Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives)

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘She did this on purpose!’ Claire cried in frustration.

  ‘Hush, wait until we’re alone,’ Beatrice said sternly, leading them out into the quiet hall. ‘There, now we can talk.’

  ‘She spilt her champagne! She wanted to separate me from Jonathon.’ Just when things were going so very well. He’d invited her into the garden. To sin. Maybe she should be thanking Cecilia for saving her from a mistake.

  Beatrice gave a rueful smile. ‘Of course she did. Anyone who saw the pair of you dancing could see he was enchanted with you.’ Bea looked down at the stain and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Your dress is soaked. I’ll take you home.’

  * * *

  In the dark of the carriage, the doubts came. Had Jonathon been toying with her, taking advantage of her trust? Was he indeed a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Had he seen her as an easy mark? Even now she couldn’t quite believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Claire looked across at Beatrice. Is this what Bea felt for the erstwhile father of her child? Not wanting to quite believe the worst even when the evidence presented itself in stark clarity: Jonathon hadn’t come after her.

  * * *

  ‘I should go after her and see if she’s all right.’ Minutes had passed and Claire had not returned. The crowd had slid away once the drama had ceased, leaving him with Cecilia.

  ‘Hardly. She’s probably left by now. This is for women to manage. What would you do?’ Cecilia laughed at the notion. ‘Do you have a secret receipt for instant stain removal?’

  ‘I could make her feel better.’ He wanted more than anything to take Claire in his arms, to console her. A wet dress was of no consequence, not to him. He’d wanted to shoo away the crowd that was determined to make a spectacle out of the minor event, determined to ruin the evening with their prying eyes and narrow minds.

  Claire had been alive and charming in his arms just moments before the accident, but there’d been no mistaking the mortification in her eyes and he had felt her confidence leeching away. When she’d looked at him, he’d had the distinct impression some of that mortification was directed at him, as if she somehow blamed him for what had happened.

  ‘Make her feel better? You are too good to be true.’ Cecilia ran a soft hand along his arm, a quiet, private smile on her lips. ‘But that’s you, my dear Jonathon. You are always looking out for others less fortunate.’

  Jonathon tensed. She’d never used his Christian name before and here she was doing it in public. She dropped her lashes. ‘I worry for you, that people will take advantage of your kind nature.’

  ‘I’m not that kind.’ His voice was gruff, impatient. If he could leave, perhaps he could find Claire.

  ‘Yes, you are. Miss Welton is proof of it. She is proof, too, that you are malleable. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger and all because you showed her a bit of attention.’ Cecilia looked up beneath her lashes. ‘You’ve danced with her, you’ve shown interest in her and see how she’s blossomed? She should let you go and move on to men of her calibre.’

  ‘Men of her calibre? Who would that be?’ Hearing Claire classified and discarded so readily made him bristle, yet this was Cecilia, who was touted as a paragon of womanly perfection, a woman he ought to prefer.

  ‘Sir Rufus Sheriden for one. He offered for her once.’ Cecilia smiled sweetly. ‘She refused, but she’s wiser now. She’s seen what her level is, what she can hope to aspire to.’

  ‘Sheriden? That blowhard?’ Jonathon grimaced. ‘Is that who Claire is trying to impress? She did mention she had a suitor.’

  Cecilia drew a fingernail down his sleeve in a gesture that left him empty, her touch as uninspiring as Claire’s had been inflaming in the bookshop. ‘And you believed her, of course. She doesn’t have a suitor, not an avid one anyway unless Rufus Sheriden is trying again. She probably just said as much to get your attention and talk you in to spending time with her. Really, Jonathon. You men need to pay more mind to ballroom politics.’ She tossed him a smile. ‘But that’s why you have we women.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Walk with me?’

  ‘My father told me he saw you at the club and the two of you spoke.’ She gave a coquette’s glance as they moved about the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘Are there any plans you need to apprise me of?’

  ‘No, nothing I can think of.’ Jonathon’s response was half-hearted. He was having trouble keeping his thoughts centred on Cecilia’s prattling while the rest of him wondered just how awkward would it look if he called on Claire at eleven o’clock at night. He was busy trying to think of how he might spin a nocturnal visit that didn’t require sneaking into her bedroom or climbing a trellis when Cecilia’s words finally penetrated.

  ‘A girl needs to plan. It might be nothing for you gentlemen to throw on a dark suit and show up at church, but a trousseau takes time.’

  Jonathon stopped and stared blankly. ‘Trousseau?’

  Cecilia gave a haughty laugh. ‘Why, yes, all the lovely dresses and linens a girl brings to her marriage.’ She explained as if he were a clueless nodcock. He knew very well what a trousseau was. That was the part that had him worried. ‘I have these exquisite Irish linens embroidered with...’

  He did not want to hear what they were embroidered with for fear it might be his initials. Jonathon did not mince words. Mincing was how a man ended up married. ‘Your high esteem flatters me, but let us be clear, I have not put forward a formal offer for you, nor have I ever spoken to you about such a thing. Any plans on your part would be premature, I assure you.’

  The harshness of his words would have daunted most women, even most men. But Cecilia merely gave him a steely smile. ‘I disagree. Marriage to me is the gateway to your future.’ She feigned a look of confusion. ‘Or are you having second thoughts about the posting to Vienna? You can’t get there without me. You need my father’s support. I assure you.’

  Couples moved out on to the floor, taking up positions. Cecilia’s smile changed into something sweeter as if she had not just demanded marriage from him. ‘A waltz! Shall we, Jonathon? Everything has worked out as it should. I believe you’re free for this dance, after all.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jonathon turned a dark Mayfair corner, his mind uninterested in what his feet were doing as it mulled over the sad reality: He wasn’t free; not free to countermand Cecilia’s high-handed manipulation or her haughty assumptions that he could be bought in marriage; not free to pursue a relationship with Claire, no matter what his feet thought to the contrary.

  He didn’t need to look up at the house towering in front of him to know where his unconscious wanderings had taken him: The very place he was not supposed to be: Claire’s after midnight. He had no right to be here. He could promise her nothing beyond what he’d already promised and that was hardly enough. He could not offer her the only thing a well-bred lady could accept from a gentleman: marriage. Not because she didn’t deserve it, but because he didn’t. Assuming they suited one another for marriage.

  Whoa. Marriage? Was that what his reeling mind was hiding in its recesses these days? Even if it was possible, the idea of marrying after a few French lessons and stolen kisses was a bit extreme, no matter how provocative those kisses had been. He was setting the cart miles ahead of the horse at this rate. Marriage assumed, too, that he deserved her. A man who left his brother behind in a foreign land didn’t deserve her, or any chance at personal happiness after squandering that chance for his brother to experience the same. Yet he’d had the audacity to pretend he did. He’d cheated Thomas of his life! Every time he laughed, every time he felt the smallest inkling of joy, he was reminded of what his brother would never have.

  Lately, when he was with Claire, the reminder was constant. Almost. To be honest, the joy, the peace, was so great he’d lose himself, he’d forget about the guilt. That was even more frightening. He knew how to live with the
guilt. He wasn’t sure he knew how to live without it.

  Jonathon stared up at the house. That was the guilt talking. One could either argue the guilt kept him focused, or chained, depending on perspective. These days, the perspective was the latter. It was the guilt that kept him chained in his mental prison of regret. He should never have let Thomas ride down that road. But he had and had paid for that decision every day since his return from the Continent; he’d lost his ability to read French out loud, he’d lost the right to happiness. That was fine, he didn’t deserve it. Why should he be happy? Why should his life go on when his brother’s had not? Such penance hadn’t bothered him too much until now. In its own way, that penance had given him direction upon his return. It had given him a sense of duty, an absolution to perform for failing to bring Thomas home safe and sound. He’d been content to let guilt rule his life. There’d been nothing he wanted that demanded he let the guilt go.

  But now, he wanted the one thing he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve. The freedom to choose. He would still choose Vienna. Peace for Europe could be made there and he could make it. But he would perhaps choose to go alone. Only he couldn’t make that choice without jeopardising the appointment altogether. Without Cecilia, Lord Belvoir would block his appointment. Not in a vote—the House of Lords didn’t confirm appointments, but in other subtle ways: funding, support, networks that would help and protect him abroad, all the tools he needed to be successful.

  He wanted to be successful on his own merits. Just as he didn’t want to be important only because of his father’s birth, he didn’t want to be chosen as a diplomat simply because of his wife’s connections. He wanted to earn it. He’d not realised how much the position had come to hinge on Cecilia until she’d thrown it into stark relief tonight.

  Jonathon picked up a handful of pebbles. He tossed one in his hand, testing its weight and trying to remember which window was Claire’s. It was in back by the garden. He told himself he wanted to see her to assure himself she was all right, but it would be partially a lie. He wanted to see her for himself. He needed her. Whatever they could or could not be to one another, she could help him sort through the rather disappointing revelations of the evening simply by being with him. Or she could help him forget.

  Jonathon slipped through the gate that gave into the garden. It had taken a waltz and an interminable supper hour before he’d been able to depart the ball. It was well past one o’clock. He should have gone home. But instead, he’d sent his carriage away and come here. Perhaps he’d be climbing trellises after all. He’d climb a mountain if that was what it took to reach her. The truth was, if there was peace to be had tonight, it would be in Claire’s arms and the future could be damned.

  Ah, there it was! The third window towards the back. He was sure that was the room. A little thrill of victory coursed through him. It had a small, semi-circular wrought-iron balcony, more decorative than useful. A person might just be able to stand there and catch the morning sun on her face. The little thrill of victory was replaced by a stronger surge of lust. To his body’s chagrin, Jonathon could very well imagine Claire on that balcony, hair loose, face tilted upward to the dawn, dressed in a fine linen shift that caught the light.

  Standing on the ground day dreaming offered no progress that direction. He tossed a pebble. It made a satisfying clink against the narrow French doors of the balcony. He counted to ten and waited. There was no response. He tossed a second pebble and then a third in rapid succession. She did not come. There was no sign of life.

  Jonathon grimaced. If she would not come to him, he would have to go to her. There was nothing for it. He’d have to climb the rose trellis. He gave the trellis a speculative look, gauging the distance between it and the balcony. He’d use the trellis for height, then he’d have to use his muscle to overcome the gap where the trellis gave out and the balcony began. His arms would just be able to span it and he could lever himself up from there. Very plausible.

  From the ground that was. Being suspended twenty-five feet above said ground tended to change a man’s perspective. So did thorns. Ten sweaty minutes later, Jonathon had learned two things: first, summer roses only smelled sweet. They were in fact the devil’s own flower, riddled with thorns just where a man might want to put his hands for a good grip. It had taken a few prickings in the dark to learn that. Second, evening clothes and dancing shoes were not at all ideal for climbing. The good news—his dark evening jacket was no longer too tight, now that it sported a relieving rip right down the centre seam in the back. At the moment, he didn’t care. He felt like he’d summited the Alps. Jonathon reached for the doors and pushed them open. Claire was inside. Peace was inside.

  * * *

  Claire’s mind knew someone was in the room before she awoke. Her body knew who it was. ‘Jonathon!’ Her eyes flew open to confirm. It was Jonathon, but not the Jonathon she was used to. This Jonathon, who stood framed in beams of moonlight, was a veritable King of Midnight. His hair fell forward into his face, rakish and rugged, his clothes dishevelled. But it was his eyes that drew her; twin blue flames of determination burned in his gaze as if coming here had cost him something and he had chosen to come any way.

  Then it occurred to her that it had indeed cost him something. ‘How did you get in?’ She sat up, her mind fully awake now. He couldn’t possibly have come up the stairs. He gave a nod toward the open doors. ‘The balcony?’ Her response was tinged with disbelief. Dear heavens, that was dangerous! The roses with their thorns, the trellis that didn’t reach all the way up. She could see it in her mind now, the space between the iron spindles of the balcony and the trellis where only muscle and strength could span the gap. ‘Are you insane? You could have fallen! Why?’ she scolded.

  A wry smile quirked at his mouth. ‘Because I promised you something and I never break my promises.’

  He was here for pleasure. Claire stilled, the air around them charged with electric intent. He’d climbed the trellis for her, risked discovery for her. If someone should hear him, should come through the door of her room, they would both be compromised beyond amends. There was no denying the risk factor carried some excitement of its own. But it wasn’t that simple. The problem with waking up was remembering and remembering two entirely different things. Her body remembered the afternoon, full of passion and adventure, while her mind remembered the evening full of dashed hopes, disappointments and doubts.

  ‘Will you have me, Claire?’ he prompted her, his voice hoarse, his body taut with emotion, desperation perhaps? Maybe that was too strong of a word. Uncertainty, then. He was uncertain. Of her. Handsome Jonathon Lashley, who was always sure, wasn’t sure of her; wasn’t sure that she, Claire Welton, who had no choices in any given ballroom, would want him who had every choice. And it was important to him that she did. He didn’t want to be rejected, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be. He understood her doubts as clearly as if they shared one mind. She saw now in stark clarity why he’d climbed that trellis. He wanted to know if she would accept him, if her feelings matched his in spite of the impossibilities that lay beyond these moments.

  The Vienna post, the duty he must do to attain it, and whatever else he hid behind his smiles and blue gaze had existed before this and they would exist after this. She would not worry over what she couldn’t change. Instead, she would be thankful she was walking into this with eyes wide open. She would not be ambushed by reality on the other side of midnight. If there could only be now, then so be it. She would take now over never any night.

  Claire rose from the bed, the decision made before her bare feet touched the cool floor. She crossed the room to him, arms encircling his neck with wondrous ease, her lips feathering his mouth. ‘Yes, Jonathon, I will have you.’ The pleasure, the pain, she would have all of it, for as long as it lasted.

  His mouth was on her then, hard and fierce in its claiming. He tasted of victory and exultant relief. A thrill ran through
her. He had wanted this badly. She could feel the tension of his body uncoil beneath her hands, only to be replaced with a new sort of anticipation. The afternoon’s passion surged back in force between them. It would be temptingly easy to rush this, to pick up where they’d left off before being expelled from the bookshop, instead of savouring the opportunity to start from the beginning once more. But Jonathon would not be rushed.

  He slowed the tempo of their kiss, cradling the nape of her neck in the cup of his hand, the press of his mouth lingering and languorous, their bodies moving into one another as the kiss deepened. He was all heat and hard planes against her. She revelled in the feel of him through the thin fabric of her night rail. This was so much better than feeling him through the limitations of gowns and undergarments. Perhaps she could make it even better for him.

  She broke the kiss for a moment, her eyes meeting his as her hands worked the knot of his cravat until the cloth came loose. She gave him a coy smile. ‘You are wearing too many clothes.’

  He gave a sly grin in return. ‘What else do you plan to divest me of?’

  She smoothed the shoulders of his dark coat and pretended to contemplate the question. ‘Definitely this. It must go at once. The waistcoat, too.’ She pushed the coat back and he helped remove it but she didn’t miss the ripped seam. ‘Your tailor will shoot you for this.’

  Jonathon’s gaze landed on her, hot and intent. ‘I’ll tell him it was worth it.’

  Claire swallowed, basking in the compliment, a lump forming in her throat, blocking words. She let her fingers speak for her, slipping the buttons of his waistcoat through their holes. It was much easier to get the waistcoat off than the coat. But here she hesitated. Only trousers and shirt remained.

  ‘What next? Perhaps my shirt?’ came the wicked suggestion, Jonathon’s voice soft at her ear.