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 wit
h 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 bre
asts 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.
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives) Page 4