The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

‘Do you think I am crazy, Owen?’

Owen gripped his arm. ‘I think you are hopeful.’ Then added with a wink, ‘Now, what Miss Northam thinks might be entirely different, if you indeed care any longer. I hear that perhaps your attentions may have been redirected. Would you like to verify?’

‘Not particularly. Tonight’s been rather rough, Owen, if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.’

* * *

He knew there was no chance of that actually occurring. As soon as he lay down, his thoughts crowded in. He dreamed of Thomas. Nothing as vividly coherent as the usual dream; this was a kaleidoscope of images, snatches of memories, snatches of fears over what he’d learn from the informant. He dreamed of Claire, too, hot dreams where her body pressed to his, where he made her climax again and again, her head thrown back, her dark hair falling down, her eyes filled with passion and desire for him. It was all for him and he’d let her go. Or was it the other way around? Oh, yes, he remembered it correctly now. She’d let him go.

He woke sweaty and aching, his head throbbing with that one truth at dawn. She harboured deep feelings for him—feelings that she’d been willing to forego in order to save his dreams. Maybe that sacrifice would be worth it, if he could in turn save Thomas. He found a valise in his wardrobe and began to pack for Dover, starting with his pistols. He’d been down this road before. It could be dangerous.

* * *

It was positively perilous to keep looking at the clock, watching the big hand snake towards the six in proof that Jonathon wasn’t coming. In fact, he wasn’t ever coming again. Lessons were over, her opportunity to attract his attention, over. Claire paced the small sun room, fighting the attraction to the clock, to the hope that perhaps she was wrong. It wasn’t too late yet. It was still possible that he might come. Even now Jonathon could be on his way, stuck in the traffic of London. But soon, she’d have to give up that little fantasy. Once the clock reached eleven-thirty, it would be a ridiculous pretence.

Claire stopped in front of the big window that let in the light, although there wasn’t much light to let in today. The weather was still grey and rain threatened like it had the day before. She leaned her head against the cool panes of the glass. Had it really been only yesterday she’d received his note? That she’d gone to Soho? No matter how old she got, she would never forget the sight of Jonathon fighting in the street. For her. And what had she done? She’d let him go.

No regrets. She told herself. She’d done what was right. He was destined for greatness and she was destined for nothing. She’d set herself on that course years ago just as assuredly as he’d set himself on his. She would only hold him back and he would come to resent her for it.

If she’d known pursuing Jonathon would be this complicated, she would never have embarked on Beatrice’s mission to see each of them launched into happiness. She should have been more careful of what she wished for, but she hadn’t really believed she would succeed. The girls would be scolding her if they knew her thoughts. She could almost hear Beatrice now. ‘Well, you’ve got Jonathon Lashley, what are you going to do with him?’

She desperately wanted to go to her friends and lay this latest burden at their feet, but she couldn’t. This was her relationship and only she could manage it. This new, adventurous Claire who’d come to life had to take responsibility for herself. She smiled a little to herself. She had changed. She’d taken back her life. Not because she had a man, she still never wanted to be a woman who defined herself through the man on her arm, but because she’d found herself again.

It had been a relief to find her alive and well, buried beneath layers of a quiet woman who’d chosen withdrawal to engagement, a woman who was withering away in the dust of obscurity. Jonathon had not made that discovery happen, any more than her friends had made it happen. Ultimately, the choice to re-engage was hers alone, but Jonathon had given her the opportunity to make the discovery and she’d taken it. Jonathon wasn’t afraid of her intelligence. He admired it, respected it and, in return, he’d given her a safe place in which to be herself and try her wings. It was perhaps the greatest true gift any person could give another. That he had chosen to give that gift to her was worthy of examination.

No one gave such a gift haphazardly. One would have to care for someone deeply to invest in that kind of offering. A little cry rose in her throat. Jonathon loved her. Oh, dear sweet heavens, what had she done? In her mind, she saw the taut outlines of his face the night he’d climbed into her room, waiting for her acceptance, the pain on his face last night, when she’d broken off with him. She saw other images, too, like his beautiful head thrown back in ecstasy as she pleasured him, the way he looked before he kissed her, as if she were his feast. She’d hurt him. He had been willing to fight for her, not just in the streets, but in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the ton. Claire, you are worth fighting for.

He had been willing to take the risk, but she had not. She’d led him to believe he wasn’t worth fighting for when nothing could be further from the truth. She’d always believed that right and best were synonymous. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Was it possible that the right decision was not necessarily the best? She’d made a terrible mistake. She had to find Jonathon and tell him.

* * *

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion while she had speeded up. Nothing could happen fast enough to suit her; not the bringing of the carriage, not the journey through London through all the midday traffic. Three streets from the Albany, Claire gave up the last of her patience and hopped out. She could walk the remaining distance faster than her coachman could drive. At last, she stood in front of Jonathon’s door, breathless from excitement, from nerves, from the haste she’d made, and knocked.

She heard footsteps behind the door and she drew a breath, ready to make her speech. The door opened.

‘Jonathon, I’ve made a mistake, I am sorry.’ The words rushed out before she realised. This wasn’t Jonathon. This was... ‘Preston! What are you doing here?’ Nothing made sense. This was Jonathon’s door. She’d come to see Jonathon. He should be here, not May’s brother.

Preston gave her a considering look, arms folded across his chest. ‘What are you doing here?’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them. ‘Good heavens, Claire, this is a boarding house for bachelor gentlemen. Did anyone see you?’ He looked genuinely concerned.

‘I don’t think so.’ But she wasn’t entirely sure. Most gentlemen were either still in bed at this hour or out with errands. The halls had seemed empty, but in truth, her mind had been too occupied with other things to give much thought to the consequences of her actions. The only consequence she was interested in was finding Jonathon.

‘We have to get you out of here.’ Preston was striding through the room, looking for something.

She peered around his moving form to the door leading into the other room. ‘I came to see Jonathon. Is he here?’ She fully expected to see him emerge any moment. Surely he would have heard her voice and the commotion by now.

Preston stopped his searching. ‘No, he’s not here. He’s gone to Dover on business for Sir Owen Danvers.’

‘What?’ Claire felt her stomach sink, the whirling of her mind come to an abrupt halt. Jonathon wasn’t simply ‘not’ here, he was gone. She’d come to tell him she loved him and he was gone. It seemed the height of injustice. ‘Why? What kind of business? How long? When did this come up? He said nothing about it.’

‘I’m sorry, Claire. I can’t say anything more than that on the subject. His business is his own. It’s not for me to say.’

Preston offered her a kind, brotherly smile. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think the business came up rather suddenly. I don’t think he had much advance warning.’ He touched her arm. ‘Let me take you home, Claire.’

‘No.’ Claire met Preston’s gaze with a determined stare, daring him to deny her. ‘I need to talk to Jonathon. Take me to Dover.’

Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_ee41c9a0-baea-5663-bddb-0e9462bbd534)

The Antwerp Hotel was as upscale of an inn as one would find in Dover and Jonathon was heartily ready to embrace its luxuries. It had taken a little over two days to reach the port city, thanks to a side errand Owen had asked him to run and the mud-churned roads from the recent rains. To say the least, travel had been a bear and he’d been anxious, perceiving every delay as adding hours to his arrival.

‘You are in room seven.’ The clerk at the desk gave him a warm, friendly smile, a glint of something akin to bonhomie in his eye. Jonathon couldn’t fathom it. The clerk didn’t know him well enough for such an assumption. ‘Dinner will be up shortly.’ Again, the mischievous glint. Jonathon gave a nod. He didn’t remember the service being quite so good. He hoisted his valise and headed for the stairs. A hot meal would restore his spirits. He’d had far too much time alone with his thoughts. Not trusting the weather, he’d taken the coach to Dover instead of riding. Alone with his thoughts for hours on end had not done him any good. His thoughts had bounced from the prospect of finding Thomas to the prospect of having lost Claire and the ideas had chased themselves about in his head until he was weary. At the door marked with a seven, he fitted his key and pushed it open. He took a step inside, his attentions fixed on putting his key away.

‘Jonathon, you’re here at last.’ By Jove, he’d finally gone round the bend. He’d thought of Claire for so long he was imagining her voice with lifelike accuracy. He looked up and froze. He wasn’t dreaming. It was definitely her. Claire rose from the chair, her amber eyes soft with the firelight, her mouth curving in a generous smile as if she were welcoming him home. He liked the sensation such an image engendered. He wanted to go to her, to wrap her in his arms, but she’d given him up two days ago. What did it mean that she was here, miles from London? ‘Claire, what are you doing? How did you get here?’

He studied her, taking in every detail of her person. She was dressed for travel in a seasonal carriage dress of blue India muslin. A cloak he recognised as his own lay across the arm of the chair, a valise sat on the floor, still fastened, still packed. She had not arrived much in advance of him. He was starting to understand the desk clerk’s mischief now. She’d not been secretive about her purpose.

‘Preston helped me.’ He’d probably have to have some words with Preston, but that could wait. Claire’s story spilled out in semi-chronological order. ‘Preston was good enough to hire a post chaise for me. I arrived here half an hour ago. I went to your rooms in London, but you were gone.’ She moved towards him then, catching his hands and holding tight. ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake and I had to tell you, to talk to you right away.’

‘A mistake?’ There was so much to take in he couldn’t quite fathom it all at once. What mistake would this be?

‘When you realise you love someone, Jonathon, and they love you, enough to fight for you, you want to tell them at once. You don’t want to wait until they’re back from Dover.’ Jonathon felt every nerve in his body go on alert. She was talking about him. She drew a deep breath and careened on with her mesmerising words. Her amber eyes shone. ‘I love you, Jonathon Lashley, and I love who I am when I’m with you. I love what you’ve let me become.’

Claire loved him. Stunned was the only way to describe what he felt; stunned that someone would carry that depth of emotion for him; stunned that Claire would travel this far to tell him. It couldn’t have been easy. It was more than he could have hoped for. He’d spent his day thinking of ways to get her back, to convince her, and here she was, having come to that conclusion on her own. It was the best sort of victory.

He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them each in turn. ‘You have left me speechless, Claire. I don’t know what to say, so I hope this will suffice.’ He kissed her then, long and tender, letting his body convey what his mind could not until the maids brought up dinner.

He shot Claire a look as they laid the little table in the front of the fire. ‘Only a half an hour ahead of me? You were incredibly industrious.’

A saucy maid with brown curls peered up from her work. ‘Your wife is an amazing woman. Your dinner was her first priority. She ordered it the moment she had her room.’

‘My wife,’ Jonathon drawled, watching Claire blush under his gaze, ‘is amazing indeed.’ As was the supper. His mouth started to water as the maids departed, the table ready. Covers were removed from a platter of braised rabbit, fresh spring greens and baby carrots steamed in their bowls, a new loaf of bread and pale country butter in a small crock lay on a cutting board and a bottle of red wine stood sentinel in the centre of the table. ‘My wife has done well.’ Jonathon tossed her a sly smile.

‘I had to tell them something.’ Claire sat and fussed with her napkin, avoiding his gaze. ‘The clerk wouldn’t let me in to your room otherwise.’

‘It’s fine. It’s flattering.’ Jonathon sat down across from her and began to fill their plates. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He slid a slice of rabbit on to her plate. Did he broach the awkward subject between them or did he merely enjoy the meal and her company? He opted for the latter. It was safer ground. He would let her decide if they talked of anything more and when.

They spoke of their journeys and the roads. They finished the wine and the candles burned down. The meal had been enjoyable and yet Jonathon felt a familiar tension begin to simmer as supper came to an inevitable end. Despite their proclamations, much lay unsettled between them, not the least being what would happen tonight.

Claire rose from the table, her voice betraying a nervous edge, her eyes not quite meeting his. ‘If you would excuse me for a few moments?’

Jonathon took his hint. ‘I’ll be downstairs. I need to check on a few things with the innkeeper.’

* * *

He would give her twenty minutes, he decided in the taproom. Twenty minutes for whatever she needed her privacy to do. But deuce take it, they were the longest twenty minutes of his life. It took only three of those minutes to confer with the innkeeper and decide his contact had not yet checked in. Perhaps tomorrow.

He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes. Finally. Surely that was enough time?

The innkeeper slapped him on the back. ‘Newlyweds? I can tell, you are eager to get back to your bride.’ He was a heavily built man with a hearty chuckle. ‘Enjoy it, man, because it won’t last, but it’s good while it does. I’ve been married nearly thirty years, those days have been gone for a while now, but I still remember them.’