Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives)

by Bronwyn Scott

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Until now?’ Her brow furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Well, if you put it that way, je voudrais rien de plus.’ She gave him a little curtsy. ‘Nothing would please me more.’

  He could think of a few things that would please him better than a dance. Perhaps a kiss. The errant thought struck him hard. He wanted to kiss Claire Welton? It was admittedly a bit more tame than yesterday’s chairs and ropes, but where had that idea come from? She was his French tutor, nothing more.

  Perhaps it was mere male curiosity. Now that there was another man involved, perhaps he wanted to know what he was missing. There was a difference between wondering and wanting. Wondering was objective and wanting was not. There was that dress to consider, too. She’d worn a deep-yellow gown today, the shade of daffodils, and it brought out the glow of her skin and the darkness of her hair. She looked positively radiant, a beam of sunshine that drew the eye. Jonathon drew a breath. He was a healthy young male. It was natural to be drawn to a pretty girl.

  A stray curl had come down and tickled her cheek. Jonathon reached out and pushed it back behind her ear without thinking. ‘Until tonight, then. I am looking forward to our dance. Whoever the man is, he’s a fool not to have noticed you.’

  To his surprise, the compliment did not please her. ‘Do you know me so well then after a few days’ acquaintance?’

  ‘I’ve known you far longer than that.’ His tone was sharper now, sensing an argument coming and warming to it. When it came to discussing herself, she was prickly, defensive. ‘We played together as children.’

  That brought a flush to her face. ‘Please don’t remember it. We chased you and Preston. There was very little playing involved. We must have been very annoying little girls. A past acquaintance does not require you to say things you don’t mean.’

  How do you know I don’t mean them? He was tempted to say the words for the sake of the debate, but where the words would please another sort of woman, the response would only insult Claire. She was too smart for such elementary banter. She would not accept empty flattery. Most women would. Cecilia Northam certainly would. She ate up compliments like chocolate. He kept her well supplied with both. It was the simplest way to keep her in good spirits. He had enough experience with women to know he should quit while he was ahead.

  Jonathon made his bow, determined to leave before he could lose the argument entirely. ‘Think what you like, Miss Welton, I shall look forward to seeing you tonight.’

  Chapter Six

  Jonathon had asked her to dance! Not even the knowledge that the request had come from some notion he harboured about helping her could diminish Claire’s good spirits. She stood on the sidelines of the Griffin ball with her friends, fairly bristling with energy at the prospect and feeling pretty in the most recent of Evie’s re-made creations: delicate cream lace discreetly highlighting the elegance of her olive silk—a gown that had not lived up to its potential with its old black trimmings and higher neckline.

  Around them, gentlemen flocked to ladies, filling in the tiny dance cards that hung from delicate wrists while their own cards remained woefully unpopulated except for the usual. Preston had scrawled his name on an obligatory country set. May’s brother always did his duty as did a distant cousin or two of Evie’s, but it was nothing like the traffic of gentlemen gathered around Cecilia and her coterie of young ladies, all of them deemed the ton’s finest flowers. She’d gathered them all to her and Claire felt a brief stab of envy. What would it be like to be sought after? Adored by the masses? Ladies eager to see what you wore? Gentlemen hanging on every word? She knew it wasn’t well done of her to be selfish and covetous, especially when she had chosen this path. After her less-than-successful debut, she’d chosen not to engage society. If society now chose not to engage with her, it was merely following her lead.

  A horrid thought took her. What if Jonathon followed that lead? What if he’d changed his mind and thought better of dancing with her? The old insecurities, born of a miserable proposal, and a cruel girl’s prank, flooded back. What if he’d taken one look at Cecilia Northam this evening and decided he had better things to do and better people to spend the evening with? That was the problem with re-engaging, she had to face those old demons.

  ‘Miss Welton, you look particularly lovely this evening.’ Suddenly Jonathon was there, standing before her, bending over her hand, elegant in his dark evening clothes, his smile warm as his errant lock of hair fell forward, the imperfection serving to make him look more handsome.

  ‘Mr Lashley, good evening.’ Her smile was so wide she could feel it at the far corners of her face. He had not forgotten her.

  ‘I would like to request the honour of a dance. That is, if you have any left?’ His eyes glanced expectantly to where her card hung from her wrist.

  ‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’ There’s plenty to pick from. She watched as he wrote his name next to the fifth dance of the night, a waltz, and tried to stay cool while her insides were a crazy mess of excitement. Jonathon was going to waltz with her! Surely that alone was worth the cost of actively rejoining polite society.

  ‘Is your young man here?’ Jonathon leaned in conspiratorially, the sandalwood of his toilette captivating her. For a moment the reference confused her. Then she remembered.

  ‘Um, yes.’ Standing right in front of me, actually.

  ‘Then perhaps we should take a stroll about the ballroom before our dance.’ Jonathon smiled and offered her his arm. He gave her a friendly wink. ‘We can practise our French.’

  * * *

  ‘This was actually a very good idea, Mr Lashley,’ Claire said as they concluded their rotation of the room. She’d relaxed, falling easily into the role of instructor as they strolled.

  Jonathon laughed. ‘I am known to have good ideas on occasion.’

  ‘I got to see you in your native habitat. You did well. Your French is coming along nicely,’ Claire complimented. He had done so well, in fact, that it had given her other ideas for improving their instruction.

  ‘My native habitat? You make me sound like a zoo exhibit.’ His eyes twinkled as he teased her.

  ‘I don’t mean to. Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you uncomfortable in any setting.’ The words were out before she could take them back for being too bold. He seemed to bring the boldness out in her without even trying. Maybe he even brought out the crazy.

  He acknowledged the words with a nod, his eyes losing some of their shine. ‘You are too kind. I suppose a ballroom is my native habitat these days. I spend enough time in them.’ She wondered if he would have said more if the orchestra hadn’t chosen that moment to strike up for the fifth dance. ‘I believe that’s our cue, Miss Welton.’ His smile was back in place, his eyes bright again as he led her out on to the floor, taking up a spot in the centre.

  Claire felt her throat tighten. ‘Everyone can see us.’

  ‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’ His grin was infectious as his hand slid to her back, firm and confident as he guided her into position.

  Claire felt a moment of panic creep up. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve waltzed.’ Not since her debut ball, in fact. What if she tripped? What if she stepped on his toes? What if she didn’t remember the steps?

  ‘You think too much.’ Jonathon laughed, reading her every thought. ‘I won’t let you fall.’

  ‘Easy for you to say!’ Claire whispered frantically. ‘You waltz every night.’ />
  ‘You could, too.’ Jonathon arched a meaningful eyebrow as the music began. He moved them into the dance, his hand signalling her to move with him. Hesitantly, her feet followed, her body followed, picking up the rhythm. Jonathon made it easy to remember. He waltzed as well as he did everything else, effortlessly making adjustments.

  ‘You’re doing splendidly! You’re a wonderful dancer.’ Jonathon took them through the first turn. ‘Why don’t you dance more often?’

  It was a good question. It was hard to remember why when she was whirling away in Jonathon’s arms. Dancing was liberating. The first time she’d waltzed, she’d felt as if she were flying. She felt that way tonight, only better. This wasn’t flying, it was soaring. ‘I don’t know. I just stopped.’

  His eyes held hers, bright and merry. ‘Maybe it’s time to “just start” again.’

  Maybe it was. But dancing required partners and partners required calling attention to oneself. She’d given up drawing attention years ago. It was too risky. It would have to be enough to enjoy this moment for the singular event it was, something she didn’t expect would ever happen again.

  Jonathon was an exquisite partner in all ways. Never once did his eyes stray from her, never did his conversation falter, or his grip slacken. His interest stayed entirely fixed on her. Even in a room crowded with people, there was an intimacy to his attentions.

  It was over all too soon. The dance ended and she could think of no way to keep him with her. He’d already walked with her, danced with her. He returned her to the sidelines and took his leave with a promise to see her the next day. He gave her another flash of that dazzling smile and was gone. It was all very proper. What had she expected? Did she think he’d claim a second dance? Take her in for supper? Spend the rest of the evening practising French as they strolled among the guests?