew the area was friendly, the people of Cumbria making up for the harshness of the landscape with an unusually high tolerance for strangers, but there was more than tolerance in their greetings to the governess. There were a few words exchanged, servants asked after, her own well-being questioned. One elderly lady took her aside and lectured her for a few minutes, perhaps about her hands, as she took the governess’s in her own and patted them. At the end of the conversation, the old lady kissed Miss Simons’s cheek and patted it, too, before sending her on her way.

  Finally they had rounded the bend and were on their way back out of town. They were approaching the little stone church, its spire rising above the town like a finger pointing heavenward, offering all a chance for redemption. It was a pretty little church, with a stone fence around it and a picturesque cemetery behind. Just as they were about to pass, a man came out a side door, closing it behind him.

  “Ah, Miss Simons,” he said, advancing down the path and coming out the gate set in the stone wall to the street. “How delightful to see you, and of course Lady Charlotte and Lady Gwenevere!” He bent down to shake their hands solemnly, then straightened, swept back a dark lock of hair, and looked at St. Claire. “And Lord St. Claire, I believe? His lordship, the marquess, said he was expecting you. Delightful to meet you, my lord.” He bowed, a graceful gesture.

  The man was just too polite, St. Claire thought, but of course he was a vicar. Perhaps it went with the position. He was a handsome fellow, too, in a dark, square way. St. Claire would not normally have noticed that about another man, but there was something in his manner toward the governess that alerted him, and he looked him over more carefully.

  “Are you walking my way?” he asked, turning his gaze back to Miss Simons. His dark eyes lit up as he gazed at her.

  She smiled, her lips curving in a delightful bow and her gray eyes lit up, kindling from his. “We are, sir. In fact, I was on my way to drop this off at the vicarage!” She held out the wrapped parcel she carried—the one she had brought with her from Langlow. “It is knitted stockings for Mother Gudge and a couple of more dolls for the poor box. I do so want the poor children to have something for Christmas. Mr. Dougherty, his lordship’s blacksmith, has promised some toys for the little boys, as well.”

  “Delightful!” the vicar said, offering her his arm. As she slipped her arm through his, he patted her gloved hand with a proprietary air. “You are so kind, Miss Simons, to busy yourself with making things for the poor with what little spare time you have. And you have an admirable way of rallying others to help, too. What a valuable talent that is, to be sure! But you must be tired if you have walke
d all this way. May I offer my carriage and groom back to Langlow?”

  “That is not necessary,” St. Claire interrupted, a little put out to find himself excluded from the conversation, along with a restive Gwen and Lottie. “I am carrying the lady’s parcels, and it is not such a walk.”

  The vicar glanced at him, his expression serious. “Perhaps Miss Simons feels differently, my lord. She is not as strong as you, and we must cherish the ladies, do you not agree? Well, Miss Simons, may I offer my carriage? It would fit you all. It is elderly but well-sprung, I believe.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Foster, but we will not need it today. It was very kind of you to ask, though.”

  St. Claire grimaced at the vicar’s reproving look toward him and gritted his teeth. “Miss Simons, if you are refusing the offer because of what I said, please do not.”

  With a puzzled expression, the governess looked from one man to the other as if sensing the antagonism, faint but alive, between them. “Not at all. Mr. Foster, I merely came by to drop off the parcel and to ask about choir practice on Friday night. His lordship is sending Mrs. Jacobs, Elise and I down in the carriage, and I wondered if there was anyone else who could use a ride. We have room for another, or perhaps even two, as Elise and I aren’t that big!”

  The vicar tore his gaze from the aristocrat and chuckled. He took both her hands in his own as they paused in front of a neat stone cottage that must be the new vicarage.

  “I do not believe there is anyone else, Miss Simons, though it is kind of you to ask. But then you are always so thoughtful; it is in your nature, I believe! If I hear anything to the contrary, I shall send a message. This, I believe, is where we part company. Would that I could walk you back up to Langlow myself! I would count it no small pleasure, but my duty lies elsewhere, I am afraid.”

  “You are too kind, Mr. Foster,” Miss Simons said with lowered eyes. “I shall see you next at choir practice then.”

  The vicar bowed over her hand, took the package from her and turned and made his bow to the brother of his patron. He then said good-bye to the children, who were restless to continue their walk. The foursome set off again, with Mr. Foster waving good-bye at his door, package clutched securely under his arm.

  “Pompous bootlicker!” St. Claire said.

  Miss Simons glanced at him in some surprise. “I do not believe I detected any hint of obsequiousness, my lord!” she said, disapproval in her voice.

  So that was how the wind blew, St. Claire thought. A match between the plain governess and the country vicar. And why not? Each could do worse. From his sister-in-law’s conversation the previous evening it was clear that Miss Simons was of the untitled gentry—well-born if not highborn. And the vicar seemed a harmless enough fellow, for all that he grated on his nerves for some reason that he couldn’t quite name. “I believe” this and “I believe” that!

  But he would still have his flirtation, he decided. Even if Miss Simons’s heart was engaged, he was a skilled master at stealing even spoken-for hearts. In fact, it made the challenge all the more arousing. His blood was up for the hunt and the bugle had sounded!

  • • •

  The next few days passed without any opportunity for flirtation, though. St. Claire smacked balls around the table in the billiard room and brooded. The drab governess seemed to sense when he was nearing her and, if she was alone, she retreated every time. It was three weeks until Christmas, and he had set himself the unofficial deadline of Christmas Eve for his stolen kiss.

  It was all the more difficult as Miss Simons did not dine with the family and of course did not socialize. Elizabeth declared a holiday from the schoolroom for her girls, but that did not mean an end to the governess’s duties. She seemed to be even busier, if that was possible.

  Miss Simons gave the nurse a break from Bertie almost every day, taking him and the two girls out of doors for romps in the garden. He had joined them a few times, but the children occupied her time, and demanded his full attention as well. Still, he found himself enjoying the governess’s company, even if he had to share her with his nieces and nephew.

  At other times, she helped the housekeeper with household mending when she was in the sitting room with the girls. He joined them then, too, and sometimes read to his nieces from the adventure stories he had enjoyed as a lad. He knew Miss Simons was listening, too, from the smile that lifted her soft lips and involuntary laughter when he embroidered the tales with his own humorous additions. Most times, though, she was not to be found. Presumably she was caring for her charges, but never was she seen when she did not have some occupation.

  She was not at all like Miss Chambly. Last year’s governess had dressed simply, as befitted her station, but she suddenly bloomed into a coquette when St. Claire looked her way and smiled. She had flirted and batted her eyes, giving him languishing glances no man could have ignored. But Miss Simons kept her eyes steadfastly turned away and her hands safely busy. It was annoying and not a little unsettling to find that nothing—not flirtation, not kindness, nor even trickery—could capture her attention.

  And so he knocked the ivory balls around the billiards table in bored contemplation of his failure.

  Elizabeth, her eyes flashing, stormed into the billiards room. She was a dainty, frivolous note in a very dark, masculine room. Her pale lemon dress seemed to glow in the setting of dark wood paneling, maroon carpet and dull gold furniture. “St. Claire, I will not have it!”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear sister?” Laconically, he knocked the balls into pockets one by one, occasional puffs on a cigar his only break. His words were punctuated by the smack of ball against ball.

  “I will not have you seducing this governess! The children love her, and I do not want to have to send her away!”

  He glanced up at her. She stood, arms akimbo, her lips set in a grim line.

  “Whatever has set you off this time, my dear sister?”

  “Do not take me for a fool, St. Claire. I have seen your peculiar attentiveness toward Miss Simons. You spend hours every day in her company, and—”

  “Cut line, Elizabeth! You exaggerate. I am here to visit with my nieces and nephews. If they happen to be with their drab little governess, what fault is that of mine?”

  The marchioness was not to be put off so easily. As St. Claire stooped to return to his game, she grasped the cue stick and would not let go. He straightened and she glared up at him. “I am not blind, nor am I stupid. I have been debating whether to say something to you for two days, and now I have had a most disturbing visit. Just this afternoon the vicar was here. He was concerned, he said, as a man of God, to see your . . .” She frowned and glanced down for a moment. “How did he put it?” She nodded sharply and looked back up at him. “Ah, yes; he was concerned, he said, to see your dangerously overt attentions to someone so clearly below your touch. As Miss Simons’s vicar, he felt duty-bound to question your motives.”

  “That pompous busybody!” St. Claire jerked the pool cue from Elizabeth’s grasp and threw it on the table, the clatter echoing in the dim recesses of the room. “I merely happened to be going to Ellerbeck for some Christmas shopping and Miss Simons and I met by accident; that is when the vicar saw us together. In all courtesy, what did you expect me to do? Ignore her? Disregard the fact that she had more packages than she could carry? I am not such a cad as that.”

  Elizabeth’s narrowed eyes spoke more than any words that she was not convinced.

  It was vital that she be put from the scent or she would spoil everything. St. Claire quirked a grin, pouring all of his charm and considerable experience into his voice. He took Elizabeth’s hands in his and kissed each one. “I would not dream of disturbing your peace, my dear, so set your mind at ease. You will not have to discharge Miss Simons.”

  Elizabeth looked up into his eyes for a moment. Finally she sighed and said, “Thank you, St. Claire. I was not looking forward to having to toss one of you out on your ear. It just might have been you I discharged this time
.” She whirled and was gone in a swirl of silk skirts and sandalwood perfume.

  “I said you wouldn’t have to discharge her, not that I would not dally,” St. Claire said to the empty room. He picked up his cue stick, leaned over again and stroked carefully, pocketing the ball he was aiming for. His determination increased. Little Miss Simons would take notice of him, or he would have to resign his honorary spot in the Seducers Club, an unofficial band of like-minded young men bent on romantic conquest. He had never failed yet, and would not now. And Elizabeth would get her comeuppance.

  Chapter Three

  Only four more weeks! Elise had assured her that Lord St. Claire Richmond was always back in London by the New Year, so she would have to endure his unwanted gallantries and seductive ways for only twenty-eight more days at the most; 668 hours: 40,000 minutes, more or less.

  She adjusted herself to a more comfortable position on the low chair by the hearth in the morning parlor but did not often dare to raise her eyes from her mending. Whenever she did, Lord St. Claire, who sat with his sister-in-law and her guests, would catch her eye and smile or do whatever it was he did with those amazing blue eyes of his. Somehow, with just a glance he could take her breath away.

  Why did he insist on singling her out for his subtle flirtation, Celestine fumed, presenting an outwardly calm demeanor as she stitched a hem on a tablecloth. Though she sat in the parlor with the family, she had purposely put distance between herself and the others. She knew that Lady Langlow was a stickler for a rigidly observed partition between the classes, and as a governess she had descended from her born position as a lady of gentility. The marchioness was a snob, in other words, though she would surely not describe herself that way. Nor would society. Those of her own position would say that she knew her place and expected others to, as well.

  Celestine brooded on about the brother of her employer. The only place she had been safe from his flattery and smiles was the schoolroom, but as it was the holiday season Lady Langlow liked to see her little girls, dressed prettily and on their best behavior, down in the drawing room for company and she wanted Miss Simons there as well.