The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

‘Have you decided?’ Jonathon whispered, swinging her through a turn. ‘Where shall our next adventure take place?’

‘The French market tomorrow near Fitzrovia.’ She’d decided that afternoon, not long after he’d dropped her off. He would have a chance to barter and argue. Haggling with the vendors would force him to think on his feet. There could be no script like today. Anticipating the conversations would only get him so far. His wits would have to do the rest.

‘I like the challenge of that.’ Jonathon smiled his approval and she nearly melted. She didn’t tell him the rest—that there would be handwritten signs at the stalls, just a few words at the most at a time. She was hoping to trick him into reading without thinking in the hopes that the spontaneity and informality of the setting would break through what was left of his performance anxiety.

‘Good.’ She beamed up at him. ‘I’ll bring a shopping list and a basket.’

‘And our other adventure, Claire? I would like to walk with you in the garden tonight.’ His voice dropped, husky and private at her ear, his hand tightening on her back to draw her closer.

She didn’t feign ignorance. She knew precisely what adventure he meant. She’d thought of nothing else since he’d first uttered his rather provocative suggestion: that he could show her great pleasure. ‘You know that’s the very sort of invitation our mothers counsel us to reject.’

‘Only because they fear you will be ruined.’ He appealed to her intellect, her sense of logic. ‘What if I told you I could give you the pleasure and leave your honour intact? There would be no risk to you.’

‘Except discovery.’ There was always a risk.

‘I would never allow that to happen, Claire.’ He whispered his potent arguments with the skill of Lucifer in the garden. It would be so easy to believe him because she wanted to believe him, wanted—how had he put it?—to see what lay on the other side of this. Not just because she was curious and untried, but because it was him doing the asking. She wanted to see what was on the other side of this with him.

She lowered her lashes and flirted. ‘Why, Jonathon Lashley, I never imagined you as a rake.’ She felt alive with him, like she was once again her true self—a woman who spoke her mind, a woman who reached out for what she wanted.

‘That makes two of us.’ His voice was warm at her ear. ‘I never imagined you a wallflower. When you were younger, you were always too vibrant, too alive for that. I thought for certain you would take the ton by storm, too much for any man.’ His lips brushed her ear. ‘Will you come alive for me, again, Claire?’

The dance was ending. She had to make a decision. He had quite deliberately manoeuvred them to finish the dance near the French doors leading outside. ‘We need only to slip outside, Claire. The night is warm, the stars are bright.’ To walk, to talk, to kiss, to touch, to rekindle what had flared to life between them in the bookshop. What if this was her only chance? What if the urgency which had driven him to her side was also the urgency that sent him to Vienna too soon?

Claire seized her courage with a smile. ‘I would very much like to go outside with you, Jonathon.’

It might have been magical, the stars might have been as bright as he suggested, the air as warm. She wouldn’t know. A blonde vision in exquisite ice-pink silk stood before the doors, blocking the way like the sword-wielding angels at the gates of Eden. Her message was much the same. Access to the garden was being denied.

‘Lashley, there you are!’ Cecilia swept forward with a brilliant smile, champagne in one hand, her free hand going around Jonathon’s other arm in a charming act of possession. ‘It’s so good of you to look after dear Miss Welton.’

Jonathon stiffened and Claire was assailed by myriad emotions competing for her attention. Old Claire wanted to give in to being cowed by this dazzling, confident young woman who could have any man in any room. Part of her felt guilty. She didn’t want to steal another’s beau. That had never been her intention. But the logic of guilt wouldn’t hold, not quite. Jonathon wasn’t Cecilia’s just because Cecilia wished it to be true. But neither was that logic entirely intact. It was much like a dam threatened by flood waters, weakening in places. Jonathon had paid Cecilia some attention. Enough attention to set the gossips speculating. Just as he had her. The realisation broke the dam.

Claire cast a glance at Jonathon. Had he walked in the gardens with Cecilia? Had he promised her protected pleasures? Had that been the reason Cecilia felt so confident in her claims? I never imagined you the rake. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time he’d played such a part. He’d already freely admitted the man he was in the ballrooms was a façade.

Behind that veneer was a man who had seen war, who had seen the world and the worldly things in it, and a man who had participated in those things as a man often does. He’d been ready to lead her down that worldly road and she’d been ready to go, thinking she knew Jonathon Lashley when nothing could be further from the truth.

She was so engrossed in the horrible train of thought she didn’t see Cecilia move. ‘Oh!’ Cecilia gave a gasp of surprise, tripping forward over Jonathon’s arm towards Claire, her full champagne glass tipping on to Claire’s bodice as Cecilia lost her balance, clinging to Jonathon to steady her. Claire leapt back in shock, but too late to avoid the spilling champagne.

‘Oh, my! How clumsy of me!’ Cecilia gushed, looking entirely helpless and innocent, casting a beleaguered gaze at Jonathon as if she were the victim here. ‘I don’t know what happened. Someone stepped on my hem, I think. It’s such a crush in here.’ They were starting to draw a crowd. ‘Oh, dear, Miss Welton. Your dress! Just look at it. It’s ruined. It was so lovely. Oh, where’s a handkerchief when you need one? Perhaps if you get the dress off right away, your maid can salvage it. My maid is excellent with stains. I can have her send over her receipts. It’s the least I can do, but I do think haste is critical, Miss Welton. You must go at once.’

Apparently the crowd about them concurred. A well-meaning lady stepped forward and took her arm, leading her away before Claire could protest. She was being dismissed! This was nothing more than one of Cecilia’s strategies. How could she protest, even if she wanted to? What would she say? ‘I’d like to stay and continue to dance in a ruined gown?’ or ‘She spilt it on purpose.’ No one would believe that. Why would the beautiful Cecilia ever need to stoop so low? It would only serve to make her look like the foolish one and Cecilia the hero. But she wasn’t wrong. One glance backwards confirmed it. Cecilia stood amid her admiring crowd with a smug look of satisfaction on her face and Jonathon by her side.

‘Claire!’ Beatrice rushed to her through the thinning crowd on the ballroom’s perimeter. Everyone had surged forward at Cecilia’s gasp. ‘What has happened?’

‘She did this on purpose!’ Claire cried in frustration.

‘Hush, wait until we’re alone,’ Beatrice said sternly, leading them out into the quiet hall. ‘There, now we can talk.’

‘She spilt her champagne! She wanted to separate me from Jonathon.’ Just when things were going so very well. He’d invited her into the garden. To sin. Maybe she should be thanking Cecilia for saving her from a mistake.

Beatrice gave a rueful smile. ‘Of course she did. Anyone who saw the pair of you dancing could see he was enchanted with you.’ Bea looked down at the stain and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Your dress is soaked. I’ll take you home.’

* * *

In the dark of the carriage, the doubts came. Had Jonathon been toying with her, taking advantage of her trust? Was he indeed a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Had he seen her as an easy mark? Even now she couldn’t quite believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Claire looked across at Beatrice. Is this what Bea felt for the erstwhile father of her child? Not wanting to quite believe the worst even when the evidence presented itself in stark clarity: Jonathon hadn’t come after her.

* * *

‘I should go after her and see if she’s all right.’ Minutes had passed and Claire had not returned. The crowd had slid away once the drama had ceased, leaving him with Cecilia.

‘Hardly. She’s probably left by now. This is for women to manage. What would you do?’ Cecilia laughed at the notion. ‘Do you have a secret receipt for instant stain removal?’

‘I could make her feel better.’ He wanted more than anything to take Claire in his arms, to console her. A wet dress was of no consequence, not to him. He’d wanted to shoo away the crowd that was determined to make a spectacle out of the minor event, determined to ruin the evening with their prying eyes and narrow minds.

Claire had been alive and charming in his arms just moments before the accident, but there’d been no mistaking the mortification in her eyes and he had felt her confidence leeching away. When she’d looked at him, he’d had the distinct impression some of that mortification was directed at him, as if she somehow blamed him for what had happened.

‘Make her feel better? You are too good to be true.’ Cecilia ran a soft hand along his arm, a quiet, private smile on her lips. ‘But that’s you, my dear Jonathon. You are always looking out for others less fortunate.’

Jonathon tensed. She’d never used his Christian name before and here she was doing it in public. She dropped her lashes. ‘I worry for you, that people will take advantage of your kind nature.’

‘I’m not that kind.’ His voice was gruff, impatient. If he could leave, perhaps he could find Claire.

‘Yes, you are. Miss Welton is proof of it. She is proof, too, that you are malleable. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger and all because you showed her a bit of attention.’ Cecilia looked up beneath her lashes. ‘You’ve danced with her, you’ve shown interest in her and see how she’s blossomed? She should let you go and move on to men of her calibre.’

‘Men of her calibre? Who would that be?’ Hearing Claire classified and discarded so readily made him bristle, yet this was Cecilia, who was touted as a paragon of womanly perfection, a woman he ought to prefer.

‘Sir Rufus Sheriden for one. He offered for her once.’ Cecilia smiled sweetly. ‘She refused, but she’s wiser now. She’s seen what her level is, what she can hope to aspire to.’

‘Sheriden? That blowhard?’ Jonathon grimaced. ‘Is that who Claire is trying to impress? She did mention she had a suitor.’

Cecilia drew a fingernail down his sleeve in a gesture that left him empty, her touch as uninspiring as Claire’s had been inflaming in the bookshop. ‘And you believed her, of course. She doesn’t have a suitor, not an avid one anyway unless Rufus Sheriden is trying again. She probably just said as much to get your attention and talk you in to spending time with her. Really, Jonathon. You men need to pay more mind to ballroom politics.’ She tossed him a smile. ‘But that’s why you have we women.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Walk with me?’

‘My father told me he saw you at the club and the two of you spoke.’ She gave a coquette’s glance as they moved about the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘Are there any plans you need to apprise me of?’

‘No, nothing I can think of.’ Jonathon’s response was half-hearted. He was having trouble keeping his thoughts centred on Cecilia’s prattling while the rest of him wondered just how awkward would it look if he called on Claire at eleven o’clock at night. He was busy trying to think of how he might spin a nocturnal visit that didn’t require sneaking into her bedroom or climbing a trellis when Cecilia’s words finally penetrated.

‘A girl needs to plan. It might be nothing for you gentlemen to throw on a dark suit and show up at church, but a trousseau takes time.’

Jonathon stopped and stared blankly. ‘Trousseau?’

Cecilia gave a haughty laugh. ‘Why, yes, all the lovely dresses and linens a girl brings to her marriage.’ She explained as if he were a clueless nodcock. He knew very well what a trousseau was. That was the part that had him worried. ‘I have these exquisite Irish linens embroidered with...’

He did not want to hear what they were embroidered with for fear it might be his initials. Jonathon did not mince words. Mincing was how a man ended up married. ‘Your high esteem flatters me, but let us be clear, I have not put forward a formal offer for you, nor have I ever spoken to you about such a thing. Any plans on your part would be premature, I assure you.’

The harshness of his words would have daunted most women, even most men. But Cecilia merely gave him a steely smile. ‘I disagree. Marriage to me is the gateway to your future.’ She feigned a look of confusion. ‘Or are you having second thoughts about the posting to Vienna? You can’t get there without me. You need my father’s support. I assure you.’

Couples moved out on to the floor, taking up positions. Cecilia’s smile changed into something sweeter as if she had not just demanded marriage from him. ‘A waltz! Shall we, Jonathon? Everything has worked out as it should. I believe you’re free for this dance, after all.’

Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_69316e57-7f09-54ee-866c-a7470ca350cf)