Preston shook his head, a dark shadow crossing his face. He leaned forward and placed one hand on Jonathon’s leg in encouragement. ‘Not if you love her, not if you plan to fall all the way.’ It made Jonathon wonder what Preston knew about such falls. Love was not something Preston ever spoke about. Jonathon was not even aware Preston had experienced it. His friend was a closed book when it came to his personal relationships. ‘And Jonathon,’ Preston added, ‘with a girl like Claire, I think there’s only one way to fall.’
Jonathon nodded, hearing the warning and the endorsement. Preston would support him no matter what he chose, even if that choice was Claire, but he was not to ruin Claire, not to toy with her. If he pursued her, it had to be in earnest. So be it. Perhaps it was best Preston didn’t know about last night. Or the bookshop. Or what he intended to do next. Jonathon called for ink and paper, a renewed sense of purpose coursing through him.
Preston shot him a quizzical look as he began to pen a note. ‘What are you doing?’
Jonathon gave him a wily grin. ‘Falling.’ And the ground was coming up fast. He prayed the landing wouldn’t kill him. But that was a question for which he had no answer.
* * *
Jonathon had become something of an unanswered question these last weeks. Cecilia plucked at the blossoms of Jonathon’s bouquet where it sat on her writing desk. She was losing him when she’d been so certain of her victory. She looked out over the garden. True, there was no formal agreement between them. Nothing bound Jonathon to her beyond her own personal expectations. But she’d thought Jonathon had informally agreed with her on those expectations. He danced with her, he sent her flowers, he stood at her side, escorted her to events on occasion. They were invited to the same places.
Now, all those safe assumptions had become uncertain and uncertainty made Cecilia nervous. She’d admit it privately to herself, but she’d never say it out loud to her friends. No one could know the great Cecilia Northam, reigning beauty of the ton, was unsure of herself or of Jonathon Lashley.
But this was uncharted territory to be sure. She wasn’t used to being nervous. She was always very sure of herself and even more sure of others. She was good at creating a desired response. At least she used to be. The ice-pink gown had not gone over as well as hoped. Jonathon had told her the gown looked lovely, but it hadn’t stopped him from dancing with Claire Welton, again. And again. And again.
The phenomena had happened often enough that everyone had taken note. People were starting to talk. She’d heard the whispers about how pretty Claire looked, how the girl had blossomed this Season. The gossips were starting to nod and smile sagely to themselves and say insipid things like ‘third time’s a charm it seems’.
The gossips said it was amazing what a nice dress could do for a girl, but Cecilia knew better. While it was true that Claire was dressing better, and her eyes sparked with a certain lively light, it wasn’t a dress that put the sparkle there. It was Lashley that made Claire pretty. Without him, Claire would still be Claire, wallflower extraordinaire, three Seasons since her debut and still alone.
It was proof of just how exquisite Jonathon was if he could get a girl like Claire to bloom. There was no man more attractive, no man better mannered, no man who danced as well, fenced or rode as well, spoke as well. A man like that deserved a woman like herself, his equal in perfection. It was an obvious conclusion to her. But even spilled champagne had not been enough to make the conclusion obvious to Jonathon.
Last night had proven to her it was no longer enough to simply remind Jonathon of what she offered. She had to show him what Claire lacked. The best way to do that was to show him her and Claire together and she knew just how to do it. Her parents were hosting a small, intimate and exclusive musicale featuring a renowned Italian soprano. She would invite Claire and Jonathon could see the two of them side by side. He would come to the logical conclusion. Claire couldn’t possibly complete with her face to face.
Cecilia began to pen the invitation, a horrible thought forming. If Claire was nothing without Jonathon, what would she, herself, be if she lost him? The answer haunted her: A girl three Seasons out with no prospect. A girl like Claire. Her hand shook. A blob of ink blotted the clean invitation and she had to start again. In those moments, Claire was not just the competition, she became the enemy and enemies needed to be conquered.
Chapter Sixteen
The invitations arrived simultaneously, delivered to her room by no one less than her mother, who handed them over with an enquiring smile. ‘Two notes, for you personally, Claire.’ Her mother stepped inside her room. Claire couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been there. Usually, they met in the rooms downstairs for meals, for receiving, or in the carriage as they made calls or shopped.
Claire scanned the notes, both still sealed. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of one of them. Jonathon. The second one from him today. Would it be more bad news? He’d not come to his lesson and the weather had ruined the chance to go to the French market even if he had intended to go. Last night had raised more questions than answers as to what lay between them. She could tell herself all she wanted that last night was for fantasy only, that nothing could come of it. But that didn’t stop her from wishing otherwise. The other was a woman’s hand, but she didn’t recognise it. An awkward silence full of expectation began to grow when she made no move to open the notes. Perhaps her mother would take the silence as a hint she wished to open her notes in privacy and leave?
The hint conspired against her. Instead of leaving, her mother entrenched, a most unusual strategy for a woman who traditionally favoured a laissez-faire approach to life. Her mother was a calm woman, not easily flustered or bothered by the goings on of the world. ‘Is that one from Mr Lashley?’ Her mother took a seat on the edge of her bed, clearly signalling she was not going to be dismissed until the missives were read.
Claire did not want to open that note particularly, not when there was a good chance it was either a request to sneak away to one of their French locations or to apologise for any untoward behaviour or worse! Dear lord, she hoped Jonathon wouldn’t be so brash as to put any reference to last night or the bookshop into a note that would compromise him. If her mother knew he’d been here, and what they had done, there would be no explaining it. Claire thought quickly, her mind racing through her options. If she opened the note, her mother would want to see it. Given the events of the last two days, it was unlikely the note contained innocuous information. Giving her mother the note was out of the question, but she could give her the truth, although she would rather give her mother neither. The less her mother knew about Jonathon the better. Her mother had been the most disappointed when things had soured with Sheriden.
Claire slid the unopened note under a jar on her vanity, establishing that she was saving the exact details for a private moment. ‘Yes, I believe it is.’ She offered the truth as casually as possible.
‘French lessons seem to be going well,’ her mother said vaguely.
‘Yes.’ Claire decided to keep her answers short and terse.
‘Your Season seems to be going decidedly better than usual now that you’ve taken an interest in it.’ Her mother smiled. ‘I told you it just needed a little management on your end. Mr Lashley has been dancing with you quite a lot. I don’t suppose dancing is part of the French lessons?’
‘Yes, Jonathon seems to have made a habit of it, although I’ve assured him it’s not necessary.’ In her attempt to treat the remark lightly, she made her mistake.
Her mother pounced. ‘Jonathon, is it? Have you two become as close as all that? First names, is, well...’ She fluttered a hand.
‘It’s nothing, Mother.’ Claire leaned back against her vanity, her hands gripping the edge against the blatant lie. He’d kissed her in the Rosedale garden. She’d kissed him in a French bookshop. She could still feel his hands on her
, the strength of his body as he’d come up behind her, his mouth at her ear whispering decadent words. ‘Claire, I don’t want to read.’ He’d put his hand on her breast. He’d climbed a trellis for her at midnight, she’d had her hand on his manly core in the very bed her mother now sat on. What they’d done, what they’d become wasn’t exactly nothing even if what existed between them lay undefined.
Her mother was not satisfied. ‘Are the flowers downstairs that arrive like clockwork nothing either?’
‘He is appreciative. He wants this position in Vienna badly.’ She hoped that was a lie, too. She wanted to believe last night was more than a show of appreciation.
‘Flowers, dancing, he even called at Lady Morrison’s to enquire as to your whereabouts.’ Her mother built her case, her soft, doe eyes growing shrewd. Lady Morrison’s would have been the day he’d come to Evie’s and waited for a half-hour downstairs, but Claire kept that to herself—voicing it wouldn’t help her argument. Her mother wasn’t done. ‘It seems like a lot of unnecessary trouble for French lessons, no matter how badly he wants the post.’ Her mother paused. ‘He’s not the only one going to a lot of trouble these days. I see other things, too, Claire. I see you, looking beautiful in altered gowns. I see you taking an interest in your appearance and in society. You haven’t complained at all this Season about going out. Usually by now I have to pry you out of the house. And I see why. If a handsome man like Mr Lashley was waiting to dance with me, I’d not want to stay home either.’
‘We enjoy one another’s company,’ Claire prevaricated. ‘I wouldn’t make too much of it.’
‘And slipping off to destinations unknown in the middle of the afternoon without a chaperon?’ There was a quiet steel in her mother’s voice now as she dropped the most damning piece of evidence. The irony was that the adventure had been for learning purposes, it had simply turned in to something more. Her mother rose and paced to the window overlooking the garden. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot, Claire?’
‘No, of course not.’ She did, however, think her mother wouldn’t pay enough attention to notice. Apparently, her mother had noticed quite a lot, not only this year but the other years as well. Claire had misjudged her there. They had been polite but distant family members since the debacle with Sheriden.
Her mother let the lace panel drop over the window and turned to face her. ‘Your father and I have let you be these last two years, after Sheriden. We did not understand, at the time, how much you didn’t want to marry. If you want a quiet life of books and solitude, you shall have it. We won’t force you to marry for the sake of marrying, but if that has changed, we should be informed, Claire.’
Claire was silent, absorbing the words. It was the most personal conversation her mother had had with her since the refusal. ‘Claire?’ her mother prompted. ‘I am asking you point blank—is Jonathon Lashley courting you under the pretence of French lessons?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claire replied softly, lifting her gaze to meet her mother’s. She could see her mother’s frustration in the knit of her brow. Her mother thought she was being purposely evasive. But this was the sad truth. She had so little experience with courtship games between men and women. ‘Sometimes I think perhaps he is.’ Last night had certainly seemed like it. It was the first time she’d ever said the words out loud. ‘But always, there are the lessons between us, a reminder that without them, he wouldn’t be with me.’ Would he?
Her mother resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you wish he was? Do you want him?’
She had to be careful here. Did she want him? It made him sound like an object to be purchased, a sweet to enjoy. ‘I hardly know him.’ Now she was truly evading.
Her mother brushed the objection away. ‘We know his family. Viscount Oakdale is eminently respectable and we know his prospects, which are very good. He has money, his family has money and he’ll likely go abroad as a diplomat. Ultimately, Lashley will inherit the title, although not soon. His father married young and will live another twenty years. Lashley won’t see the title until he’s fifty if he’s lucky.’ Her genteel mother surprised her with a rather practical dissection of Jonathon’s prospects. When put that way, it was no wonder Jonathon was so eager for the Vienna post. He wasn’t about to while away his life waiting to inherit well into middle age. He wanted to do something useful.
But the bigger surprise were her mother’s next words. ‘We are people of some consequence, Claire. We may be quiet and keep a retiring profile by choice, but your father has connections. If you want Lashley, we can get him for you.’
‘No!’ Claire’s response was vehement and instant. ‘I don’t want him that way, trussed up and delivered like a Christmas goose.’ It would make her no better than Cecilia, who had picked Jonathon out and begged her father for him. ‘Should anything evolve between us, I want it to be natural. I want him to choose me on my own merits, not my father’s persuasion.’
Her mother’s eyes pointedly went to the note peeking out from under the jar. ‘He wants to meet with you again, secretly.’ She smiled. ‘You see, I don’t need you to open the envelope. I was young once, too. I remember quite well what young men in love are like.’ Her smile faded. ‘Go to him then, you will anyway, so I might as well know about it. But do not let him trifle with you. If you are caught, there will be no more talk of choosing. He’ll be yours then, personal merits being amenable or not.’ She stood and crossed the short distance to her and placed a kiss on her brow. ‘Be careful, Claire.’
Claire sat at her vanity, reaching for the two notes, her mind reeling and full. Her mother knew. Had known. Her mother was endorsing a secret rendezvous. She was starting to understand where she got a thirst for adventure from. It existed in her mother, too, buried deep down, just like her, coming out in surprising ways that weren’t always obvious.
She opened Jonathon’s note first, staring at the bold, straight script. He wanted to meet at an eating house in Soho for dinner, tonight. He wanted to see her again. For now that was enough. Never mind that the venue was a chance to practise French and on the surface had nothing to do with last night. She would see him again and that would be a start. The rest would sort itself out.
Claire glanced at her clock. It was just now five. She had plenty of time. Her mother might endorse it, but her mother would still expect her to be discreet. She’d have to put on a show of going to Evie’s or May’s and make her way from there. Alone. Jonathon had written he was sorry he couldn’t come and escort her since a meeting would delay him. It was probably best her mother didn’t know that part or she might rethink her endorsement.
Claire reached for the second note and opened it, her eyes dropping to the signature at the bottom. Lord and Lady Belvoir. She frowned and began to read. The message was simple enough. It was invitation more than it was a note. She was invited to a musical evening featuring Italian soprano Signora Katerina Pariso.
It was an exclusive invitation to an exclusive event. She didn’t miss the fact that this invitation was for her, not for Lord and Lady Stanhope. That alone made it seem odd. Odder still was that she was invited at all. She had no doubt Cecilia was behind this in some way, although she wasn’t sure what inviting her proved. If she hadn’t been so certain Cecilia had spilled the champagne on purpose, she’d think it was an effort at apology. But Claire knew better.
She put the invitation down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t egotistical enough to believe this overture signalled she’d arrived, that she’d made such an impression this Season that she was now welcome in these lofty echelons, that Cecilia wanted to recruit her friendship. If that was what the invitation was supposed to lead her to believe, then it failed miserably. But something was afoot.
She’d never know if she didn’t go. There was no other option but to go. On the surface, there was no reason to refuse. This was a coveted event. Only the crème of the ton went. To ref
use would be insulting. To refuse would afford her no answers and to refuse would make her appear cowardly. All she could do was show up, hold her head high and hope for the best. The event was a week away and it seemed a long way off compared to meeting Jonathon in two hours. She had just enough time to change, call for the carriage and get to May’s.
For the evening, Claire chose a dress of powder-blue muslin trimmed in tiny cream lace. Evie had added a matching cream fichu to tuck into the lowered neckline. The gown was plain, but one of Claire’s favourites for its touch of femininity and it was perfect for this dinner out. An eating house wasn’t a silk-and-satin venue. Any evening gown she owned would look out of place. An eating house was attended by merchants, craftsmen, and clerks, not by a viscount’s heir. She chose a matching shawl of soft pastel colours and walking boots and was off, excitement streaking through her at the prospect of another adventure.
She’d never been anywhere by herself before, if one didn’t count walking to Evie’s and even then her maid was usually with her. She took the carriage as far as Evie’s, then sent it back for her parents’ use that night. She took a hired hack from there and then got out to walk the remaining streets to the eating house, the address safely tucked into her reticule if she needed it.
The first few streets were thrilling. She was surrounded by the sights and smells of the working class high and low mingling with the diverse population of emigrants in this part of London as the day ended, everyone getting off their shifts. The streets were full of people hurrying home to their dinners, people finishing their daily errands and all around her, there was the sound of different languages. Soho was known for its international flavour and it was evident here. She could pick out the French, the Italian, and a little German. How vibrant this was from the staid paces of Mayfair with its mansions and stolid English.
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives) Page 15