The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

‘We won’t be doing that any more. I don’t think it will work for you. If it was going to work, it would have worked by now.’ She tapped her chin thoughtfully with one long finger. ‘I have a hunch, Mr Lashley, that you may suffer from performance anxiety.’

Clearly she had not seen the state of his breeches.

‘Whoa, wait a minute, Miss Welton, I assure you I do not have “performance anxiety”.’ If anything, this morning’s debacle proved just the opposite. He was fully functioning, all right, aroused by a woman he barely knew because she wore a pale-green dress and did gorgeous things with her mouth.

She gave a delicate cough. ‘There are many types of performance anxiety, Mr Lashley. I am not entirely sure what sort of performance anxiety you are referring to, but I am referring to the idea that when you’ve spoken French in the past, you’ve felt as if you were on display or under judgement and it hampered your ability to perform the task.’

Jonathon gave a snort. ‘And you can solve this problem?’ He already feared she couldn’t, through no fault of her own. He wasn’t telling her everything about his apparent disability.

She nodded without hesitation, never suspecting he was holding out on her. ‘Yes, I believe I can. It may require some unorthodox teaching methods.’ Ropes and chairs came to mind unbidden. Perhaps he hadn’t been wrong after all. ‘We won’t be sitting at tables and reading from books.’ Oh, so no ropes and chairs. ‘I believe reading, the presence of visual cues, has been part of the problem. When you read, you see the words, you don’t hear them. You pronounce them as we would in English. While the French may have the same letters in the alphabet as the English, they don’t always have the same sounds. You need to hear the language, not see it. We’ll work from there.’

Jonathon raised a dark brow, in part impressed with her theory, but also doubtful. He really ought to tell her the rest of it. ‘Countless tutors have tried.’ It was unfair to hold back the last piece. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak French. Only that he couldn’t any more. At one time, he’d been perfectly fluent on all levels; before he’d gone to war, before he’d lost Thomas. Before his life had been put on hold.

‘They haven’t tried my method. Are you willing? We’ll start with simply having you repeat my phrases and then we’ll eventually move on to conversations where you will construct your own responses. We won’t be doing any of this sitting at a table in a stuffy old room. Tomorrow, we’ll walk in the gardens so you might feel more at ease, more natural.’ Ah, the performance anxiety theory again. He had to give her points for trying.

The clock on the mantel chimed. It was one. The lesson was over. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur Lashley. À la prochaine.’

‘Alla pro-shane... Claire.’ Such familiarity was bold of him. His voice hovered over her name, drawing it out as if it were a new discovery. In its way it was precisely that. He couldn’t think of her as Miss Welton any more. Miss Welton belonged to a wallflower of a woman, but this woman, the woman he’d met in the library, had been anything but retiring. This woman had fought for him. Claire Welton was tenacious.

He let his eyes hold hers as if she were a woman he’d met at a ball and found interesting. Something flickered in her eyes and she dropped her gaze first. Apparently tenacity had its limits and while those limits extended to throwing herself in front of doors and saying provocative things like ‘performance anxiety’ and ‘watch my mouth’, it drew the line at returning a man’s extended gaze. It was an interesting dichotomy to be sure. Claire Welton was not all she seemed. She had layers.

He wouldn’t mind peeling them back, not so much like peeling an onion—that just left the onion in a shambles—but like the petals of a rose, where the petals were pulled back not to ruin, but to reveal.

Chapter Five (#ulink_3944497a-75a3-5132-b398-522491df4b7a)

The garden worked well for him, at least. Jonathon was more settled, more focused the next day. Claire noted immediately that the words came more freely for him now that his mind had other things to occupy his attention and he was less aware of being under scrutiny. Claire wished she could say the same for herself. She might have resolved some of his performance anxiety, but she’d not helped her own.

Garden paths weren’t assisting her at all. In her desire to help him relax, she’d overlooked a few potential barriers to her own comfort, namely that the garden held an intimacy the library lacked. There were no dusty books, only the lovely faint scent of her mother’s roses. There were no long tables to enforce distance, instead, they were expected to walk side by side, her hand on his arm out of necessity if not propriety, and they’d been strolling for the better part of an hour.

Be careful what you wish for. She was well aware this was the very thing she’d coveted just a few nights ago in May’s drawing room: to stand beside Jonathon, to place her hand on his arm. She wouldn’t lie. She did revel in the opportunity to be so close to him and for such an extended period of time. But it also made it hard to concentrate on anything not him. Still, she made a fairly good go of it. The garden—le jardin—provided all sorts of conversation starters and vocabulary to practise, from words like l’arbre to sentences like ouvrez la porte.

‘I can imagine what that word looks like on paper.’ Jonathon laughed as they practised the last sentence. ‘Ouvrez. What kind of word is that?’ Today, he was the Jonathon she knew, all laughter and light and easy perfection. Gone was the cold, dangerously exciting man from the library.

‘A French one and don’t imagine it. I think that’s your whole problem. You see the words with English eyes.’ Very attractive eyes, but English none the less.

He smiled, a smile that crinkled those eyes and lit up his face when he looked at her. She felt that smile to her toes. ‘Hopefully, I’ve proved I’m not a complete dolt.’

She heard the search for affirmation in it. How strange to think Jonathon Lashley needed that from her. Everyone adored him. Everyone found him perfect. She returned the smile and gave him the assurance he sought. ‘I never thought you were.’ Far from it, if only he knew. ‘Now that we know we’re going the right direction, it will keep getting better.’

‘Everything depends on it.’ They reached the end of a path, their steps bringing them to the fence on the edge of the property. Jonathon paused as they turned and she sensed the hesitation in him. ‘But you know that, apparently. May I ask how? Yesterday, you mentioned the Vienna posting.’ His dark brows drew together. ‘It’s not something that is widely known, at least not the part where I have to demonstrate oral competence.’

Claire worried her lip. She didn’t have a good explanation for that. She should have been more careful with what she blurted out in the heat of an argument. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’ She’d promised herself she would be good today. She’d been given a second chance—no mopping up spills, no blocking entrances. Nothing unladylike.

‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘I’m not offended, just surprised that you knew.’

‘The appointment is important to you?’ Claire asked, steering away from directly answering him. She didn’t want to get May in trouble. They began to walk again, their steps slow as they moved towards the house. His other hand had moved to cover hers where it lay on his arm. It was a gesture he’d likely done a hundred times with any number of ladies. He was probably unaware he’d even done it. She knew it meant nothing and yet her mind was fixated on it, just as it fixated on the sweep of her skirts against his leg as they walked, as if they were a real couple, as if they belonged together. It was an easy fantasy to fall in to.

He nodded. ‘It means everything to me. The appointment is a chance to do some good in the world. To stop war, to find peace, to rebuild a continent one decade at a time. It’s a chance to make a difference.’

Claire hazarded a glance up into his face, surprised to see his merry blue eyes serious. He meant every word. Here was another brief glimpse into a different Jonathon Lashley than the one she was used to seeing.

She nodded slowly, digesting the import of his words. ‘I think that’s very noble.’ It wasn’t the passion behind them that made them noble, it was his motivation. He didn’t want this for his glory, but for the good it would do others. ‘You have a cause. I didn’t know, didn’t realise.’ She wondered what else she didn’t know about him. Yesterday and today had proven there were depths to plumb that went far beyond his smile and good looks.

‘You’re not expected to know. It’s hardly an appropriate topic of discussion during the waltz or a quadrille.’ Jonathon smiled, but she recognised the tactic as one of avoidance. He was trying to dismiss the topic.

Claire shot him a sideways look from beneath the brim of her bonnet. ‘You’ve given yourself a difficult task. Empires thrive on wars, it seems. It takes war to build them up and wars inevitably follow when they collapse, leaving uncertainty in their wake.’

Jonathon nodded. ‘I fear we may be losing another empire and it’s too soon. The Ottomans can’t last and they’ve been the instruments of their own downfall. It’s too soon to lose them after Napoleon. There is still so much instability since 1814. I can only imagine the land grabs that would go on. It’s been only seven years. If not handled correctly, Central Europe will erupt.’

She listened intently as Jonathon elaborated on Slavic states and nationalism, Phanariots and the Christian Millet. How had she not known this side of him? How could she have known? She’d never had any time with him, only seen him from a distance. Did anyone know this about him? The jolt of unlooked-for jealousy startled her. Was this a side of himself he kept strictly for those who knew him best? Claire was suddenly envious of any and all of those friends, those close enough to bear witness to his thoughts, his passions. ‘And Miss Northam, does she share these opinions?’ Perhaps that was the blonde beauty’s appeal?

* * *

She was staring at him. He feared for a moment he’d talked her into a stupor. Usually he was so very careful not to overwhelm people with his opinions. But Claire had seemed enrapt. She’d been such a good listener. Once he’d got started, he’d felt encouraged to continue. Only when she’d asked her question did he realise how he must have run on. ‘Miss Northam? Oh, no. We’ve never discussed it at length. She prefers to talk about fashion and society.’ Jonathon answered easily as if those preferences were entirely natural and expected.

‘Of course,’ Claire said shortly and Jonathon recognised his mistake. For being a usually skilled diplomat, he’d managed to step on Claire’s feelings with regularity. She was certainly interested in goings-on abroad. She’d learned Turkish, after all. He should have anticipated she’d view his response as a veiled reprimand.

‘I find a well-read woman refreshing, however. It doesn’t have to be all fashion and gossip.’ He hurried to cover his unintended slur.

She gave him a wry smile. ‘You don’t need to say that for my benefit. I am well aware my intellectual appetites are not appealing to many men. I would never ask you to pretend.’ He didn’t care for the coldness he heard in her voice. Had she learned that lesson the hard way? It was one more thing he didn’t know about her. Had there been suitors? Had they been driven away by her inquisitive mind? Neither did he like the implication that he might be capable of duplicity.

‘I never pretend,’ Jonathon said solemnly. ‘Do you? Were you pretending to enjoy my discourse on the Ottoman Empire?’

‘Why no, I...’ Her protest was drowned out by the warmth of his smile.

‘I’ve made my point, then. We can be honest with one another.’ He gave her a considering look. ‘It’s fair to say, though, that you are different than I expected. You’re not at all what you seem.’ He was pushing the boundaries of propriety now. He should stop. What he was about to say in order to justify his comment was hardly appropriate either.

Her sherry eyes narrowed in wary speculation. ‘Different how?’

‘In the past, I’ve had the distinct impression that you didn’t want to be noticed.’ And your dresses have become much more attractive.

‘You can hardly have failed to notice that I am something of a bluestocking, Mr Lashley. Men don’t tend to enjoy that sort of female companionship.’ Her response was polite, but there was a cold honesty to her words. They’d reached the back terrace, their starting point, and arguably a signal that he should depart. Jonathon chose to ignore the signal.

‘Is that why you’ve set yourself apart until now?’ Jonathon ventured, a suspicion taking root. Had she set herself apart out of deference to her intellectualism and her desire to preserve it instead of sacrificing it to society’s whim? If so, it was done at great cost to herself. She had to know such a choice would leave her unwed, alone. Her modest dresses, her quiet demeanour would have driven off any man before he got within twenty feet of her. But this Season, things had undoubtedly changed. Those dresses were certainly not designed to repel.

‘Until now?’ Her brow furrowed.

‘May I ask, is there someone you are interested in? Do you have a suitor?’ He wasn’t quite ready to let go of his hypothesis that a woman dressed to impress. There was a man involved.

She looked down at her hands, suddenly uncomfortable. He should apologise, but Jonathon couldn’t restrain his smile. ‘So I am right. There is a man of interest? May I ask who it is?’ Perhaps he could help things along. Maybe he could offer the man some encouragement if he saw the fellow at one of his clubs. She came off a bit aloof with her occasionally sharp tongue and sharper mind. The gentleman in question might not know she was interested. It was the least he could do for her. She was helping him. He’d like to return the favour and he could hardly pay her the way he would a tutor.

She shook her head. ‘That is not necessary. He is unaware of my interest,’ she stammered, taking great care with her words.

He pulled out his pocket watch, surprised to see that it was half past one. He’d overstayed his welcome. ‘Perhaps we should make him aware. Will you be at Lady Griffin’s tonight? You might save me a dance.’ The fastest way to make a man notice you was to dance with another. Arrogant as it might seem to admit, women who danced with him were noticed because he was noticed. A flirty widow who wanted more than a waltz from him had once told him matchmaking mamas sat in a corner keeping lists of his partners.

‘Oh, no! I couldn’t.’ She was truly aghast.

He would not let her withdraw. ‘Come now, I’m not proposing we drag him out into an alley and beat some sense into him.’ Although maybe the fellow needed it if he was oblivious to Claire’s charms.