The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

Jonathon turned a dark Mayfair corner, his mind uninterested in what his feet were doing as it mulled over the sad reality: He wasn’t free; not free to countermand Cecilia’s high-handed manipulation or her haughty assumptions that he could be bought in marriage; not free to pursue a relationship with Claire, no matter what his feet thought to the contrary.

He didn’t need to look up at the house towering in front of him to know where his unconscious wanderings had taken him: The very place he was not supposed to be: Claire’s after midnight. He had no right to be here. He could promise her nothing beyond what he’d already promised and that was hardly enough. He could not offer her the only thing a well-bred lady could accept from a gentleman: marriage. Not because she didn’t deserve it, but because he didn’t. Assuming they suited one another for marriage.

Whoa. Marriage? Was that what his reeling mind was hiding in its recesses these days? Even if it was possible, the idea of marrying after a few French lessons and stolen kisses was a bit extreme, no matter how provocative those kisses had been. He was setting the cart miles ahead of the horse at this rate. Marriage assumed, too, that he deserved her. A man who left his brother behind in a foreign land didn’t deserve her, or any chance at personal happiness after squandering that chance for his brother to experience the same. Yet he’d had the audacity to pretend he did. He’d cheated Thomas of his life! Every time he laughed, every time he felt the smallest inkling of joy, he was reminded of what his brother would never have.

Lately, when he was with Claire, the reminder was constant. Almost. To be honest, the joy, the peace, was so great he’d lose himself, he’d forget about the guilt. That was even more frightening. He knew how to live with the guilt. He wasn’t sure he knew how to live without it.

Jonathon stared up at the house. That was the guilt talking. One could either argue the guilt kept him focused, or chained, depending on perspective. These days, the perspective was the latter. It was the guilt that kept him chained in his mental prison of regret. He should never have let Thomas ride down that road. But he had and had paid for that decision every day since his return from the Continent; he’d lost his ability to read French out loud, he’d lost the right to happiness. That was fine, he didn’t deserve it. Why should he be happy? Why should his life go on when his brother’s had not? Such penance hadn’t bothered him too much until now. In its own way, that penance had given him direction upon his return. It had given him a sense of duty, an absolution to perform for failing to bring Thomas home safe and sound. He’d been content to let guilt rule his life. There’d been nothing he wanted that demanded he let the guilt go.

But now, he wanted the one thing he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve. The freedom to choose. He would still choose Vienna. Peace for Europe could be made there and he could make it. But he would perhaps choose to go alone. Only he couldn’t make that choice without jeopardising the appointment altogether. Without Cecilia, Lord Belvoir would block his appointment. Not in a vote—the House of Lords didn’t confirm appointments, but in other subtle ways: funding, support, networks that would help and protect him abroad, all the tools he needed to be successful.

He wanted to be successful on his own merits. Just as he didn’t want to be important only because of his father’s birth, he didn’t want to be chosen as a diplomat simply because of his wife’s connections. He wanted to earn it. He’d not realised how much the position had come to hinge on Cecilia until she’d thrown it into stark relief tonight.

Jonathon picked up a handful of pebbles. He tossed one in his hand, testing its weight and trying to remember which window was Claire’s. It was in back by the garden. He told himself he wanted to see her to assure himself she was all right, but it would be partially a lie. He wanted to see her for himself. He needed her. Whatever they could or could not be to one another, she could help him sort through the rather disappointing revelations of the evening simply by being with him. Or she could help him forget.

Jonathon slipped through the gate that gave into the garden. It had taken a waltz and an interminable supper hour before he’d been able to depart the ball. It was well past one o’clock. He should have gone home. But instead, he’d sent his carriage away and come here. Perhaps he’d be climbing trellises after all. He’d climb a mountain if that was what it took to reach her. The truth was, if there was peace to be had tonight, it would be in Claire’s arms and the future could be damned.

Ah, there it was! The third window towards the back. He was sure that was the room. A little thrill of victory coursed through him. It had a small, semi-circular wrought-iron balcony, more decorative than useful. A person might just be able to stand there and catch the morning sun on her face. The little thrill of victory was replaced by a stronger surge of lust. To his body’s chagrin, Jonathon could very well imagine Claire on that balcony, hair loose, face tilted upward to the dawn, dressed in a fine linen shift that caught the light.

Standing on the ground day dreaming offered no progress that direction. He tossed a pebble. It made a satisfying clink against the narrow French doors of the balcony. He counted to ten and waited. There was no response. He tossed a second pebble and then a third in rapid succession. She did not come. There was no sign of life.

Jonathon grimaced. If she would not come to him, he would have to go to her. There was nothing for it. He’d have to climb the rose trellis. He gave the trellis a speculative look, gauging the distance between it and the balcony. He’d use the trellis for height, then he’d have to use his muscle to overcome the gap where the trellis gave out and the balcony began. His arms would just be able to span it and he could lever himself up from there. Very plausible.

From the ground that was. Being suspended twenty-five feet above said ground tended to change a man’s perspective. So did thorns. Ten sweaty minutes later, Jonathon had learned two things: first, summer roses only smelled sweet. They were in fact the devil’s own flower, riddled with thorns just where a man might want to put his hands for a good grip. It had taken a few prickings in the dark to learn that. Second, evening clothes and dancing shoes were not at all ideal for climbing. The good news—his dark evening jacket was no longer too tight, now that it sported a relieving rip right down the centre seam in the back. At the moment, he didn’t care. He felt like he’d summited the Alps. Jonathon reached for the doors and pushed them open. Claire was inside. Peace was inside.

* * *

Claire’s mind knew someone was in the room before she awoke. Her body knew who it was. ‘Jonathon!’ Her eyes flew open to confirm. It was Jonathon, but not the Jonathon she was used to. This Jonathon, who stood framed in beams of moonlight, was a veritable King of Midnight. His hair fell forward into his face, rakish and rugged, his clothes dishevelled. But it was his eyes that drew her; twin blue flames of determination burned in his gaze as if coming here had cost him something and he had chosen to come any way.

Then it occurred to her that it had indeed cost him something. ‘How did you get in?’ She sat up, her mind fully awake now. He couldn’t possibly have come up the stairs. He gave a nod toward the open doors. ‘The balcony?’ Her response was tinged with disbelief. Dear heavens, that was dangerous! The roses with their thorns, the trellis that didn’t reach all the way up. She could see it in her mind now, the space between the iron spindles of the balcony and the trellis where only muscle and strength could span the gap. ‘Are you insane? You could have fallen! Why?’ she scolded.

A wry smile quirked at his mouth. ‘Because I promised you something and I never break my promises.’

He was here for pleasure. Claire stilled, the air around them charged with electric intent. He’d climbed the trellis for her, risked discovery for her. If someone should hear him, should come through the door of her room, they would both be compromised beyond amends. There was no denying the risk factor carried some excitement of its own. But it wasn’t that simple. The problem with waking up was remembering and remembering two entirely different things. Her body remembered the afternoon, full of passion and adventure, while her mind remembered the evening full of dashed hopes, disappointments and doubts.

‘Will you have me, Claire?’ he prompted her, his voice hoarse, his body taut with emotion, desperation perhaps? Maybe that was too strong of a word. Uncertainty, then. He was uncertain. Of her. Handsome Jonathon Lashley, who was always sure, wasn’t sure of her; wasn’t sure that she, Claire Welton, who had no choices in any given ballroom, would want him who had every choice. And it was important to him that she did. He didn’t want to be rejected, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be. He understood her doubts as clearly as if they shared one mind. She saw now in stark clarity why he’d climbed that trellis. He wanted to know if she would accept him, if her feelings matched his in spite of the impossibilities that lay beyond these moments.

The Vienna post, the duty he must do to attain it, and whatever else he hid behind his smiles and blue gaze had existed before this and they would exist after this. She would not worry over what she couldn’t change. Instead, she would be thankful she was walking into this with eyes wide open. She would not be ambushed by reality on the other side of midnight. If there could only be now, then so be it. She would take now over never any night.

Claire rose from the bed, the decision made before her bare feet touched the cool floor. She crossed the room to him, arms encircling his neck with wondrous ease, her lips feathering his mouth. ‘Yes, Jonathon, I will have you.’ The pleasure, the pain, she would have all of it, for as long as it lasted.

His mouth was on her then, hard and fierce in its claiming. He tasted of victory and exultant relief. A thrill ran through her. He had wanted this badly. She could feel the tension of his body uncoil beneath her hands, only to be replaced with a new sort of anticipation. The afternoon’s passion surged back in force between them. It would be temptingly easy to rush this, to pick up where they’d left off before being expelled from the bookshop, instead of savouring the opportunity to start from the beginning once more. But Jonathon would not be rushed.

He slowed the tempo of their kiss, cradling the nape of her neck in the cup of his hand, the press of his mouth lingering and languorous, their bodies moving into one another as the kiss deepened. He was all heat and hard planes against her. She revelled in the feel of him through the thin fabric of her night rail. This was so much better than feeling him through the limitations of gowns and undergarments. Perhaps she could make it even better for him.

She broke the kiss for a moment, her eyes meeting his as her hands worked the knot of his cravat until the cloth came loose. She gave him a coy smile. ‘You are wearing too many clothes.’

He gave a sly grin in return. ‘What else do you plan to divest me of?’

She smoothed the shoulders of his dark coat and pretended to contemplate the question. ‘Definitely this. It must go at once. The waistcoat, too.’ She pushed the coat back and he helped remove it but she didn’t miss the ripped seam. ‘Your tailor will shoot you for this.’

Jonathon’s gaze landed on her, hot and intent. ‘I’ll tell him it was worth it.’

Claire swallowed, basking in the compliment, a lump forming in her throat, blocking words. She let her fingers speak for her, slipping the buttons of his waistcoat through their holes. It was much easier to get the waistcoat off than the coat. But here she hesitated. Only trousers and shirt remained.

‘What next? Perhaps my shirt?’ came the wicked suggestion, Jonathon’s voice soft at her ear.

‘Absolutely,’ Claire answered boldly, stepping away to resume her place on the bed. ‘Why don’t you take it off for me so I can watch?’

He made her a small bow. ‘As you wish, my lady.’ But it was as he wished and he wished to play with her a bit. She saw it in the tilt of his smile, the flare of mischief in his eyes. She settled against the pillows and turned up her lamp to give the room a modicum of light. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this. He made a show of slowly removing the fasteners at his cuffs, the collar, pulling the tails of his shirt from his trousers until at last the shirt was loose.

She imagined sliding her hands beneath it and running them up the bare planes of his chest, imagined the feel of his skin against the palms of her hands. Then, he slipped the shirt off and she imagined no more. He stood before her, half-naked, his shirt tossed to a pile on the floor, hands on narrow hips, blue eyes challenging her. ‘Do you like what you see?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He was gorgeous. Fully clothed, he’d merely been handsome. The adjective hardly did this man, with his firm abdomen and sculpted chest, justice. She patted the space on the bed beside her. It was her turn to tease. ‘It’s still a bit dark in here. I can’t quite see. Come a little closer.’

He took the invitation, stretching out alongside her, his head propped in his hand. He couldn’t get much closer than this. ‘Do I please you, Claire?’

She gave a little laugh, her hand trailing across his chest in exploration and wonder. ‘How could you not? You’re beautiful.’ She raised her gaze to his, her voice an honest, quiet whisper. ‘You’ve always been beautiful to me.’ Her hand traced a fine line along his shoulder and stilled. ‘Scars and all,’ she ventured softly, the importance of the moment hitting her full force. To be naked, even partially naked with another, was to expose oneself in intimate ways. ‘Was this from the war?’

‘From the war, from my stubborn foolishness.’ She knew, as did most of London, that he’d come home wounded, dangerously so. There’d been a time when it had not been clear he would live. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it.

She retraced the line with her hand, this time noting how close the scar was to his chest. A scant few inches had separated life from death. He had healed well, but the scar would be with him always. ‘It looks painful.’

‘Terribly. Although I’m told under normal circumstances it would have been a fairly minor wound. The bullet didn’t exit. Still, it could have been pulled out and I could have been stitched up. But the bullet I was shot with was rusty. That makes it poisonous all on its own. A horrible infection followed.’ Jonathon tried to laugh, not wanting to inflict that horror on Claire. ‘Fortunately, I don’t remember it. I was delirious, out of my head with fever once the infection truly set in.’

‘That was when they sent you home?’ Her question was quiet.

‘I don’t remember much of that either. I am told there was some concern I wouldn’t make it home. I raved in French the whole trip back.’ He took her hand away from the scar and raised it to his lips. ‘I don’t want to talk about the war tonight, Claire.’ Or any night, Claire thought with a flash of intuition. As a rule, people shied away from topics that were unpleasant and Jonathon took great pains to always be pleasant. There were secrets there, perhaps even nightmares. But he was right, tonight was for other things.

He reached for her and she went easily, letting him draw her flush against him so that their lengths matched. His mouth found hers perhaps as much to start the pleasure as to stop the words, the questions. His hand slid beneath her night rail, warm against her leg, the fabric rucking up as his hand progressed up her thigh. He murmured against the column of her neck, ‘You are beautiful, too, Claire. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.’

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Such flattery, Jonathon.’ But for the night she would believe it. He made her feel beautiful, wanted, with his words, with his touch. His fingers skimmed the place between her thighs and her body wept with delight and with knowledge. This was what he’d meant to do in the bookshop, to touch her like this, to conjure this sensation from her. She was glad now the shopkeeper had caught them. She wanted to savour the sensations, wanted to linger over the pleasure.

He touched her again. This time his stroke was insistent, no mere skimming graze, and her body seemed to leap to life. ‘Mmm...’ A slow moan escaped her lips, her legs parted, following the logic that surely more access meant more pleasure. She was not wrong. Jonathon cupped her mons, stroked her, building a slow, hot fire within and all the while she felt her core weeping, preparing for something more. Warmth pooled in her low and potent, waiting to be loosed. Her hips arched upwards, seeking the ‘more’. Jonathon’s fingers parted her, exposed her and she gasped at the intimate intrusion—shocking and exquisite in its boldness. His thumb teased the tiny bean hidden within and her body went wild with a thousand sensations, one word chorusing in her mind again, again, again!

With each pass, each stroke, she soared, she wept until she could feel her own slickness against Jonathon’s hand. The pleasure became too much. Her body pressed into Jonathon’s hand, her body crying with contradictions, wanting more and yet wanting release. It was too much. It was not enough. Jonathon knew. Each stroke brought her closer to whatever she sought until she was there at last. Soaring, falling, shattering, with a scream muffled by Jonathon’s mouth.

‘Oh, sweet heavens,’ she said at last when the power of the moment had settled. ‘I hadn’t known such a thing was possible.’ Her voice sounded breathy to her. Jonathon was gazing at her with something akin to awe in those beautiful eyes.

‘Now you know.’ His own voice was husky and it occurred to her that while she’d found release he had not, not physically any way.

Her own audacity got the better of her. ‘May I do that to you? For you?’ Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to give him pleasure, to watch him find pleasure and know she’d been the one to give it.

His eyes glittered, dark with want as he spoke a single word. ‘Yes.’ His hands moved to the fall of his trousers, but she pushed them away.

‘Let me.’ She wanted to do all of it, be responsible for all of it. Her hands trembled as they worked the flap. She could feel him hot and ready beneath the fabric, already in a state of arousal. Pleasuring her had already brought him pleasure it seemed. A smile took her. Her response had pleased him, had been, in fact, exactly what he’d hoped.

The realisation made her bold, confident. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, his body open to her, exposed as she had been to him. He was hers for the taking, every inch of him magnificent. His phallus stirred under her gaze, starting to strain. It was all the invitation she needed. She closed her hand about him, hearing the sharp intake of breath at her touch and then an exhalation of pleasure. ‘You feel so damn good, Claire.’