Wallflowers to Wives

Out of the shadows, into the marriage bed!

In Regency England young women were defined by their prospects in the marriage market. But what of the girls who were presented to Society … and not snapped up?

Bronwyn Scott invites you to

The Left Behind Girls’ Club

Three years after their debut, and still without rings on their fingers, Claire Welton, Evie Milham, May Worth and Beatrice Penrose are ready to leave the shadows and step into the light. Now London will have to prepare itself … because these overlooked girls are about to take the ton by storm!

Read Claire’s story in

Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss

Available now!

And watch for more

Wallflowers to Wives stories—coming soon!

Author Note

Nothing will change until we do! This is the motto of The Left Behind Girls’ Club.

Claire’s story is the first in Wallflowers to Wives—a series of four books featuring four women who decide to change their circumstances. This is no small feat for a woman in Regency England. The higher born a lady is, the harder it is to challenge Society and families who have had expectations for you since the day you were born. Yet these four young women find the courage to be themselves without living outside polite Society—which, they discover, is a very fine line to walk!

More importantly, Claire finds a way to be herself. She doesn’t have to change who she is—just her situation.

This was a fun book to write because it takes advantage of some lesser known destinations in London. I especially loved the parts where Claire and Jonathon sneak off to the French neighbourhood of Soho. There really was one! There was a French market too, but Claire and Jonathon never quite get there—you’ll see why.

Happy reading!

Remember, the best way to help an author is, if you read a book you like, to stop by a review site and post your thoughts! I’d also love to see you on my web page, blog and Facebook, so don’t be a stranger.

bronwynswriting.blogspot.com

bronwynnscott.com

Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For all my PEO sisters! This is a series about women who decide to make their own destinies. Their ambition to remake themselves is not all that different from the ambition held by our seven founders. With special love, of course, to my chapter of outstanding women.

Thanks for all your support.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

London—May 1821

It all started with two words. ‘I’m pregnant.’ The phrase jerked Claire rudely out of her own admittedly rather self-centred thoughts and thrust her into the horrifying present of someone else’s reality. Had Beatrice truly said she was pregnant? Claire stared at her friend in abject confusion as the words settled. Pregnant, as in going to have a baby. Enceinte. Her brain switched to its fail-safe coping mechanism, French. In a crisis, everything always sounded better in French.

Then the shock came, waves of it. Having a baby implied certain other things had taken place prior unless one was the Virgin Mary. Beatrice, one of her best friends since childhood, whom she had played with as a girl, whom she’d come out with, whom she’d not thought kept any secrets from her, had taken a lover and hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told any of them if the looks on the faces of Evie and May were anything to go on. They looked much like she suspected her face did—all pale emotion and bewilderment, while their brains picked through all responses possible for such a situation.

All the while Bea sat still, equally pale, waiting for an answer, watching each of them expectantly and patiently while their emotions rolled. This was not at all what Claire had been anticipating today. Today’s meeting in the tiny attic garret of Evie Milham’s town house was supposed to be like all the other meetings: secret and commiserative. They would bemoan the lack of male attention and/or intelligence, eat some cake and go home, only to meet the following week and do it all over again. It was a comforting ritual they’d sustained over the last three years since they’d come out, when hopes had been, if not high, certainly higher than they’d become after three years on the marriage mart and no takers.

Someone had to say something. Even May with her ever-ready comments couldn’t seem to mount an adequate response. For the first time, Claire noticed how tightly Beatrice’s hands were clenched in her lap, two hard, pale fists while she waited for their...verdict.

Suddenly Claire understood. Beatrice was waiting for them to pass judgement on her, against her, no doubt wondering right now which of her friends would move away first. They wouldn’t be the first to know. Beatrice had already been through this with her family. Apparently, she thought she knew what to expect: rejection of the very worst sort. Exile. The social death of anonymity. It certainly made Claire’s own problems pale by comparison. She’d been selfishly absorbed in her own concerns while Beatrice grappled with something much larger. Beatrice shouldn’t have to do it alone.

She would help, if only she knew how. She needed information and that gave her a voice again. The questions came out in a rush. ‘How? When? More importantly, who?’

Beatrice swallowed hard, the questions no doubt discomforting, but it was too late to take them back. Quiet Evie shot her a quelling look in scolding and leaned forward to take Beatrice’s hand. ‘Bea, you don’t have to tell us.’

Bea shook her dark head. ‘Yes, I do. You have a right to know. I owe you all this much. You will have decisions to make.’ She looked at each of them in turn and drew a fortifying breath. Claire’s heart broke for her friend. She wanted to tell Bea it would be all right, but she couldn’t. Things might never be ‘all right’ for Beatrice Penrose again.

Beatrice began to speak. ‘Over the winter, I became acquainted with the friend of a neighbour who had come for an extended visit. In hindsight, the term “repairing lease” might be more appropriate. There were likely “reasons” he was in the countryside of Sussex instead of London or somewhere far more interesting.

‘I did not look past his handsome face, his manners and the acceptance he’d been afforded by local gentry because of those attributes. Others easily accepted him without question and I did, too.’ Beatrice’s fingers pleated her skirt absently. ‘The country in winter is as dull as the weather and he was exciting, new. No one had ever been interested in me the way he was.’

Claire nodded in sympathy. She felt guilty for being absent. Her family had spent the holidays in the Lake District. She’d not been there to steer Beatrice away from danger. Neither had May, whose family had stayed in town, nor Evie, who had gone to one of her sisters’. Beatrice had been entirely on her own. Alone and lonely.

Claire had plenty of experience, they all did, when it came to being overlooked by gentlemen of society for one reason or another; She was too smart with her acumen for languages when most gentlemen could barely master one; Evie was too discreet as to become anonymous and May was just too well informed, too sharp tongued. May had a talent for eavesdropping. She knew everything about everyone and that made her positively frightening to men who preferred to hide their secrets.

‘He and I would take long walks and discuss everything: plant life, wildlife, the latest findings from the Royal Academy of Sciences. He listened to my opinions.’ Beatrice’s gaze grew misty with remembrance. Claire heard the wistfulness there even now with ruin facing Beatrice and it surprised her, knowing the perfidy this lover was capable of. Then she saw the dilemma in Beatrice’s eyes. Bea wanted to hate him but she couldn’t, didn’t. It was not a dilemma Claire could understand. The cad had left her pregnant. Ruined her. Destroyed her, in fact, and Beatrice could not bring herself to hate him, not quite, not yet.

‘Listening turned out to be far more seductive than I could ever have imagined, especially when that listening was accompanied by a pair of grey eyes the colour of a winter storm. I was convinced he valued me in the most important of ways.’

Claire put a hand over her mouth and suppressed a sad sigh. In return for that false respect, Beatrice had given him the most important thing she possessed: she’d trusted him with her reputation. To her detriment, it turned out.

Beatrice looked down at her lap, a wry half-smile on her mouth, her tone part self-reassurance, part self-deprecation. ‘The awful thing is, I tell myself surely it wasn’t all illusion. Surely he found me interesting to some extent. Even now, with disaster staring me hard in the face, I’m not convinced he’d felt nothing for me. Surely one can’t fake that depth of emotion. I guess I’ll never know.’ Instinctively, her hand moved to the flat of her stomach.

Claire’s eyes caught the motion. ‘How far gone are you, Bea?’

‘Eight weeks.’ Two months. Long enough to be sure. Long enough for the announcement not to be a mistake. Then again, Claire had never known Bea to make mistakes. Unlike her, Bea was always certain, always sure of her direction.

‘And the father? How far gone is he?’ May asked, characteristically honing in on the heart of the issue. Clare exchanged a nervous look with Evie. May might have gone too far. But May would not be deterred. ‘Well, we have to know,’ she said resolutely. ‘Will you be marrying him?’

Bea gave a pretty shrug. ‘The question is hypothetical only. Perhaps I would, if he was here, if our affaire hadn’t been a pretence to him.’

Claire’s heart swelled with admiration for her brave friend. Even with a baby on the way, Beatrice would not stoop to marry a man if it had all been a game and nothing more. As always, Beatrice’s ethical compass faced true north and would not be compromised. It was an enviable commodity, one that Claire had once possessed herself: to be herself even in the face of great social odds, but somewhere in the last three years she’d lost it, ironically perhaps in an attempt to protect it. It was hard to say when it had started to slide. Maybe it had begun with Rufus Sheriden and refusing his proposal on the principle that she was a unique individual and as such deserved his unique regard, or perhaps it had been the Cecilia Northam incident. It had certainly been a slippery slope since then. She was no longer sure who she was, or what she was capable of.

May’s cheeks were in high colour, her quick temper rising on behalf of their friend. ‘The gall of the man to leave you pregnant and alone, unwilling to do right by you!’

Beatrice shook her head, her tone a soft contrast to May’s outrage. ‘He doesn’t know, May. He left before...well, before I knew. Please do not despise him out of hand.’ She took in the whole group with her gaze, perhaps guessing the direction of their thoughts. It was easy to vilify the absent father. ‘It was the most delicious, exquisite week of my life. He brought me flowers, he smiled at me in a way that wiped away all reason. He did not seduce me, I went willingly into this folly. We had a winter of long walks in the cold and a week of illicit loving in abandoned cottages and warm haylofts. He told me he had business in a town a day’s ride away. He didn’t come back.’ But he would always be among them. With a baby on the way, he’d never truly leave them. Ever.

‘We have some time. That is good,’ Evie said encouragingly, still holding Bea’s hand. Thank goodness for Evie, always willing to put a cheerful outlook on things. ‘It will be a Christmas baby. You shouldn’t be showing until the very end of the Season. Fashions are fuller this year. I can start altering gowns right away.’ Evie was at her best when she had a needle in her hand and fabric to transform. But her words spoke for them all. They would not desert their friend. Claire glanced around the circle. They were all smiling at Beatrice now; smiling their support, their approval.

Tears prickled obviously in Beatrice’s eyes. She swiped helplessly at them. ‘Dash it all! I wasn’t going to cry. All I’ve done this past week is sob. Thank you, thank you, all of you. I didn’t expect this.’

‘What did you expect?’ Claire couldn’t keep the sense of betrayal out of her voice. ‘Did you think we’d desert you at the first sign of trouble? After all we’ve been through, certainly you know we’re made of sterner stuff.’

May took Claire’s lead and leaned forward, her hand joining Evie’s. ‘You were there for me when my family forgot my birthday. You made me a cake and stole a whole bottle of brandy out of your father’s liquor cabinet.’ Claire remembered that. May’s brother had got a prime government appointment and her parents had gone to London to celebrate with him, leaving May home. Alone. For her seventeenth birthday, the last birthday of her childhood.

‘We got rather drunk that evening, I recall.’ Beatrice managed a small smile.

‘You were there for me through both of my sisters’ weddings,’ Evie added quietly. ‘I had so much work sewing lace and pearls on to their gowns I hadn’t time to see to my own gown. But you stayed up all night to help me finish my own dress for the wedding.’

‘I think my fingers are still reluctant to pick up a needle again to this day!’ Beatrice laughed.

Claire added her hand on top of the pile. ‘And you were there when I refused Sheriden. And other times, too.’ Her voice broke a little. Claire cleared her throat. ‘Bea, you’ve always been there, for all of us, our glue holding us together in our time of need. We wouldn’t dream of losing you now.’

It wasn’t just a rescued birthday, or a stitch in time on a dress. They’d been there for each other when no one else had. They understood how much it hurt to be left behind by their families, no matter how unintentional, and how much it hurt to face the reality that this was a foreshadowing of their future. They’d been left behind by the dashing gentlemen of the ton.

There would be no gallant matches. Those gentlemen had looked right through them for years in London’s ballrooms either purposely or accidentally choosing not to see them in lieu of seeing some other dewy-eyed, innocent miss. The world they knew had moved on, leaving them behind because they were too smart or too mousy, too anonymous or too outspoken for the ton’s tastes.

May pulled her hand out of the pile and broke the silence that had descended on the room. ‘Beatrice is going to have a baby! We should be celebrating. This is a joyous occasion.’ May reached beneath her chair and pulled out the basket she’d brought. ‘I know just what to celebrate with. Cider and Cook’s chocolate cake squares.’

Claire felt a smile of gratitude for May overtake her face. Leave it to May to know exactly what they needed, what Beatrice needed; not the chocolate, although chocolate helped quite a lot—the celebration. This baby might be a bit unorthodox in its beginnings but it was clear Beatrice was prepared to love the baby, that she already loved it. May passed around chipped cups and the cider jug. She passed around the cake squares, too, until there was only one coveted square left on the plate.

‘Hmm.’ May tapped a long finger on her chin. ‘How shall we decide who gets the last square? How about a game of misery?’

Beatrice laughed, already reaching for the cake. ‘That’s easy. I’m the most miserable. I’m pregnant and the father has disappeared.’

‘Not good enough.’ May lifted the plate out of reach, acting as judge. ‘You may not have a father for the baby, but you have three aunties just waiting to spoil the little dear. Now, on the other hand, I think I should get the square because my parents have threatened to marry me to squint-eyed Vicar Ely this time next year if I don’t succeed in the interim.’ May pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and sighed in exaggerated distress but Claire knew it was no laughing matter. She’d seen the vicar. Vicar Ely was forty-five, squinty, stooped and forever preaching chastisement for sin from the Sunday pulpit. A more inappropriate mate for the outspoken May was not imaginable. Nor was it imaginable that May would actually succumb to such a fate. May would find a way out. May always did.

Evie jumped in, apparently not willing to lose the cake square or to let May feel sorry for herself. All of them were admirable that way, Claire thought; each of them unwilling to let any one of them suffer. ‘May, that’s a year off. Anything could happen. A duke could come on the market and you could snatch him up—’ Evie snapped her fingers ‘—just like that. You have time and I don’t. Andrew is home and declaring to everyone he means to marry. Immediately.’

‘But that’s good news,’ Claire placated Evie with a kind smile, taking her turn. ‘He is home, after two years away, and he’s ready to settle down.’

‘He has to notice me. He hasn’t noticed me in years. Why would now be any different?’ Evie said forlornly. They were all aware of her long-held and unrequited secret crush on her childhood friend, Andrew Adair. ‘At least when he was gone, I knew he wasn’t unavailable. I don’t think I can bear it once he marries and there’s no hope.’ Evie shuddered and Claire could imagine all too well what her friend was envisioning: a lifetime of encountering Andrew and his bride at social functions in Little Westbury and watching Andrew’s children grow up in his ancestral home. That particular horror too closely mirrored the fear she had grappled with lately.

It was the bane of living in a tight-knit community. It was impossible to get away from it unless Evie married and moved. Which wasn’t a bad option. In Claire’s opinion, Andrew Adair was a little less worthy of Evie’s regard than Evie realised. He would only disappoint her in the end.

‘He’s just starting to look for a bride. Men say they want to marry and then they look for ever,’ May put in cheerfully. ‘Remember Viscount Banning? He looked for over three years before deciding on a wife. Sorry, no cake for you. You, like me, have time, too.’ She cast a sly glance in Claire’s direction and Claire froze. No. Not here. Not today. This was her private hell. She wasn’t ready to air it to the others. She regretted even telling May. She tried to signal May with her eyes. Either May didn’t take the hint or chose to ignore it. ‘Tell them, dear. At the very least, you could win the cake square.’

That had all of Beatrice’s attention. ‘What is it, Claire?’ She was not going to tell them, but she was very likely going to kill May. They should be focused on Beatrice now. ‘It’s nothing.’ Claire shot a quelling look at May. ‘There are far bigger concerns for us to deal with. We should focus our attentions on Beatrice.’

‘No, we shouldn’t,’ Beatrice put in firmly. ‘We have seven more months to worry about me. Besides, I could do with a little less self-focus these days. Tell us, May.’

May obliged. ‘It’s Lashley. I have it on excellent rumour from the Foreign Office that he’s to go abroad in a plum diplomatic post in Vienna and Cecilia Northam is angling to go with him as his wife.’

Claire wanted to groan. ‘Excellent rumour’ meant May had heard it from her brother, Preston, who was friends with Sir Owen Danvers, head of the Central European Diplomatic Corps. If Preston said it, it was infallibly true. She wished it wasn’t. She wished there was a margin of error that allowed her to dismiss the news as heresy. Aside from Beatrice’s news, this was the single worse thing that could happen in her world: Jonathon Lashley, set to marry without having even laid eyes on her, without her even having had a chance to win him.

She supposed it was no less than she deserved. What had she ever done to draw Jonathon’s regard? Unlike Evie, who was naturally retiring, Claire had deliberately chosen to retreat from society after a disastrous first Season. She was being served her just desserts for that choice.

‘It was never anything more than a fool’s dream.’ Claire shrugged, valiantly acting as if it were indeed nothing of import. Compared to an unwed pregnancy, it wasn’t of any significance, but from the pitying expressions on their faces, she was not succeeding. They all knew she’d longed after the dashing Jonathon Lashley for years. As open secrets went, it didn’t get any more open. She’d been sweet on Jonathon since the summers they’d all run together in Sussex, four nine-year-old girls relentlessly chasing after May’s older brother and his visiting friend. Back then, Jonathon had gone out of his way to be kind to four nine-year-old girls. She’d fallen hard for those kindnesses. She was falling still and about to hit bottom. ‘Lashley hasn’t even looked twice at me in all the years I’ve been out.’ And now he never would. According to Preston’s rumour, any day, Jonathon would choose Cecilia Northam.

‘Maybe he should. Look twice, that is,’ Beatrice said staunchly. ‘You don’t give yourself a chance, Claire. You are lovely. Women would die for your hair, all those soft brown waves like a rich cup of coffee. You should let me do your hair one evening and Evie could fix up a dress or two for you.’

Claire shook her head at the compliment. ‘Yes, lovely brown hair. Too bad current fashion prefers blondes to brunettes and blue eyes to amber.’ But it was a preference that ran to more than just looks.

She was a pragmatist at heart. English society preferred not only a certain physical ideal, but a particular mental ideal as well—a blank-slated miss to one who could converse with a gentleman in four languages. Statistically speaking, four languages should have increased Claire’s odds. Socially speaking, it had not enhanced them. Her one failed attempt at making a match had proven that. Sir Rufus Sheriden, baronet, had made that quite clear. There would be no tolerance for female intelligence in their marriage. His clarity had been her point of retreat, the point at which her defences had gone up. She refused to yield her intelligence for any man. After a while, London had given up the siege. There were others more willing.

‘Why would Lashley look twice when he has Cecilia Northam to hand?’ It hurt to admit defeat, but that didn’t make it less true. What man would look at a wallflower when faced with a veritable garden of perfection: Cecilia of the pale-blonde locks, the bright blue eyes and the porcelain skin. Cecilia was everything an English gentleman wanted in a bride.

‘Because you’re so much better than she,’ Beatrice offered encouragingly, but that didn’t change facts. Cecilia was like salt in a wound. She was a darling of the ton. She’d debuted with them and become instantly popular where they had not. She might also have been out for three Seasons, but Cecilia’s experience was vastly different than theirs. She was looking to make a match this Season and finish her debut where they did not have such prospects.

Claire had long thought it was too bad men couldn’t see Cecilia Northam for what she really was. Or maybe it was just that Jonathon could not see her for what she was. Cecilia was beautiful, but beneath that beauty, she was conniving and she’d managed to draw about her a coterie of the ton’s loveliest, most devious young women—women just like her, all of them desiring to snare the ton’s most eligible men. Claire could have ignored that. She didn’t much care for those eligible men. Cecilia could have them. But now that Cecilia’s sights were set on Jonathon, it was much harder to ignore. Apparently, kindness would not carry the day no matter what fairy tales argued to the contrary.

Once upon a time, she would have fought back, she would have been brave. She wasn’t brave any more. There was no point to it. Bravery counted for nothing. Cecilia had seen to that. Rufus Sheriden had seen to that. London society had seen to that. She wasn’t sure when that had changed for her, only that it had.

‘No.’ Beatrice stood up and Claire froze. She recognised the stubborn tilt of Beatrice’s chin. Beatrice on a mission was a formidable creature.

‘No? What?’ Claire was afraid to ask.

‘No, as in we shall not stand for it. I may be ruined, but there is no reason the rest of you have to settle for futures not of your choosing.’

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but Beatrice overrode her dissent with quick words and plans. ‘We’ve been overlooked and forgotten. It’s not entirely our fault. But we have had some hand in the blame. We’ve let the ton treat us as if we accept we’re destined for nothing better than country marriages to dried-up vicars and poor third sons of baronets.’

‘It’s just how it is. What can we do about it?’ Evie ventured hesitantly.

‘We can use our special talents for our own betterment instead of detriment.’ Something stirred inside Claire. She liked that—betterment not detriment. It sounded like something the workers at Peterloo would have chanted. Beatrice began to pace and Claire could feel herself getting caught up in Beatrice’s fervour. ‘It’s so obvious. Why haven’t we seen it before? We have to go after what we want. It’s a simple principle of nature. A system dies when it has no new stimuli.’ Beatrice rounded on the group, gesturing to Evie. ‘We’ll need your skill with the needle to create eye-catching fashions for those who need to stand out. Claire, you can coach us on French phrases to drop into conversation since it’s coming back into vogue. May, you can help us research our quarry: where they’ll be, when they’ll be there, what they like. You can start with Lashley.’

Claire’s passion for Beatrice’s crusade came to a crashing halt. Why Lashley? Oh. Beatrice was starting straight at her, delivering her directive. ‘Time is of the essence. You shall be first.’

‘Me?’ Claire choked on her cider.

Beatrice offered her a consoling smile, but she would not relent.

‘Yes, you,’ Beatrice said sternly. ‘And it’s certainly time you forgot about that idiot Sheriden. You’ve let his opinion of you hold you back for far too long. And it’s time you forgot about Cecilia’s dress prank. I don’t think Lashley even noticed. It was years ago.’

Claire groaned. ‘That just proves my point. He didn’t even notice my most embarrassing moment.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Beatrice argued. ‘It’s time we all forget. We’ve been complacent too long. No more. It has taken this pregnancy for me to realise I don’t have to settle for the life society dictated for me. I don’t want my friends to endure a similar tragedy in order to realise it, too. Each of us can have the lives we want, but only if we stand up for them and for each other.’

She fixed Claire with her best stare. Claire felt something warm and forgotten start to come to life deep inside her, a flicker perhaps of who she was, who she was meant to be instead of whom she had become.

‘It starts with you, Claire. We are not going to let Cecilia Northam take Lashley, not without a fight, by God. She’s had her way far too long and for no good reason.’ Beatrice lifted her cup of cider in proclamation. ‘I hereby officially declare this the “Left-Behind Girls Club”, where, through acts of vigorous self-improvement, social courage and the protection of one another, we will change our circumstances by living life on our terms, not society’s. Because, ladies, nothing will change until we do.’

Chapter Two

They had to be the ones to change. Beatrice’s words still echoed three nights later. They had to stop accepting and start fighting for the life they wanted. Claire did not take issue with the concept in theory. Beatrice’s speech had been rousing, inspiring even in a Henry the Fifth, ‘once more into the breach’ sort of way. But did she have to be first?

Claire pressed nervous hands against the flat of her stomach, repeatedly smoothing the silky material of her Evie-enhanced gown as she mounted the steps of the Worth town house behind her parents for dinner. Her friends should have started with someone they could succeed with. There was nothing like attempting the impossible to doom morale. She knew. She’d attempted it once. That’s what this mission was: the impossible, an experiment doomed to failure. Jonathon hadn’t noticed her for three years. Why would he suddenly notice her now? Why would anyone? She’d spent three years trying not to be noticed, trying to avoid reminding people she was the girl who had worn a gown identical to Cecilia Northam’s at the largest ball of the Season the year she’d come out.

Inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Worth town house, with its blue-veined marble floor and white-arched niches filled with expensive statuary, Claire’s nerves hit a ceiling of their own. Changing one’s circumstances was all well and good in the hypothetical, but in practice it was far different, far more real. It was some comfort to know that May would be there with her tonight, playing hostess with her mother, but the comfort was outweighed by the knowledge that Jonathon Lashley and his parents would be in attendance, along with Cecilia Northam’s family.

There would be others present, too, all of whom most likely outranked the Weltons in terms of social cachet. Her father was an unobtrusive man, a quiet viscount possessed of an old title, the sort of guest who could always be counted on to fill seats. As such, he and her mother were invited everywhere. It was a comfortable but not demanding popularity. Tonight was a case in point. The Worths liked to seat an even twenty for supper when they entertained, hence the need for the Weltons.

The butler led them into the drawing room and May was immediately at her side, slipping an arm through hers. Claire felt some of her nerves ease. May, like Beatrice, had been there when she’d refused her one and only offer of marriage and her family had been livid with her. May had been there when Cecilia had pulled her awful prank. Without May, Claire would have given up society years ago and retreated firmly to the country with her books. She’d probably know six languages by now instead of four.

‘You look beautiful,’ May whispered, looking lovely herself in a dress of midnight-blue silk.

‘Do you think so?’ Claire tugged self-consciously at the newly lowered bodice of her gown. Evie had recut the old conservative square one into a more modern style that was off the shoulder and considerably more revealing, before horizontally ruching the fabric to make the expanse of bosom now on display appear fuller.

May slapped her hand. ‘Stop fussing with it. The cut is fine, more than fine. Evie has outdone herself.’ The dress was hugely improved. Claire had hardly recognised it when Evie finished. It was just that Claire wasn’t used to it. It wasn’t the sort of dress a girl like her wore—a girl with no prospects, a girl who blended into the wallpaper. This was a dress that got a girl noticed. She’d not been oblivious to the second glances cast her way. The realisation made her fidgety. She wasn’t used to being looked at, only looked over, or was that overlooked?

Of course, being noticed was part of the plan: no more matching the curtains, no more blending in. Being different meant looking different and there’d been no time in the last two days for an entirely new gown to be made. The girls had crowded into Claire’s room and meticulously gone through her wardrobe until every gown had been scrutinised and discarded. Claire had not realised how plain her wardrobe was until it had needed to pass their inspection and failed.

The girls had decided she should wear blue, ‘Ethereal’, Evie had called it. Evie had taken notes on her little pad and had worked wonders with the gown. After the bodice had been remade, Evie had added wide chocolate-brown grosgrain ribbon at the hem and thinner silk ribbon of the same colour along the bodice and the tiny puffed sleeves: a striking effect against the sky-blue that brought out the amber colour of her eyes.

Truth be told, Claire did feel different in the dress, but it would take some getting used to. Maybe she felt too different. A dress could change her on the outside, but it couldn’t change her on the inside, could it? She scanned the room bravely, her eyes finding Jonathon; dark haired and tall, at the wide fireplace mantel that dominated the far wall. He was smiling, looking entirely at ease as he conversed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without that smile and that air of confidence he carried everywhere with him, trademarks of who he was; a man with the world at his fingertips.

It was no wonder he was picked for an important diplomatic post. He was witty, charming, informed and there wasn’t a talent he didn’t possess; he could sing at musical evenings, fence, box, ride and shoot. He was perfect, the Regency’s incarnation of Da Vinci’s Renaissance man.

He stood with his father and Lord Belvoir, Cecilia’s father. Cecilia Northam was at his side dressed in an exquisite rose silk, her hand on his arm, possessive and proud as if he already belonged to her. Cecilia’s eyes caught hers, her steely-silver gaze perusing Claire’s gown.

Claire could hear the old, hurtful words. ‘I wear it better. Far better. You should have known you could not wear my signature colour.’ Claire hadn’t worn pink since.

This gown was not that gown, she reasoned with herself. In no way did Evie’s blue creation resemble the rose silk Cecilia wore tonight. But Claire still felt her confidence falter. ‘I feel as if I’ve been thrown to the lions,’ she murmured to May.

‘Then be Daniel,’ May whispered. ‘Keep your head up and look them all in the eye. Let everyone know this Season you mean business, beginning tonight.’

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

‘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.

* * *

‘Jonathon, I am desperate, positively desperate. The last time you spoke French at a state reception, you nearly started a war!’ Sir Owen Danvers, head of the diplomatic corps assigned to central Europe, gave Jonathon an exasperated look from behind his desk in the Whitehall offices.

‘I mispronounced an adjective,’ Jonathon clarified. That had been two weeks ago. He was tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it. It was one more reminder of all the things that were different now.

‘And nearly started a war!’ Danvers repeated forcefully. ‘You seem to be missing that piece.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I need you in Vienna, you are my man and yet you insulted the visiting French Ambassador.’

It wasn’t so much misusing as it had been mispronouncing. The word in question was beaucoup, meaning ‘a lot’. It had come out beau cul. He had inadvertently referred to a particular visiting ambassador as having a nice ass. Really, too much was being made out of a single instance. No war had actually occurred. It seemed petty to dwell on what had not happened.

Jonathon pushed a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. He preferred to think of it as a potential war averted instead of potentially started. Then again, he’d always been a glass-half-full man himself. Apparently, Danvers wasn’t. But no matter how Jonathon dressed it up, or tried to laugh it away, he couldn’t dismiss the fact that it was not a mistake he would have made seven years ago.

‘You must appreciate my position,’ Danvers went on. ‘You’re smart as a whip when it comes to understanding the nuances of the Ottomans and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. You grasp those delicate balances like no other. You read French with ease, which makes you ideal for translating documents and reading correspondence. You write it well, too, in a pinch which is the least of my worries. But you can’t speak it worth a damn, not any more. The time was, you were fluent as hell.’

There was the rub. He had been fluent before the accident, before his brother Thomas had disappeared. Between those two incidents, his brain had been wrecked somehow. Jonathon rose from his chair and strode to the long windows overlooking the Thames. This was no dark office buried in the bowels of Whitehall. This was the office of a man who controlled great power in England and beyond. He could imagine the secrets Owen Danvers knew, the secrets the man kept.

Today, Jonathon only cared about one thing: Owen Danvers had the ability to break him, old chum from school or not. His appointment to Vienna hung on Danvers’s recommendation. Jonathon helped himself to the brandy in a crystal decanter on a sideboard placed along the window. ‘You know what that post means to me, Owen,’ Jonathon said quietly, calling on their old friendship as he looked out the windows. He idly sipped his drink. The post meant everything: He could avenge the loss of his brother with peace, he could make his brother’s sacrifice at Waterloo worth something. He could prove to the world that he was more than a viscount’s heir, that he was more than a man who was worth something only because he’d had the good fortune to be born first to another man of wealth and title.

‘Dammit, I know, Jonathon. I would have sent you on your way long before now if I didn’t know how hard you’ve worked for this and how much you want it.’ Owen Danvers relented with a sigh. Owen had been two years ahead of him, but back then, Jonathon was on top as a peer’s son and Owen merely the scrapping son of a baronet eager to make his way. Owen had done just that and now he was the one on top, the one who had what Jonathon wanted.

Wanting seemed such an inadequate word. He wanted this so much he was willing to bend his whole life to it, even marry for it. Cecilia Northam’s father, Lord Belvoir, was a powerful man in Parliament. Belvoir had made it clear he’d champion him for the post in exchange for marriage to his daughter. He’d also made it clear the opposite was true. If Jonathon failed to marry Cecilia, that support would be withdrawn. What Cecilia wanted, Cecilia got. She’d set her sights on becoming the future Lady Oakdale last Season. She’d sunk her teeth in since then and hadn’t let go. He had to marry someone some time. It might as well be her, yet he wondered if there should be something more between them than a trading of skills that, while not symmetrical skills, were certainly complements.

Owen put a hand on his shoulder, his voice quiet. ‘We all miss him. Thomas was a brave man. He died in the service of his country, nobly and honestly. It’s been a long time, but sometimes I still think I can hear him laughing. I’ll turn around at the club and expect to see him, but he isn’t there.’

‘I know. Me, too.’ Jonathon paused to gather himself. ‘Do you really think he’s dead?’ he said quietly. It was a thought he only voiced aloud to a few select people. After all this time, too many people felt he was ridiculous to hold on to what was becoming a ludicrous hope. There’d been no body. Thomas was just simply gone.

Owen didn’t laugh, didn’t try to argue with him. ‘It’s been a long time, Jonathon.’

A long time indeed. He’d had seven years to get used to Thomas being gone and yet somehow he hadn’t mastered it any more than he’d mastered the return of his French. Maybe he never would. ‘He was just so damn young.’ Jonathon breathed, unable to hold back the emotion that flooded his voice. ‘He was barely past his twentieth birthday. He’d hardly had time to grow up.’

‘He honoured us with his life.’ Owen cleared his throat. ‘We can honour him with ours. Jonathon, I need you in Vienna. What will it take?’ Owen paused, taking a moment to cleanse the intensity from his tone. ‘Has there been any progress?’ he asked carefully, kindly.

‘I need time.’ Never mind that seven years hadn’t been time enough. He tried not to think about last night’s debacle. ‘I need to find another tutor and continue my lessons.’ Jonathon said it as confidently as he could, as if he truly believed more study would fix what plagued him. It had been unfortunate his last tutor had a family emergency in Paris and been called away at a most critical juncture, but perhaps it didn’t matter. A pair of sharp brown eyes swam to the fore of his memory, accompanied by a polite voice: The French don’t pronounce the final ‘r’ in bonjour. Perhaps his problem wasn’t something that could be fixed by study. Still, he had to try. For Thomas.

‘We need the post settled before the Season ends, Jonathon. Elliot Wisefield is champing at the bit should you fail and we need a replacement for Lord Wareborne in Vienna by the New Year. I have good men there—Viscount St Just, Matheson and Truesdale—but Central Europe is on the brink of exploding.’

Or imploding, depending on how one looked at it, but sending Wisefield? The name made Jonathon cringe. They’d been rivals since school as much as he and Owen had been friends. How fitting that they’d now be vying for the same diplomatic post. How could Danvers, how could any of them, be considering Wisefield? He might be smart, might have an encyclopaedic head of knowledge when it came to history, but he hadn’t an ounce of finesse to his name.

Jonathon couldn’t protest, though, it would be bad form to malign a competitor. Instead, he had to be confident. He didn’t want Owen Danvers to think he was begging. Weakness persuaded no one, not even friends.

Jonathon turned from the window, a strong smile pasted on his face, the one he used to charm overprotective mothers. ‘The end of the Season will be fine. Thank you, Owen.’

Owen Danvers rose from behind his desk. His face was etched in concern and for the first time, Jonathon saw the worry his friend carried as the man clasped his hand in a firm handshake. ‘Let me tell you again, I want you there, Jonathon. The Phanariots are rising, the Greeks are making their bid for an independent state. These next few years will be volatile times. The Treaty of Vienna will be tested. Whether or not the treaty holds will depend on the men who stand behind it.’

‘The treaty must hold. It has to.’ Jonathon’s mind was already racing with moves and countermoves. The Phanariots thought Russia would be their saviour from the Ottomans, but Russia dared not move without France and Britain, Metternich’s concert of Europe demanded it. The Ottoman Empire was weak, but was now the time to crush it? A hundred questions surged. None of them would matter if he couldn’t overcome this last hurdle.

‘Do you have someone in mind for tutoring?’ Danvers asked.

‘Yes, I do.’ Jonathon answered with a confidence he didn’t feel. He thought once more of amber eyes and a pretty blue dress showing a nice bosom. It was madness. He hardly knew her beyond his association with May’s brother and suddenly he was pinning his future on her, Miss Welton, Viscount Stanhope’s daughter, May Worth’s friend from Sussex—what was her name? Clarice, Clara, Clarinda, Catherine? None of those seemed quite right. Claire. That was it. Would she even do it? Could she do it? Was her French as good as her very brief demonstration at the table and May’s endorsement indicated? He was in no position to accept mediocrity. He needed excellence and he needed it fast.

A hasty plan began to form and it started with flowers. Jonathon hurried out of Whitehall, headed towards the nearest florist. There was a spring his step even as he reminded himself this whole gambit smacked of desperation. He was hoping for quite a lot from a woman whose first name he barely recalled.

* * *

‘Mr Jonathon Lashley to see you, Miss Welton.’

The butler’s announcement sent a thrill of excitement down Claire’s spine. How many times had she imagined hearing those words? How many times had she dreamed of this moment—Jonathon Lashley calling on her? Then she forced herself to remember why he was calling. Not once in those imaginings had he called on her for French lessons. It seemed May’s plan had worked thus far. She should be ecstatic, so why did she feel a bit fraudulent, dangling her French out there like so much cheese in a mousetrap?

‘Send him in, Marsden,’ her mother shot, her eyebrow raised as she spoke a single crisp word. ‘Interesting.’

It wasn’t all that interesting from where Claire sat. She knew exactly why Jonathon was here. He’d arranged his call perfectly to ensure privacy. The time for afternoon calls was nearly over, the sitting room at Stanhope house empty. The last callers had left ten minutes ago. There was no chance of anyone noticing his arrival. Was he that embarrassed to be seen calling on her? The nuance stung.

She and her mother rose as Jonathon stepped into the room and made his bow. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Stanhope, Miss Welton. I trust I am not too late?’ He presented her with a bouquet of flowers, fresh white-petalled snowdrops and deep butter-yellow roses.

‘Thank you, they’re lovely.’ She took the bouquet, irrationally touched by the gesture. It meant nothing. It was protocol. But, oh, it was so easy to forget she’d angled for this very moment. She signalled for Marsden to get a vase. ‘Will you take tea?’ Claire gestured to the tea pot and the trays of cakes beautifully frosted and arranged to appeal to the eye.

‘I have come with a request,’ Jonathon began once they were settled with cups and cakes. He balanced his plate on his knee, his fingers preternaturally gripping the delicate handle of his teacup. Now, that was interesting. Claire watched him carefully. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the urbane Jonathon Lashley was nervous. Impossible. Then again, just last night she’d been disabused of the notion that he was perfect. If he squeezed Grandmother Highthorne’s Wedgwood any tighter, the slim handle would likely burst under his grip.

She understood the feeling. She thought she just might burst under his gaze. He was looking directly at her as he spoke and her pulse was about to go through the ceiling. He’d never directed any conversation to her this long before. If she had something in her hand to grip, she’d be squeezing the life out of it, too. But her teacup remained on the table, perhaps for the better. Claire tried to focus on what he had to say. ‘I’m in need of a French tutor to help me brush up on my conversation. I believe you mentioned you had some experience last night with the language, Miss Welton.’ His gaze shifted to her mother. ‘If it met with approval, I would very much like to engage your daughter’s assistance for the duration of the Season.’

He’d just got his request out when it happened. There was a small snapping sound and Jonathon’s teacup crumbled, the delicate handle splitting in two as the cup fell, liquid pouring down his fawn breeches. ‘Damn! That’s hot!’ He leapt up, looking around rapidly for a napkin, but Claire was faster.

‘Oh, I am so sorry! Allow me!’ She wiped frantically at his trousers, thinking only of wicking away the boiling water, of wicking away his distress. ‘Are you all right? You’re not burned, are you?’ She’d got most of it. Claire pressed her napkin high against his thigh, blotting the remainder of the water.

His hand covered hers, insistent in halting her efforts, his tone somewhat stiff as he relieved her of mopping duty. ‘I am fine, just a little damp. Thank you, Miss Welton for your, ah, speedy assistance. I can take it from here.’

Claire sat back in her chair, watching him mop up his trousers, mortification setting in at what she’d done. She could feel her cheeks heat, rivalling the tea water. Just an inch or two to the right and...good Lord! She’d nearly felt up the future Viscount Oakdale and in front of her mother no less.

‘A thousand pardons, Lady Stanhope, for the language and for the teacup, I hope it wasn’t an heirloom.’ Lashley remained standing as he apologised, trying valiantly to ignore the obvious dark wet stain on his breeches.

‘It is a trifling thing, Mr Lashley, do not worry yourself over it.’ Her mother smiled smoothly as if nothing untoward had just broken out in her drawing room, as if her daughter hadn’t nearly manhandled their guest’s private parts in an attempt to be helpful. ‘I’m only glad you were not harmed unduly.’

Or molested by my daughter. She doesn’t get out much, Claire thought as Lashley left the room with considerably more dignity than most men would have managed. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again? She’d have to though, wouldn’t she? Then she remembered, she hadn’t answered his question.

Claire raced to the door, never mind that running after a man was hardly appropriate, but decorum had departed the moment she had tried to wipe up his trousers. ‘Mr Lashley!’ she called, stopping him at the front door.

Jonathon turned. ‘Yes? Miss Welton?’

‘I never answered your proposal.’ She mentally winced. That was entirely the wrong word. ‘I would be honoured to help you with your conversation.’

A broad smile took his face, bordering on brilliant. Her decision pleased him. Did she imagine it or was there relief in that smile, too? It had taken strength of character to ask her, strength enough to break a teacup. Not every man was strong enough to admit when he needed help. ‘How are mornings at eleven?’

He’d agreed! The realisation swamped her with amazement and disbelief. Beatrice and May’s plan was going to work! But then what? She pushed the thought away. She’d worry about that later. For now, she was practically giddy. Jonathon gave her an expectant arch of his brows, as if he was waiting for something. Oh, yes. A response. He was waiting for words. What a looby she was. He would be wondering how she could master French if she couldn’t even manage basic English.

‘Mornings at eleven are perfect.’ She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and tried to sound composed while her insides leapt. Jonathon had said yes! True, it was just for French lessons, but it was a start.

Chapter Four

The lesson was perfectly awful on all levels. They were one hour in and Claire was at her wits’ end. Never did she imagine those rather considerable wits would reach their end so quickly or that her patience would have such a short fuse, especially where Jonathon Lashley was concerned. As an opportunity for Lashley to notice her, this was an absolute failure.

Her stays were suffocatingly tight in their attempt to push her breasts up in Evie’s latest creation—a low-cut morning gown in pale green—and Lashley couldn’t sit still long enough to appreciate the effort. He kept getting up from the long table that ran the length of the Welton library and walking to the window, where there was absolutely nothing of interest to see—she’d checked after his fourth trip just to make sure. Perhaps the gardeners had decided to work naked, after all. But no. Quite thankfully, the gardeners were all clothed. There was nothing to see, just the garden and the wall that separated it from the alley.

Apparently ‘point of interest’ meant something different to Lashley, though. This was the eighth time now he’d made the trip and, while it was something of a treat to watch those broad shoulders in blue superfine and those long legs sporting tan breeches sans tea stains walk across the room in a pair of highly polished boots, it wasn’t helping her cause or his.

She wanted to push him into his chair and yell, ‘Sit down and look at me!’ Not only because she’d worn this ridiculous dress just for him, but she couldn’t very well use the tips May and Beatrice had given her for attracting a man’s attention if he was forever walking away. He had to sit in order for her to lean over the table and point out something in the book. He had to sit in order for her to stand behind him so that her breasts might brush his shoulder as she pointed something out. The operative word in all of these suggestions was ‘sit’, of course, an assumption she had felt safe in making an hour ago, not so now. It was all good advice, Claire was certain, if she ever got to use it. None of her friends’ tips dealt with a man who acted like a jack in the box.

How did he expect her to uphold her end of the proposition if he wouldn’t uphold his? He’d asked for her help and she couldn’t give it if he wouldn’t sit still. She couldn’t very well teach him French if he wouldn’t read the sentences from the book and do the lesson she provided.

But a lady did not screech like a fishwife in the presence of a man she wanted to impress. Still, good manners and playing by the rules had got her very little in the way of progress today. Claire shot a frantic glance at the clock. Their time would be up and they would have accomplished nothing. Lashley would think she was incompetent. The realisation spurred on the last of her reserves. Whatever else she was, she knew she was an accomplished linguist and she would prove it. Claire drew a deep breath, calling on the final remnants, nay, the last shreds of her patience. ‘Let’s try again, Mr Lashley.’ She crossed the room to the window, book in hand, muttering under her breath. ‘Dağ sana gelmezse, sen dağa gideceksin.’

‘What did you say?’ Lashley’s head jerked away from the window, startled at the words. At last something had caught his interest and it hadn’t been French. Of course. That was how her luck had been lately.

‘I said, “If the mountain won’t come to you, you must go to the mountain”. It’s from The Essays of...’

‘Francis Bacon, I know. But Bacon wrote his essays in English,’ Lashley finished. ‘Turkish would be my guess.’

‘Yes, you’re correct. Most people don’t recognise Turkish.’ That he did was pleasantly surprising but it didn’t make up for the fact that he couldn’t focus on his lesson. He was a grown man, used to long meetings about estates and ledgers, there was nothing drier. Why couldn’t he focus on French which was anything but dull?

‘And yet you speak it, Miss Welton? Is it one of your four languages?’ He was watching her now, his sharp blue eyes on her face. He’d remembered May’s carefully placed titbit from dinner. She flushed, pleased that he’d recalled something about her.

‘It will hopefully be my fifth. Since the Ottoman Empire appears destined to demand British attention, it seemed prudent to pick up the skill.’ Maybe this was the opening she needed. She leaned forward, pointing to the page and hopefully displaying a pleasing expanse of bosom. ‘We’re not here to learn Turkish, Mr Lashley. Perhaps we might try the French sentences again? Read the first one, si’l vous plait.’

Lashley drew a breath. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly ‘Ow est lee salon?’

There it was, the second reason this lesson was a disaster, in terrible ear-splitting reality; Lashley was horrible. As if his attention deficit wasn’t problem enough, Lashley’s French sounded awful when he did try. Suffice it to say, she’d taught younger children French with more success than she was having here. Abysmal didn’t even begin to cover it. Praise was a good way to encourage success, but what could she say about this? ‘All right, it sounded like a question, that’s good. It was meant to be one.’

Lashley saw right through the comment. ‘I’m not a child, Miss Welton. Lying to me won’t help. You make it sound so easy. I look at the words and I see what they mean, but I can’t say them, not like you.’

‘Not yet anyway,’ Claire insisted. She couldn’t stand the look of resignation that crept across his face. ‘We simply have to practise.’

Lashley moved away from the window and ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head. ‘I have been practising. For years. I’m sorry, Miss Welton, to have wasted your time. This simply isn’t going to work.’

He was leaving? No. Unacceptable. She was not losing him after one lesson. If Beatrice was willing to brazen out having a baby with no father, perfect Jonathon Lashley could learn to speak French and she could teach him. But she had to act fast. He was already halfway to the door. Something fiery and stubborn flared inside Claire. He was not leaving this room. Claire strode across the room—no, wait, who was she kidding? She was nearly running to beat him to the door. The rules could go hang.

She fixed herself in the doorway, hands on hips to take up the entire space, blocking the exit. He would not elude her. ‘I never figured you for a quitter, Mr Lashley, or perhaps you have simply never met with a challenge you could not immediately overcome?’

‘Do you know me so well as to make such a pronouncement?’ Lashley folded his arms across his chest, his eyes boring into her. This was a colder, harsher Jonathon Lashley than the one she knew. The laughing golden boy of the ton had been transformed into something dangerously exciting. Her pulse raced, but she stood her ground.

What ground it was! She’d never been this close to him before; so close she had to look up to see his face, so close her breasts might actually brush the lapels of his coat without any contrivance on her part, so close she could smell his morning soap, all cedar and sandalwood and entirely masculine, entirely him. She’d waited her whole life to stand this close to Jonathon Lashley and, of course, it was her luck that when it happened it was because of a quarrel—a quarrel she’d provoked.

She’d never thought she’d fight with him, the supposed ‘man of her dreams’. She’d been thinking ‘never’ a lot since this all started. Yesterday, she’d never thought they would have desperation in common. Today, she’d never dreamed his French would be this bad, or that she’d have trouble teaching him or that she’d quarrel with him.

‘You are a very bold woman, Miss Welton.’ His tone was one of cold caution. ‘Yesterday you mopped up my trousers and today you are preventing me from leaving a room. One can only wonder what you might do to my person next. Perhaps tomorrow I will find myself tied to a chair and at your mercies.’

Claire flushed violently. The rather descriptive words conjured hot images of just how that might look and the mercies she might indeed invoke flooded her mind in vivid colour. Jonathon bound, his perfect cravat undone, his shirt open, those long legs wrapped about the chair, his thighs spread wide, his tight breeches unable to disguise what lay between them. Sweet heavens, where was her fan when she needed it? Where was her self-restraint? Those were thoughts for the dark of night when she was alone in her bed. But it was bright day and he was standing right in front of her, present for every one of them.

That was outside of enough. She had to stop. Claire put a tight lid on the images and stuffed them back inside whatever Pandora’s box they’d sprung from. This was all his fault, every scrap and speck of it from the disastrous lesson to the heated imaginings of rope tricks involving knots and a gentleman who wasn’t necessarily wearing clothes.

‘You asked for it!’ Claire’s temper snapped. Where had that come from? She hadn’t been this bold in years. She’d thought she’d forgotten how. Apparently not. She could lay her boldness, too, at the altar of his provocation. He was going to damn well be accountable for all of it. Great. He had her swearing now as if erotic fantasies of tying him to a chair in the middle of her father’s dusty library wasn’t enough. ‘You wanted my help and you shall have it. You need me if you have any chance of claiming that post in Vienna!’

She ruthlessly gripped his arm and turned him around, dragging him back to the window, the furthest point from the door. If he was going to run, she’d have plenty of warning, and if he couldn’t sit still, then she wouldn’t belabour it. Chairs might not be the best idea just now anyway and she had to pick her battles. ‘Now, we’re going to go through the sentences again. This time, all you have to do is watch my mouth. Do you think you can manage that?’

* * *

Probably not. He hadn’t managed to do anything right since the lesson started. He’d made an apparently lurid comment about chairs and provoked a lady to an unladylike show of temper and it was all her fault. Watching her mouth was what had caused the problem in the first place. What the hell was wrong with her? This was not the Miss Welton he knew, assuming he knew her at all?

It occurred to him that perhaps he didn’t know her any more than he’d accused her of knowing him. What did they know of each other beyond face recognition? Before today, their adult life together consisted of encountering each other at various entertainments where politeness required he acknowledge her.

She’d been out for three Seasons. What had she been doing all that time besides learning Turkish and blending into the wallpaper? Perhaps she had been tying men to chairs and having her mad way with them. She’d certainly blushed furiously enough when he’d made the remark. He’d give a guinea to know exactly what nature of thought had passed through her mind. It was always the quiet ones. And yet, he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that quietness didn’t come naturally to Claire Welton. It was, perhaps, an acquired skill. Interesting to think someone would want to become quiet.

‘Are you watching me?’ she insisted. ‘You have to concentrate.’ She started her French sentence all over again, having divined correctly that he’d missed it entirely.

He was concentrating. On her mouth. Just like she’d asked. Did she have any idea how difficult it was to stare at that wide pink mouth with its rather lush lower lip and those straight white teeth as they formed around impossible French syllables and keep his mind on the lesson? The task was nearly Herculean and it shouldn’t have been.

Perhaps the question wasn’t what the hell was wrong with her, but what the hell was wrong with him? Not once in three years of polite encounters had he ever felt quite so encouraged to look at her as he did today. Today he noticed everything, not just her mouth: those sherry-amber eyes, the nut brown of her hair, the rather distracting show of firm breasts lifted temptingly high in that bodice. Pale green was an excellent colour on her and whoever the modiste was who did the bodices of her gowns—suffice it to say that was a job well done.

‘Répétez. Je m’appelle Claire.’ He watched her mouth form the words and he repeated the phrase, his eyes taking the opportunity to stay riveted on her lips instead of other less seemly places.

‘Juh mapel Claire.’

‘Jonathon,’ she prompted softly. The sunlight through the window picked out the hidden auburn hues of her hair.

‘Yes?’ He lifted his eyes momentarily.

‘No, not a question. I meant, you should insert your own name in the sentence. You said “Claire”.’

‘Right. Juh mapel Jonathon,’ he corrected, feeling like a stupid schoolboy.

‘That was lovely. It was so much better,’ she complimented and he felt absurdly pleased at having mastered the simple sentence. She cocked her head to one side, studying him, and this time he couldn’t escape to the window. He was already there. That look of hers, as if she was trying to fathom the depths of his soul, had unnerved him and then aroused him since the lesson had started. Certainly, women had looked at him before. Being the object of their attentions wasn’t new. He knew they found him attractive: physically, fiscally, socially. His attraction was multi-faceted. But no woman ever looked at him that way. She wasn’t measuring him, she was searching him. What did she see? That made him a little nervous.

He’d got up to move so many times she must think he had a problem. He couldn’t very well explain he was moving to spare her the obvious sight of an erection well in progress. Fawn breeches had not been his friend lately. First tea, now this.

‘May I ask you a few questions?’ Her tone was softer now, more ladylike as she searched. It better matched the soft shades of her eyes than the scold she’d given him. ‘You can translate the language? You can write it?’

‘Yes. Quite well.’ A hint of defensiveness crept into his tone. Did she think him an entirely ignorant buffoon? His pride stung. For a moment he thought it might be better if she did see his erection. Better that than to think he was illiterate.

‘How did you work with your tutors in the past? Did you read from sheets like the one I had for you this morning?’

‘Yes, we’d read passages out of books.’ He tried to guess where she was going with this. ‘What does that have to do with anything, Miss Welton?’ Now he was feeling defensive on behalf of his instructors. He’d had the best.

‘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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.