The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

‘Est ce-que j’ai deux têtes?’ Do I have two heads? Jonathon dropped his voice to an appropriate whisper. ‘You’re staring.’

‘Pardon.’ Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘And you’re stalling.’ She didn’t want him to break down now. He’d done extraordinarily well on this outing. Maybe she was pushing for too much too soon. She reached to take the book from him. ‘Perhaps I should start.’

* * *

Jonathon watched Claire’s mouth. It was rather convenient that their lessons required it of him. She had the most delicious lips, pink and the bottom lip carried just a hint of sensual fullness to it, promising delight to those who might tempt to drink from that mouth, a promise that was born out in her kiss. Kissing her had been a misstep, though.

He could not bring himself to think of it as a mistake, merely a wonderful misstep. One did not kiss their teachers. Usually because those teachers were male. But also because it blended business with pleasure and it was easy to confuse gratitude over having learned something with other more passionate emotions.

One probably shouldn’t dance with their tutors either for the same reasons. In the last few weeks he’d done both and enjoyed them far more than he should. Just as he was enjoying this outing, which wasn’t really supposed to be an outing. He wasn’t ‘out’ with her, he was on a field trip with his tutor and yet he couldn’t quite convince himself this was the same thing as visiting the botanical gardens with his tutor, Mr Hadley, when he was a young boy. Probably because he wasn’t a boy any more and probably because he hadn’t kissed Mr Hadley or spent countless hours staring at Mr Hadley’s mouth, which as he recalled, had a small wart on the left side. He spent most of the time trying not to look at it. He’d never wondered about Mr Hadley the way he wondered about Claire Welton.

She paused from her reading and he let his question tumble out, in French of course. ‘Why so many languages, Claire?’ He was gratified to see the question startled her, she was always so in control during their lessons, directing their conversations with an enviable coolness.

She stared at him, a little furrow forming between her brows. ‘What does that have to do with Machaut’s poetry?’

‘Nothing.’ Jonathon gave her a wide smile and didn’t back down. He continued in French. ‘It has to do with you.’

Lovely and intelligent, Claire Welton was becoming a potent temptation. It was hard to imagine the woman across from him was the same Claire Welton who had started the Season timid and dressed in what could only be described as ‘adequate fashion’. ‘Are you going to answer or do I have to stare at you all afternoon?’

She set down the book. ‘You won’t laugh?’ His Claire had a vulnerable side. His? Hardly his, not in the usual way.

Jonathon shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

‘For the same reason I read. Words are escape, freedom. I can go places I’ve never been. Best of all, I can see the world differently. Languages all have unique words that English doesn’t have equivalents for because the cultures they represent have different experiences than we do, different understandings.’

‘Donnez-moi une example.’ He was truly sucked into the conversation now, barely aware of how easily he responded in French to her French.

‘Votre ami, Diderot.’ She gestured to the book the shopkeeper had left on the table, ‘He coined a phrase l’esprit d’escalier—the idea that one does not think of an appropriate response to a remark until one has left the party, or quite literally, reached the bottom of the stairs and it’s too late to respond. I don’t think we have an exact phrase for that concept in English.’

Fascinating. There was no other way to explain what it meant to sit there in the dusty bookshop and listen to her talk about escape, about freedom, about her desire to travel and see the world. To do so in French was only a small part of that fascination. She could have spoken in Turkish and it would have fascinated him. Admittedly, the French should have appealed much more given what he had at stake and what he’d struggled to overcome in the last seven years.

With Claire, he did feel he was on the road to recovery, but he wasn’t quite there. One successful outing did not a victory make. He knew before she said, ‘We should get back to our reading’, that he still had a way to go. If he tried to read from the book of poetry, he would stumble. It wasn’t exactly the note he wanted to end their day on. He prevaricated and Claire rose from the table, sensing his reluctance. Perhaps she, too, didn’t want to risk the little successes of the afternoon.

‘Maybe something different? Machaut can be difficult at first.’ She went to an aisle, no doubt intending to find another text. When she didn’t return immediately, he followed her, finding her engrossed in a slim volume, her back to him, her head bent just so, exposing the nape of her neck left bare from the upsweep of her hair. She made a pretty picture and an irresistible one. An urge to claim this moment, to claim her, swept him in a powerful wave. What would she do, if he kissed her here? Would she come alive as she had in the Rosedale garden? Would he?

He strode up behind her, his hands gripping her arms in gentle alert to his presence, his mouth close to her ear. ‘What are you doing, Claire?’ She jumped a little, startled out of her reading by his nearness, perhaps by his touch. It was a familiar touch, the kind a lover would use, but he didn’t let go.

‘Looking for something we can read.’

‘Je ne veux pas lire, Claire.’ His whisper sounded hoarse. Good, let it be a foreshadowing of what he did want, of what he meant to have if she would allow it. Was any of the intrigue he felt returned on her part? ‘Je veux te baiser.’ He kissed the bare space of her neck. Claire stiffened and he knew a moment’s trepidation. He’d overstepped himself, once more swept away by the moment.

‘You mean, je veux t’embrasser...’ She whispered the correction, breaking from the French for the first time since they’d entered the store. ‘You want to kiss me.’

‘Oui.’ Jonathon let a slow smile creep across his face. ‘What did I say?’ He had her backed to the wall now.

‘That you wanted to f—’ She blushed. ‘It’s a naughty word, Jonathon.’ Well, maybe he wanted to do that too. Just because he had manners didn’t mean he didn’t have baser desires too. The two were not mutually exclusive. He was a man after all and she was a beautiful, intriguing woman.

He started to reframe his question, but she cut him off, a finger pressed to his lips. ‘The answer is no. You may not kiss me.’ Her eyes danced and she made no effort to move away.

‘Why?’ Jonathon drawled, flirting with his eyes on her lips, not convinced he’d been rejected entirely.

‘This time I’m going to kiss you.’ Her arms were around his neck, pulling him close, her mouth finding his, full, open, and welcoming as it claimed his. Then his arms were about her, holding her against him, feeling the press of her, the curves of her, all warmth and willingness and eagerness, this was her kiss after all. She had initiated it, but the elation was all his. She wanted to kiss him! His bold Claire wanted to kiss him! It would be complicated later, but for now, it was pure, raw, joy and he let it shoot through him in lusty bolts.

The kiss was heady and hot, their mouths devouring each other by turn, his lips moving to her jaw, her throat, the pulse at the base of her neck. Only the last remnants of Claire’s sanity kept him from attempting something more wicked. ‘We have to stop.’ She drew a ragged breath, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth mere inches from his, her body giving no sign of agreeing with her mind. Jonathon pushed his advantage, reluctant to surrender the moment.

‘Not yet,’ he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers, his hand sliding up the slim width of her rib cage, until the curve of his palms cupped the undersides of her breasts through the muslin of her gown. He ran a thumb over a nipple and felt a shudder ripple through her. This was a torturous game of have and have not he played. It was heavenly to touch her, to feel the firmness, the fullness of her breasts in his hand, but it was hellish to have to stop there, to not take them in his mouth and kiss them as he did her lips, to not see them bared, naked in his hands.

‘Have you ever thought about not stopping, Claire?’ This was madness. His words were evidence of it. He dare not take this any further and yet he dare not stop. ‘Do you want to see what’s on the other side of this passion?’ Jonathon gave a groan, his hips grinding against hers as her sighs filled his mouth. ‘I could show you pleasure finer than this.’ His hand gripped the material of her skirts. It would be the work of a moment to have his hand behind them, the work of a few moments more to slide his fingers into her wet place and give her the pleasure her body was craving.

There was a cough behind him and Claire gave a gasp, her gaze hurtling to a spot over his shoulder, her cheeks flaming in mortification while the shopkeeper launched into a torrent of French.

‘Mon Dieu! Est-ce pas un bordel! Sortir, prendre votre amour ailleurs.’

Honestly, as they hurriedly gathered up Claire’s hat and left money for their purchases, Jonathon couldn’t tell if the man was genuinely offended or if he simply had to put up a pro forma protest because one really should not devour another’s mouth or body in a public establishment. There was no getting around it. That was precisely what he and Claire had been doing. Together.

That kiss had been about as ‘two way’ as it got and he refused to feel ashamed over it. He ushered Claire out of the store as if they’d done nothing wrong and very properly bid the shopkeeper adieu. The shopkeeper glared at them, but Jonathon merely laughed as the door swung shut behind them. He’d not had nearly that much fun in ages. For the first time, in a long time, the smile he wore was there by choice instead of force.

Claire’s face was blazing by the time he pulled the curricle away from the kerb. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his head.

‘What are you sorry about, Claire? Kissing me? Or getting caught?’

‘Getting caught, of course.’ Claire blushed even deeper, completely flustered once she realised what she’d said. The blush made her beautiful, a woman admitting to her passions. Would she look that way lying beneath him? Sated and replete from lovemaking? God, how he wanted to know. His body was rock hard from the wanting.

Jonathon laughed, steering the team into the traffic.

‘Aren’t you sorry?’ Claire persisted.

‘No, absolutely not.’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘However, having said that, you do understand there’s no good way for a man to answer the question?’ He lifted his eyebrows and pierced her with a direct look. ‘This afternoon was a most pleasant revelation. I’ve discovered I can speak French and you, Claire Welton, are a wild soul indeed. Only one question remains: where shall we go tomorrow?’ That was a lie. There were more questions that needed answering, like the one he’d asked her before the shopkeeper had interrupted them.

‘I shall have to think about that,’ Claire replied, her eyes dancing, her earlier mortification giving way to the hilarity and adventure of the situation. ‘It’s not every day a girl gets expelled from a bookshop for kissing Jonathon Lashley. I can’t imagine what sort of encore would top today’s excursion.’

‘I can, if you’d let me show you.’ It was a bold, wicked thing to say, but then again she’d kissed him. He was not the only interested party. ‘Will you promise me something? Save me two dances tonight and we can discuss it then.’

Claire raised a cocky eyebrow, willing to play the game. ‘Tomorrow’s excursion or the pleasure of kissing you?’

‘Both. I don’t recall saying they were mutually exclusive.’ He gave her a meaningful look. ‘Two dances, Claire. There will be no more running out on me.’

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_8553d7dc-0154-51bd-956e-92e90cce308e)

Two dances! He’d pledged the little bitch two dances. Cecilia fumed with angry tears smarting in her eyes from the sidelines. She’d caught sight of Claire’s dance card quite by contrived accident earlier in the evening when they’d passed in the retiring room. Claire’s card was fuller than usual, but that hadn’t been the surprise. The surprise had been seeing Jonathon’s name in bold letters printed on the card not once, but twice!

Twice! Twice was the maximum dances a gentleman could offer to a lady. It was the number Jonathon reserved for her. To offer that many dances to Claire somehow made Claire, an adequately dressed wallflower, equal to her, Cecilia Northam, a diamond of the first water, a woman destined to be the next Countess of Oakdale. Heaven forbid! It was not to be borne. Jonathon was hers and he needed reminding of it. Claire did, too.

Just look at them! She couldn’t help but notice the pair of them flying by on the dance floor, Claire in a lovely lilac and a beatific smile on her face, Jonathon laughing down at her as if the little wallflower had said something witty. He looked as though he was enjoying himself. Immensely. There was an easiness, a tenderness when he looked at Claire. Maybe Anne was right and he had kissed her, after all. She’d prefer to believe Anne was just being spiteful with her news. But seeing them like this, it was hard to dismiss Anne’s comment as complete heresy.

She twirled her champagne glass between her fingers. Signing up for two dances was one thing. Getting both of those dances was another. Lilac was a lovely colour, but it showed water stains. Badly.

* * *