Unbuttoning The Innocent Miss

Claire did her best as they made the rounds of the room, stopping to talk with the little clusters of guests, May leaning over to announce sotto voce, ‘Cecilia is not the only one who’s noticed. Even Lashley’s been looking a time or two. Discreetly, of course.’

Of course. It was how Jonathon did everything. Claire hazarded another look in Jonathon’s direction, unable to suppress a little trill of delight at May’s words. Everything Jonathon did was tastefully done, from clothes to manners to conversation. When he spoke with someone, they had the impression of being listened to. At least that was her experience in the few, brief interactions she’d had with him over the years. They hardly qualified as conversations, more like extended greetings. Unlike other men who merely went through the polite motions demanded by society before moving on to the women they were truly interested in, Jonathon had always taken time to ask a question and then listen to the answer. She’d understood the attraction of Beatrice’s lover too well. Listening was a vastly underrated commodity. It made one feel they had value.

She and May had just left one group and were moving on to another when she felt it: Jonathon’s gaze on her. She looked up, allowing their eyes to meet for the briefest of seconds. A small smile played on his lips, giving her the impression his smile was for her alone and Claire’s pulse rocketed as she looked away.

It was a silly, unwarranted reaction. She wanted to stand out to him, the way Cecilia Northam apparently did. She wanted to be the one with her hand resting lightly on his arm as she looked up into that handsome face with its deep-blue eyes and sharp-cut lines.

‘Come on.’ May tugged at her arm. ‘Let’s go speak with his group. We haven’t visited them yet and later, I have news.’

Claire froze, Old Claire getting the better of New Claire with her new dress and hair. Talk to Jonathon now? ‘No. I couldn’t possibly do that. What would I say?’

She wasn’t really warmed up. She’d just arrived.

‘How about “good evening”? He smiled at you. Take the opening.’ May laughed. It was easy for May to laugh. She didn’t understand. She didn’t get tongue tied every time Jonathon was around. In fact, May was hardly ever tongue tied around anyone. It was her gift and her curse. Where Claire had made herself invisible, May had made herself far too noticeable.

‘No,’ Claire insisted. ‘Not yet. Let’s wait until after dinner’, when she would have had time to get her conversation up to par with her partner, when she might finally be used to this dress and how it made her feel. May merely smiled, her hidden dimple coming out in the corner of her cheek. That worried her. May hardly ever admitted defeat. Claire had the distinct impression she was being flanked.

A moment later, she knew it. Claire had barely settled into her chair when he spoke. ‘Miss Welton, it’s a pleasure to see you this evening.’

She looked up and met Jonathon’s sharp blue eyes, quite possibly the exact shade of her gown. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ The words tumbled out without her consent, her mind too busy grappling with the fact that he was sitting across from her, too busy to pay attention to what her mouth was doing. Her mind was focused on another heart-stopping fact: He was all hers to look at for the entire meal.

He smiled broadly at her ridiculous words. What lady said such a thing? It was far too bold for a genteel dinner, but that’s what new dresses did—they made one feel as bold their neckline. She looked away, fussing with her napkin to give herself something to do. She would have thought she was used to looking at him by now. She’d been doing it most of her life. The logic of familiarity suggested the sensation should have numbed by now, should have faded from the intense pleasure of seeing him into something more comfortable. But it hadn’t. If anything, it was sharper. She was acutely aware of every angle of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curving planes of his cheeks when he smiled, the firm sensuality of his mouth. That last was a wicked thought indeed to entertain at the table.

Claire turned her thoughts to other, less wanton ideas like revenge. She shot May a knowing glance across the white-clothed expanse. Her instincts were right. Either through fate or finagling—Claire highly suspected the latter—that minx of a friend had engineered the seating arrangement. She gave May a nudge with her foot under the table to acknowledge the ploy. I am on to you, May Worth.

But there was nothing she could do about it now. Claire was not going to get her reprieve. There would be no waiting until after dinner to speak with Jonathon. If she knew May, the plan wouldn’t stop here. May had something more in mind to get her noticed. The thought was both exhilarating and agitating. She wished May had made her a party to the plan. No, wait, she didn’t. If she’d known ahead of time, she would only have worried. All she could do now was stay alert and watch for her chance. She simply had to apply herself.

Right now, all it seemed she could apply herself to was avidly staring as the first course was set in front of her. Jonathon had the most intriguing lock of errant hair that fell to the side, escaping any efforts to pomade it into place. She was doing such a good job of staring, she missed her conversation partner’s overture.

But in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered how many times her partner repeated himself. Her attention was claimed elsewhere, so it was no surprise during the fish that her ears cringed when she heard the butchered word ‘bonjure’ from across the table. Claire responded out of reflex and years of study, ‘You mean bohnzhooh. The French don’t pronounce the “r” strongly at the end of bonjour.’

Jonathon’s blue gaze landed on her, his handsome mouth smiling politely, easily, as if he was not offended at the correction or the interruption. Claire shut her mouth in horror. She wanted to melt into a pile of blancmange beneath the table. She might have if May hadn’t kicked her, a rather painful reminder that she would not shrink from the world any longer, not after Evie had re-made her gown, not after Beatrice had done up her hair, not after May had done whatever it was May had done to make this possible.

Tonight, she was representing all of them. She had to be brave. But, oh, sweet heavens, it was hard to do when she’d just corrected Jonathon Lashley, future diplomat. In public. At a dinner table in front of eighteen other guests. That was certainly one way to get his attention, although probably not the best way. Oh, dear Lord, people were starting to stare.

* * *

‘Bohnzhooh,’ Jonathon amended, acknowledging the correction. The quickest way to dispel unwanted attention was to persuade onlookers there was nothing to see. There was no show here. ‘I appreciate the opportunity for improvement.’ But why had she done it? And why here at the table of all places? His eyes remained riveted on the woman across from him.

Miss Welton had all of his attention now, whereas before, her dress had held most of it. He’d noticed the dress the moment she’d walked in this evening, but now he was noticing her. A fact that was strange in itself. She’d never been particularly noticeable before. He knew of her, most certainly. She was a friend of Preston’s sister and a neighbour to the Worths in the country. She’d been out for several Seasons and their paths crossed sporadically in London at larger catch-all affairs. She’d always struck him as a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. So he hadn’t. Noticed. Not really. Not until tonight.

She was different tonight. She’d made a rather subtle but grand entrance in her blue dress. He was sure the ladies had a sophisticated word for the colour, something more descriptive than simply blue. But to him it was blue—the colour of an English summer sky and on her it was positively stunning, although not precisely the shade or cut worn by a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps this was Miss Welton’s way of announcing she was seriously hunting a husband this Season? Or perhaps she already had one? In his experience, women dressed well when there was a man to impress.

What a woman didn’t do was correct a man at dinner and yet Miss Welton had, drawing an uncharacteristic amount of attention to herself in the process. Part of him wanted to applaud her boldness. Miss Welton was certainly coming out of her shell. Well done her. Although he wished she hadn’t chosen to do it with a remark about his French. Still, she wasn’t to be blamed. She couldn’t know it was a touchy subject with him at the moment. The French didn’t pronounce all the letters in their words, but apparently that didn’t stop him from doing it and doing it wrong. Wrong was something he wasn’t use to being.

Beside him, Cecilia was not quite as forgiving behind her frosty smile. She leaned slightly towards him as if what she had to say was between the two of them, but it was an illusion only. She meant for the table to hear. ‘I did not realise we had a Francophile at the table, Lashley.’

Jonathon stiffened, feeling his senses go on alert. Stares returned. This was not a friendly remark. He did not need or want Cecilia defending him, nor did he see the need to attack Miss Welton. Francophile was the most insulting name Cecilia could have decently called her and Miss Welton knew it. Everyone at the table knew it. Her hand halted just for a fraction of a second as she reached for her wine glass. Jonathon willed that hand to keep going, to give no sign of Cecilia’s comment having any effect.

But the damage was done. The fish was nowhere near as exciting as Cecilia Northam verbally calling someone out. People near them stopped eating and cast interested glances their way. The war might have been over for seven years, but to be a lover of anything French was still not a popular pastime.

Jonathon locked eyes with Miss Welton as if he could lend her some strength, some encouragement with his gaze. He could see how she fought the urge to retreat in the way her hand tensed around the stem of her wine glass.

Don’t you dare apologise, Miss Welton. I was incorrect and you called me on it. You’ve done nothing wrong.

If there was any apologising to be done, it should be Cecilia. Her comment had bordered on the pale and he had no wish to see anyone put down whether it be on his behalf or not, especially not a woman who had chosen tonight to step into the light.

To his everlasting delight, Miss Welton straightened her shoulders and met Cecilia’s gaze. ‘French is the language of diplomacy on the Continent, Miss Northam. One need not be a Francophile to appreciate the importance of being conversant in the language.’ She managed a sophisticated smile as if to say she would not be embarrassed over her knowledge or made to feel lesser for her education. Jonathon wanted to applaud.

‘You are lucky to be so well schooled in the language.’ He smiled, lending her support with his words, well aware that Cecilia bristled beside him, fully understanding his support of Miss Welton was a subtle but resounding denouncement of her accusation. Cecilia would not be pleased.

On his other side, a more pleasant May Worth picked up the lagging conversation. ‘Miss Welton is fluent in French and three other languages as well.’

Jonathon raised a dark brow in genuine interest over Miss Welton’s accomplishments, trying hard not to stare at those cognac eyes or lower at the expanse of bosom on display. Her bodice was no lower than anyone else’s, but it had become unexplainably more alluring. ‘Is that true, Miss Welton? I had no idea you were so accomplished.’

He envied her that accomplishment. It would come as a surprise to everyone at the table if they knew how much he wished to be her—the quiet, heretofore unobtrusive Miss Welton—in those moments. It would solve a lot of his problems. Oral fluency in French was all that kept him from finalising the Vienna appointment, a post he very much wanted for personal reasons. But it was a skill that had eluded him since he’d come home from Waterloo. Even after countless tutors and in spite of his ability to write and read the language with perfect comfort, he couldn’t speak a word of it.

A footman set down a beautifully arranged plate of beef bourguignon in front of him. Great. A French dish. Now even the food was mocking him and there was still Cecilia to contend with as the table turned; pretty, petulant Cecilia who was supposed to make him the ideal bride—her beauty and wit a representation of English womanhood to those abroad. He was expected to offer for her by the end of the Season, one more venue for securing the Vienna post was official. He would do it if that was what it took, just as he would master oral fluency in French. They were merely the last two hurdles to be overcome, he told himself. It was the least he could do in the name of his brother’s memory. He would be part of establishing peace in his time, so that no one else would have to die.

Jonathon shot one last look across the table at Miss Welton, catching her eye before she turned away to give her attention to the man beside her. What other languages did she speak and why? Did she ever intend to use them or need them? Cecilia tugged at his arm when he was too slow to give her his attention, but before he turned, Miss Welton mouthed a single word: ‘Merci.’ Thank you. Suffice it to say, his curiosity was piqued even if it shouldn’t be.

Chapter Three (#ulink_5374db05-92fa-521d-925a-a9ec663f0d3c)

‘Spill! What is your news?’ Claire’s curiosity was more than piqued by the time she and May set out for Lady Stamford’s ball in the Worth carriage, her parents having taken May’s folks up with them in their town coach. Waiting for whatever May’s news was had been a herculean task, especially since Claire was sure it involved Jonathon and May always knew the most delicious things.

May’s eyes twinkled confidentially. ‘Lashley’s French tutor has left him. No one knows why, but it doesn’t matter. It only matters that he’s gone and there’s no one to teach him.’

Claire grimaced, disappointed. She’d thought the news would be more significant than that. ‘Isn’t he a bit old for a tutor?’ What could Jonathon Lashley possibly be studying for? At twenty-eight, he was years out of university, years past the age of being a student, and he was perfect at everything he did. She furrowed her brow and examined the flaw in her conclusion. He hadn’t been perfect at dinner. His French had been deplorable. Whoever his tutor had been, the man hadn’t been any good even if he had been from Paris.

May leaned back against the leather squabs, looking irritatingly smug. ‘There’s more to it. While Evie was busy altering your dress, I was busy, too. Jonathon Lashley can’t speak French to save his life and I mean that quite literally. Preston says Lashley’s been given an ultimatum: learn to speak passable French by August or he’ll lose his diplomatic post.’

‘What am I supposed to do about that?’ Claire said, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Jonathon Lashley had an imperfection, a weakness in his formidable social arsenal of skills and she’d accidentally called him on it. This was getting worse by the minute. She had not meant to embarrass him. If the correction hadn’t been bad enough, she’d also managed to highlight a rather sensitive incompetency. This was more than alerting someone to a spot on their shirt. He must thoroughly despise her. And yet he hadn’t shunned her, hadn’t cut her down with a cruel remark when he had the chance and Cecilia had certainly given him one. Instead, he’d championed her with his words and with his eyes. Maybe she’d dream about that tonight. She hoped so. She wanted to remember how he’d looked across the table at her, how he’d smiled at her, each word he’d spoken to her. It had almost been a real conversation. There had been that moment when he’d turned away and she’d had the impression he’d like to have said more, asked her more. Was it possible to fake that impression? Surely not. Claire gave a wistful sigh. She’d like to believe just for a moment, she’d entranced Jonathon Lashley...

May snapped her fingers in impatience and Claire snapped to attention. Apparently she’d let her thoughts wander too far afield. ‘Do I need to spell it out? Step into the breach, Claire! Be his hero in his hour of need. Teach him French. Secure his post.’ Her eyes danced with a naughty light. ‘Who knows, he might just be eternally grateful.’

She could do that. At least the girl in the ethereal blue dress could do that. Claire sat up straighter, her mind alert as possibilities began to spark. She started to see the brilliance of May’s suggestion: long hours of working together, alone, the subject itself rather invigorating to the mind. French wasn’t called the language of love without reason.

She worried her lip in thought. ‘There’s only one flaw. How do I get him to come to me?’ He didn’t need her specifically. He needed anyone who spoke French. ‘There is no guarantee he will seek me out.’ Or that she’d succeed, but she kept that to herself. Doubt started to seep in. Why would she succeed where a Paris-born tutor had clearly failed? But she kept that doubt to herself.

May was undeterred. ‘After tonight? We planted the seeds at dinner. We may not need to do any more. Did you see the way he looked at you when I mentioned you spoke four languages? It was as though he saw you with new eyes. His clock is ticking. He needs someone close at hand. He’s desperate, Claire.’ Like her.

Desperate? Claire winced. It wasn’t exactly the best recommendation. She’d prefer he come to her out of respect for her intellect rather than desperation. But she was desperate, too, and she understood the emotion. She knew better than anyone that beggars couldn’t be choosers. ‘We’re wagering rather a lot on him connecting the pieces that lead to me,’ Claire warned.

May shrugged, starting to lose patience with her. ‘Then send him a letter. Connect the pieces for him. What do you have to lose? Tell him you heard about his situation and would be glad to help. He won’t expose you. It would be too embarrassing for him. A scandal is the last thing he would want at this point before the position is officially his. At best, he takes the offer and at worst he politely declines. You’re no worse off either way.’

Which really translated as: she was already so bad off, she had nothing to lose. That wasn’t true for Lashley, though. It occurred to Claire as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the Stamford rout that Jonathon was only better off if he took the offer. If not, he stood to lose a great deal that mattered to him.

Of all the things she’d dreamed of having in common with Jonathon Lashley, desperation wasn’t one of them.