Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives)

by Bronwyn Scott

  Already, plans started to form in her head. It would be easy enough to tell her parents she was going to one of her friends.

  ‘Good. We can go tomorrow. I’ll come for lessons as usual and we can plan then.’ Jonathon smiled, looking relieved. ‘Thank you, Claire.’

  They had made a complete circuit of the garden and had reached the gate. He opened the gate for her and gestured she should go through, but Claire held back. If she left the garden she might not get the answers she wanted. ‘You still haven’t told me why. Where has all the sudden urgency come from?’

  He hesitated just a fraction. ‘I may have need of it sooner than expected.’

  ‘Has the Vienna post been decided then?’ She pushed forward her earlier hypothesis. There were people behind them now, waiting to exit.

  ‘Something like that,’ Jonathon muttered. It wasn’t an answer, but it was the best she was going to get, a reminder perhaps that while he’d been willing to run to her in his time of need, he wasn’t ready yet to fully confide in her. A reminder, too, that the man she saw in London’s ballrooms was far more than the sum of his smile. Jonathon Lashley was a man with secrets.

  They walked the short distance to Evie’s in silence, their time taken up with the effort to cross the street, avoiding mud from last night’s rain and late-afternoon carriages. Too soon, it was time to let him go. It wasn’t until he’d driven away that she realised his tactic of omission had worked in another sense as well, although perhaps unintentionally so. Her mind had been so focused on what he wasn’t telling her, she’d not realised the one thing she thought they would talk about hadn’t been addressed at all. He hadn’t mentioned the kiss once. Claire supposed she ought to be glad. After all, what was there to discuss? But it was still lowering to realise it had been so inconsequential as to not merit comment. Surely, if the kiss had meant something, if it had been intended to alter the nature of their relationship, he would have addressed it? By not mentioning it, they were politely, tacitly, admitting it was a mistake that ought to be put behind them. At least it seemed that Jonathon certainly had. She might have to settle for being Jonathon’s friend, as hard as that might be.

  * * *

  No one would ever mistake Cecilia Northam for a soft woman. She made sure of it. She was beautiful the way a diamond was beautiful: multi-faceted, sparkling, a dazzling treat to the eyes that came with sharp edges. She was not afraid to cut with words or actions. A lady had to know how to defend herself among the ton. It was an important skill to hone as a debutante as much as the art of flirting or dancing. Some day, the successful flirt would have a husband to defend against the cats of the ton and later children to launch. The fight to protect and to establish would be a successful lady’s lifelong career. Every other woman posed a threat to that success unless they were taken down.

  The bloodthirstiness of Cecilia Northam’s outlook would definitely have surprised the girls seated around her as she tried on her new ball gown for a final fitting at the dressmaker. Cecilia took a twirl, liking the feel of the skirt against her ankles. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it will be just the thing to bring Lashley back to your side.’ One of the girls, Anne, fanned herself languidly as if she hadn’t let drop a juicy piece of news. A few others held their breaths and shot Anne a warning look. Cecilia looked at the girls’ responses and knew she had to address the issue immediately. This was touchy ground indeed if they were trying to censor Anne.

  She stepped down from the dressmaker’s dais and faced the offender. ‘I was unaware Lashley had to be brought back,’ she said coolly. Of course that was a lie. Lashley’s behaviour had been somewhat troublesome this past week. In a Season comprised of three months, where matches were made in a matter of weeks, a week of erratic behaviour was worrisome indeed. It was hardly something she talked about though. However, hearing the words made the concern real. She was on the verge of reeling Lashley in. She didn’t need anyone smelling blood here at the last.

  ‘He’s dancing with Claire Welton out of the blue.’ Anne didn’t back down. ‘It seems odd to me that he’s had years to dance with her and hasn’t. But now...’ Her voice trailed off in implication.

  Cecilia narrowed her eyes. Was that all? She would enjoy taking Anne down. ‘Claire Welton is nothing. He danced with her out of pity. He’s friends with the brother of one of her friends. It was probably arranged.’ She paused. ‘I forgot you weren’t with us that night, Anne.’

  ‘Perhaps dancing with her once might be explained as friendly charity, but twice?’ Anne tossed her dark hair with a competitive smirk. ‘They did more than dance at the Rosedale ball last night. He took her out to the garden.’ She paused. ‘Oh, I forgot, you weren’t there,’ she mimicked.

  ‘Fresh air is not a marriage proposal,’ Cecilia replied in her most unconcerned tone. ‘Heavens, Anne, you’re such a prude. A gentleman and a lady can walk in a garden without it meaning something. Didn’t Viscount Downing take you out to the garden last week?’ The others laughed nervously. Good. She was putting the rebellion down.

  ‘And kissing?’ Anne shot back with feigned innocence. ‘I suppose that’s of no consequence either?’

  Cecilia shot her a thunderous look, but Anne was unrepentant.

  ‘Don’t kill the messenger, Cece. I’m just telling you what I saw.’

  Cecilia relented. She was smart enough to know she couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. Maybe Anne meant well and maybe she meant something more predatory with her remarks, but that would have to wait. The immediate concern was Claire Welton. Anne posed no threat to Lashley, but apparently Claire did—that blue-stocking mouse who’d come out of nowhere this Season with her new dresses. She’d guessed there was a man involved when she’d first seen the gowns. But she’d never guessed those attentions were for Lashley. Claire Welton overstepped herself when she knew Lashley belonged to her. Nor had Cecilia guessed Lashley might be so easily swayed from her side.

  She stepped back on to the dais, taking a final spin in the pale ice-pink silk. Anne was right about one thing. This was the perfect gown for getting Lashley back. It was time to defend what was hers. Better yet, it was time to claim it. ‘I think,’ she said out loud to the girls. ‘It is time for Lashley to come up to scratch.’ She would compromise him to the altar if she had to. She was going to be the future Countess Oakdale. Claire Welton and her four languages were not going to stand in her way.

  Chapter Twelve

  The little issue of propriety and a chaperon wasn’t going to stand in the way of a grand adventure. It had taken some planning on her part and a slight almost-lie to her mother, but Claire had done it. She was going to Evie’s. She just wasn’t going to stay there. Going to Evie’s covered a number of problems, the foremost being the need for her maid to accompany her. Evie only lived a street away and she’d been going to the Milhams for years on her own.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind covering for me?’ Claire asked for the tenth time as they waited for Jonathon in the key garden. She’d lost the fight an hour ago to contain her excitement and she was fairly bristling with unbridled anticipation.

  ‘It’s only for a few hours,’ Evie insisted, almost as excited as Claire was over the prospect of an illicit adventure. ‘I can manage until you get back. Besides, my mother thinks we’re going to May’s.’

  Claire worried her lip. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to get into trouble if anything should go wrong.’ Nothing would though. She’d thought this through and it was only a trip to a little French bookshop in Soho. Bookstores were harmless venues. More was the pity.

  ‘Do you think he’ll kiss you again?’ Evie asked in a whisper, her cheeks turning pink.

  ‘No, I doubt a musty old bookshop would do much to spark a man’s ardour.’ Claire gave a small smile and a laugh, but deep down she rather regretted that the bookshop wasn’t a more inspiring venue.
It seemed unlikely Jonathon would be encouraged to kiss her again amid the tall aisles of bookcases. ‘He didn’t even mention the first kiss.’ On those grounds, it would take far more than a bookshop to inspire a second one.

  ‘In that case, maybe you should kiss him?’ Evie suggested quietly. Coming from Evie, the idea was positively shocking. It was the kind of thought Claire expected Beatrice or May to have. But Evie? ‘Bookstores inspire you, Claire. Perhaps you could read to him from a French romance, an old troubadour ballad or some such, and then lean over and just kiss him, nice and soft on the lips, and see what he does. If it’s a little kiss, there’s no harm in it. Now, if it were a big one, all open-mouthed with a little tongue, that might be a bit more difficult to come back from if he’s not up for it.’

  ‘Evie!’ Claire smiled in shocked surprise at her quiet friend. She’d never guessed thoughts of that nature filtered through Evie’s brain. Apparently they did and in great detail. ‘How do you know about such things?’

  Evie smiled back. ‘I read books, too, Claire. I’ve picked up a few pieces of knowledge on the way.’

  ‘I’ll take your idea under consideration.’ Claire hugged her friend. ‘Hmm. There are hidden layers to you, Miss Evie Milham.’

  ‘Everyone has them, Claire. We just need to know where to look. Just look at you.’ Evie’s eyes shone with admiration. ‘You’ve always been pretty, but it hasn’t always been obvious. These past weeks, you’ve been livelier, more outgoing. Jonathon has been good for you. I think you’ve inspired us all with your quest.’

  The gate to the key garden swung open and Jonathon stepped through, promptly on time as if he, too, understood the importance of every second. They only had the afternoon. They couldn’t waste it. He bowed to Evie. ‘Miss Milham, good afternoon.’ He offered Claire his arm. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of taking it, of feeling the flex of his muscles beneath his coat as she lay her hand on his sleeve. ‘Claire, are you ready? My carriage is outside.’

  The adventure moved from theory to practice the moment she took her seat beside him on the curricle. Anyone seeing them here in Mayfair would see that Jonathon had his tiger with them, riding on the shelf in the back. There was nothing odd about a gentleman taking a lady for a drive this time of day, she told herself. Unless, of course, the oddness lay in who was driving whom.

  If there was any real danger in their being together it was in the Soho portion of their trip—a gentleman and an unchaperoned, unmarried lady of good breeding out together, alone. But no one would recognise them in the bohemian neighbourhoods bordering the West End.

  ‘Relax, Claire, what’s the worst that can happen on a jaunt to a bookshop?’ Jonathon teased her as Mayfair fell behind them.

  ‘People would say you compromised me. We could end up married.’ She voiced the fear that plagued her without thinking.

  Jonathon laughed. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. Would that be so horrible? A fate worse than death?’

  ‘It’s not funny.’ She tried to hold on to her chagrin, but it was useless. Jonathon’s laughter was infectious. Claire felt herself smiling. ‘Still, I wouldn’t want a husband who was forced to marry me. I certainly wouldn’t want a husband who was spineless enough to bow to a silly rule and let it decide the rest of his life.’ Even if it was Jonathon. That might be worse, to know she’d ruined the life of someone she truly cared about.

  Jonathon arched a dark eyebrow. ‘Your suitor must be quite the paragon then. Those are high standards.’

  ‘He’s not a suitor, not in truth, you know that. I told you from the start he hardly notices me.’ Claire paused looking for the right words. ‘He’s more like a wish.’

  Jonathon looked over at her, his smile making her stomach flutter. ‘Don’t worry, Claire. We’ll make him notice you yet.’

  She doubted it. ‘The wish’ in question had kissed her and hardly noticed. If he hadn’t noticed her then with his mouth on hers, their bodies pressed to one another, she doubted he ever would. She’d merely been a convenient outlet for his desperation. ‘Turn right here, the bookshop should be the next street over.’ It was time to stop daydreaming and start thinking about the outing. ‘We’ll try to speak French the whole time. Don’t worry, I’ll be there if you need me. Just relax. You do very well when you don’t think about it. Remember, we’re looking for a copy of Diderot’s Le Neveu de Rameau.’ At yesterday’s lesson they’d designed and practised a script about what today’s interactions might include. He wouldn’t always have the luxury of preparing a script, but for now it seemed like a good way to ease him into real-life interactions.

  Jonathon found a place by the kerb to park the curricle and came around to help her down. His hands lingered at her waist, an energetic grin taking his face. ‘Allez. Que les jeux commencement.’ He was possessed, too, of the same eager brand of anxiousness she was. This would be a real test of what they’d accomplished in her garden and they both wanted him to pass.

  She spoke French to him as they walked the short distance to the bookshop, warming up like actors before a show. She didn’t want Jonathon to face the shopkeeper without some practice to ease himself into the situation. If she was right about him having performance anxiety, she didn’t want him freezing up the moment he was under scrutiny. That was what today was about for her, a diagnostic of sorts. How far had he come? Where were his weak points?

  The bell over the door jingled and they stepped inside. Jonathon greeted the bookshop owner with a flawless bonjour and asked for the Diderot book, which the shopkeeper found immediately. So far so good. They were off to a nice start, but this only proved he could memorise a script and execute it. Claire had no intention of settling for that. She wouldn’t always be there to write and practise scripts with him.

  Claire wandered down an aisle of poetry, engaging the shopkeeper in a discussion. They were off script now and she wanted to see how Jonathon responded, how quickly he could adapt. After a few minutes, the door jingled and the shopkeeper excused himself to help the new customer. Claire selected several slim volumes and headed towards a table in the back where customers could sit and read.

  She opened a book to a random page and slid it towards him. ‘Would you read? I think you will like Machaut. He’s considered the last great French poet who was both poet and composer.’

  ‘Le Remède de Fortune.’ He looked up from the book with a sly grin, never breaking his use of French. ‘Is there a personal message in this for me?’ he teased, his French easy and fluent as he made the offhand remark. His eyes scanned the work and flipped through a few pages. ‘Ah, perhaps your suitor should read this. The hero in our story needs to be taught how to be a good lover before he can succeed with his lady.’ Jonathon wagged his dark eyebrows in play. ‘Perhaps I will take a few notes, too. A man can always improve.’

  They laughed a little too loudly, earning a look of censure from the shopkeeper. How had this happened—that she should be sitting in a bookshop, laughing in French with Jonathon Lashley over love poetry? What a difference a few weeks and a few pretty dresses made.

  Don’t forget the enormous amount of courage and the urging of your friends. You were against this at the start. You were still protesting it as late as a few days ago, her conscience reminded her.

  It hadn’t been as simple as changing her appearance. The first lesson had been a disaster and she’d been nervous during the lessons that had followed, overly conscious of every time he touched her, every time he spoke. It had taken all of her concentration to focus. But now, if one overlooked the ill-fated kiss, there was a comfort between them. When had that sprung up?

  ‘Est ce-que j’ai deux têtes?’ Do I have two heads? Jonathon dropped his voice to an appropriate whisper. ‘You’re staring.’

  ‘Pardon.’ Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘And you’re stalling.’ She didn’t want him to break down now. He’d done extraordi
narily well on this outing. Maybe she was pushing for too much too soon. She reached to take the book from him. ‘Perhaps I should start.’

  * * *

  Jonathon watched Claire’s mouth. It was rather convenient that their lessons required it of him. She had the most delicious lips, pink and the bottom lip carried just a hint of sensual fullness to it, promising delight to those who might tempt to drink from that mouth, a promise that was born out in her kiss. Kissing her had been a misstep, though.

  He could not bring himself to think of it as a mistake, merely a wonderful misstep. One did not kiss their teachers. Usually because those teachers were male. But also because it blended business with pleasure and it was easy to confuse gratitude over having learned something with other more passionate emotions.

  One probably shouldn’t dance with their tutors either for the same reasons. In the last few weeks he’d done both and enjoyed them far more than he should. Just as he was enjoying this outing, which wasn’t really supposed to be an outing. He wasn’t ‘out’ with her, he was on a field trip with his tutor and yet he couldn’t quite convince himself this was the same thing as visiting the botanical gardens with his tutor, Mr Hadley, when he was a young boy. Probably because he wasn’t a boy any more and probably because he hadn’t kissed Mr Hadley or spent countless hours staring at Mr Hadley’s mouth, which as he recalled, had a small wart on the left side. He spent most of the time trying not to look at it. He’d never wondered about Mr Hadley the way he wondered about Claire Welton.

  She paused from her reading and he let his question tumble out, in French of course. ‘Why so many languages, Claire?’ He was gratified to see the question startled her, she was always so in control during their lessons, directing their conversations with an enviable coolness.

  She stared at him, a little furrow forming between her brows. ‘What does that have to do with Machaut’s poetry?’