And you were kissing me up against a wall in Soho, and climbing into my bedroom as if there was no tomorrow. You put your hand on me, you gave yourself to me and you made me believe every word you said.
Who was to blame? Him for uttering the words, or her for believing them? They’d both known better. Even if the words were true. He had obligations beyond her, dreams beyond her that she knew very little about.
‘You’re right. And yet. That pretty much sums it up.’ He let out a breath, the unfinished words hanging between them. The anger went out of him. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think we really want to fight or blame. We’ve exposed ourselves tonight and now we’re just trying to protect ourselves from hurt.’
‘I don’t know that we can do that—protect ourselves. It’s too late.’ Perhaps he was right. Outside, the landscape gave way to Mayfair mansions. They were nearly home. The tumultuous evening was over although it was still early by ton standards. Balls would just be getting underway. If she wanted, she could join her parents at the Selfridge rout, but she was in no mood for dancing tonight. It was hard to believe so much had happened and it was only ten o’clock.
The carriage came to a stop outside Stanhope House. She reached for the door handle but Jonathon was faster. ‘Wait, Claire.’ His hand closed over hers on the handle. ‘What if there were no secrets, no Cecilia?’
She gave a sad laugh. ‘But there are, Jonathon.’ Who knew what his were, but did it matter? Secrets were secrets for a reason. They were pieces of potentially damaging information if put into the wrong hands. She thought about telling him there was no suitor and the reasons why she hadn’t told him, probably would never tell him. What would he think of her then? Would he think she’d manipulated him to get his attention? ‘If we shared them they would change everything.’
‘Everything has already changed, Claire,’ he admonished. ‘A French tutor and a pupil don’t need details. But friends do. I thought we’d established we were that at least.’ Jonathon laced his fingers through hers. ‘I think it’s fair to say we’ve moved beyond tutor and pupil.’ His voice pitched low, trying to reclaim the intimacy of earlier, wanting his wicked angel back on his lap.
But he understood, too, that he’d overstepped his boundaries tonight by claiming liberties he had no right to access. They were not affianced, there were no promises between them. He’d had her twice in an intimate manner when he should not have had her even once. He could not have her again without committing to her. The thought of never experiencing passion with her made his stomach tighten and his mind marvel. How had this happened? How had she become so beautiful and dear to him without him realising it? He had wanted to kill for her tonight, an urge he thought he’d left behind in the war. He’d watched the hours slip by too slowly until he could expect her. He’d drunk away the afternoon, regretting not going to his lesson. Now, he had to know. Were those feelings he had to get used to? ‘Do you think there’s no chance for us, Claire?’
She did look at him then, her eyes sharp as her head snapped up to face him. ‘A chance for what, Jonathon?’
‘If I wanted to court you, would I be welcome or would I be too late?’ Doubt stole over him. He’d never asked a woman such a thing. Interest had always been implied. ‘Tell me the truth, Claire—have I been nothing more than a distraction while you ponder your suitor’s offer?’ He didn’t think he could withstand being used in that manner, not by her, and yet he wasn’t convinced he deserved more.
He had stunned her. She would have pulled her hand away if he hadn’t held on. Perhaps it was what he deserved; to reach out for happiness and be denied. It was his penance for Thomas. Why should he claim happiness when Thomas could not?
In the next moment, she was stunning him. ‘You are determined to have my secret, are you not?’ Her brown eyes held sadness, regret. ‘I should have told you from the start and now you will despise me, but it seems I have no choice if you’re to understand why this can’t go any further.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘There is no suitor. There never was.’ The rest came out in a rush he barely had time to process. ‘The only suitor I ever wanted was you.’
‘And now? Have I failed in some way?’
‘No! You’ve exceeded my expectations at every turn.’ She paused and glanced down at her hands, gathering courage. ‘You are much more than I knew and that man is better than any of my imaginings. I did not mean to toy with you, but I can’t help but feel that I have. I have led you on in order to keep your attentions, I made you believe there was a man of interest.’ She shook her head. ‘Now, I’m embarrassed about how I acted. The girls dressed me up, did my hair, May found a way for us to be thrown together and I allowed it.’
‘Because you liked me, nothing more,’ Jonathon said softly. The kaleidoscope of little shards were falling into focus now, the bits and pieces aligning themselves in formation. He’d been right. The dresses were for a man. But he’d not guessed they were for him. He remembered the sky-blue gown with the chocolate piping and how he’d stared when she’d entered the Worths’ drawing room. He remembered, too, how she’d quite fortuitously sat across from him and May Worth had sat beside him. It had been May who’d dropped that little titbit about Claire’s French. Without that information, he might never have sought her out.
Full stop.
He’d only been partially joking with Preston the other day about having no secrets when one’s friends were in intelligence. The Worths were the leak. Preston would have known he was in need of a tutor and May had always been an inveterate eavesdropper even when they were young. He reached for her hand, claiming it again from her lap. ‘You went to a lot of work, for me. I’m flattered. Did you think I wouldn’t be?’
She hesitated. She’d been expecting his anger. She’d not been ready for this. ‘I thought you would feel used, manipulated.’
He shook his head. ‘You merely created an opportunity for us to be together. As you pointed out so succinctly earlier, I was the one who started it.’ He paused here, running his thumb over her knuckles. ‘I started it, but am I right in assuming we both want more?’
Despite her confession, they were back where they started, but perhaps they were closer to an answer. ‘The way I see it, is that it’s easier than we thought, Claire. There is no suitor to stand between us and your secret is out in the open, no longer a barrier to us.’
‘But it is not the only barrier,’ she chided. ‘There is your appointment to Vienna to consider. You will risk that post if you openly pursue me. I can’t let you do that, Jonathon. You’ve worked too hard. I cannot possibly stand in the way of your dream. I hope it is evident that I care too much for you to do that.’ He watched her throat work, noting the effort this recent disclosure cost her. Her free hand fumbled unsuccessfully with the door. ‘Please, let me out before we say things we can’t mean and make promises we can’t keep.’
He released her hand and carefully swung open the door. He helped her out, performing his role with numb perfection until she was safely inside. Only when he was alone in the carriage did he let the full import of the words take him. They were a blow as stunning as any punch Greasy Hair could have landed. He understood her meaning. She wanted out of more than the carriage. She wanted out of their association. No more French lessons. No more long walks in the garden. No more sneaking off to Soho.
What a mess he’d made of things. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to fight back the overwhelming wave of disappointment. He’d lost Claire just when he’d decided he wanted her, needed her.
Chapter Eighteen
Needed her? To need her seemed an understatement. In a practical sense, he didn’t need her. The lessons were about done. Any day now, Owen would hear from his contact in France about the latest leads on Thomas and Jonathon would be ready. He’d comported himself excellently at the bookshop. His flawless spoken French had returned nearly full for
ce of what it had once been.
As long as she’s with you. You’ve never done it without her. What if you can’t? You still can’t read French out loud.
Did that really matter? He’d probably never be asked to read French out loud. There was consolation in knowing how much he’d achieved in the last four weeks, but it was a meagre prize compared to what he was giving up: Claire Welton.
No, it wasn’t the need that bothered him. It was the wanting. The rational mind argued that all dreams had a cost. She was merely his price. Just as committing himself in a politically advantageous marriage was part of that price; a price he had not originally minded paying, had indeed felt it was his due to pay; more penance for Thomas. He still felt it was his due to pay. He’d not realised how keenly he’d feel the toll, however. When he’d made his bargain, he’d not had anything to lose, anything to give up.
Jonathon climbed the front steps to his rooms at the Albany on the Piccadilly border—bastion of wealthy, young, unmarried gentlemen during the Season. The halls were quiet, everyone out for the evening. Good. He needed time to think, time to figure out what he was going to do. How would he convince Claire he’d fight for both her and Vienna?
She didn’t think victory on both fronts was possible. She’d made that clear tonight and she knew the price of achieving Vienna. He knew Claire’s consolation. She cared for him enough to pay. She would sacrifice her dream in order to save his. Just as Thomas had. In the end, they’d both left him.
Those two ideas chased themselves around his mind. Claire cared for him.
Claire had left him.
The problem with receiving good news mixed with bad was that one’s brain couldn’t quite decide which emotion to embrace: the elation of the high or the depression of the low. It was even more confusing when the two were inextricably linked: she’d left him because she cared. Thomas had gone down that road because Thomas had loved him, enough to risk dying for him, in place of him.
He fitted his key into the door of his rooms and stepped inside. The room was dark. He’d given his man the night off, but Jonathon could sense immediately he wasn’t alone. He bent down and withdrew his knife from his boot. That weapon was seeing quite a lot of use tonight. He’d didn’t think he’d drawn it in five years, maybe more. Tonight, he’d drawn it twice.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out. ‘I know you’re here. Show yourself. You should know I am armed and in a mood to fight.’
A rich, rolling chuckle filled the room. A form rose from the chair. ‘It’s me, Jonathon. If you’d leave a lamp on, you’d know who was in the room.’
Jonathon expelled a breath and sheathed his knife. ‘Owen, what are you doing here? More importantly, how did you get in?’
Owen stretched. ‘I am here because I have news. How I got in is irrelevant. Come, have a seat. You’re earlier than I expected you.’
Jonathon sat down, instantly alert. ‘Your man has been in contact?’
Owen nodded. ‘Yes, and the man in question, the one living on the Lys, is indeed English. The informant refuses to say more without meeting you.’ Jonathon felt his body tense, his hands clench around the arms of the chair. He forced himself to wait, to hide his impatience. He wanted to walk out the door right this minute and head for France. He didn’t want to plan, to talk. After seven years of wondering, alternately hoping and grieving, he wanted action.
‘Now, before you go haring off, there are things you must know and consider.’
‘Beyond which boat to take?’ Jonathon offered drily.
Owen scolded him with an arched eyebrow. ‘You don’t need a boat. He’s coming to Dover.’ Here Owen hesitated. ‘You have to reconcile yourself to the fact that the man he knows of might not be Thomas. Second, if it is Thomas, he might not wish to be found. He might not welcome your discovery.’
‘He might be held against his will,’ Jonathon retorted. ‘Perhaps he is working the farm under duress.’ He’d heard accounts of such things happening, of men being held captive, even drugged against their will and forced to live another life.
Owen shook his head. ‘It’s been seven years. If he was being held for ransom, his captors are the dumbest kidnappers alive. They’re making no money on him by keeping him hidden away.’ Owen leaned forward. ‘There are other possibilities, too, Jonathon. If it is Thomas, he might not remember his former life. Combat can do terrible things to a mind that a man will block out no matter what the cost. Have you thought of that?’
‘That he has lost his mind? His memories?’ The idea was ludicrous. How could Thomas forget who he was? ‘Amnesia is temporary. Even if he’d been affected by it, his memory would have come back by now,’ Jonathon argued, but he was no doctor, what did he really know about such a condition? Why had he lost his ability to speak French? But that ability had come back, coaxed to life again with Claire’s help. ‘Surely my brother’s condition would have improved.’
Owen shook his head. ‘Look at you, Jonathon. You’ve already assumed Thomas has been found. Did you hear a word I said? There are no guarantees. This is nothing more than an anomaly one of my men noticed passing through the village—an Englishman working as a farmer who bears a general resemblance to your brother.’
‘An anomaly that was significantly different to report,’ Jonathon said staunchly. He would not let go of the hope something had been found at last that explained the lack of a body. ‘I combed the roads, the meadows, the battlefield, the hospitals,’ he began, his voice rising uncontrollably. ‘Thomas wasn’t there. I would know. If he wasn’t with the dead, then he is somewhere among the living.’ His voice broke over the last words. He’d been shot for those efforts, lingered on a deathly threshold with fever for those facts. They had to be worth something.
Owen gave a near-imperceptible nod of his head. ‘How’s your French these days?’
‘Good. Excellent, in fact.’ As long as he didn’t have to read anything out loud or discuss kissing. Owen didn’t need to know that. Either scenario seemed unlikely to occur in the near future.
‘You’ll need it. The informant doesn’t speak English. He’ll be in Dover in two days.’ Owen rose and stuck out his hand.
Jonathon shook it, victory coursing through him. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Finally, action, a chance to go back and atone for what he should never have done in the first place: he should not have let Thomas go. He should never have left the Continent without answers. Two days was not long. He’d have to leave immediately.
‘Do you think I am crazy, Owen?’
Owen gripped his arm. ‘I think you are hopeful.’ Then added with a wink, ‘Now, what Miss Northam thinks might be entirely different, if you indeed care any longer. I hear that perhaps your attentions may have been redirected. Would you like to verify?’
‘Not particularly. Tonight’s been rather rough, Owen, if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.’
* * *
He knew there was no chance of that actually occurring. As soon as he lay down, his thoughts crowded in. He dreamed of Thomas. Nothing as vividly coherent as the usual dream; this was a kaleidoscope of images, snatches of memories, snatches of fears over what he’d learn from the informant. He dreamed of Claire, too, hot dreams where her body pressed to his, where he made her climax again and again, her head thrown back, her dark hair falling down, her eyes filled with passion and desire for him. It was all for him and he’d let her go. Or was it the other way around? Oh, yes, he remembered it correctly now. She’d let him go.
He woke sweaty and aching, his head throbbing with that one truth at dawn. She harboured deep feelings for him—feelings that she’d been willing to forego in order to save his dreams. Maybe that sacrifice would be worth it, if he could in turn save Thomas. He found a valise in his wardrobe and began to pack for Dover, starting with his pistols. He’d been down this road before. It could be dangerous.
* * *
It was positively perilous to keep looking at the clock, watching the big hand snake towards the six in proof that Jonathon wasn’t coming. In fact, he wasn’t ever coming again. Lessons were over, her opportunity to attract his attention, over. Claire paced the small sun room, fighting the attraction to the clock, to the hope that perhaps she was wrong. It wasn’t too late yet. It was still possible that he might come. Even now Jonathon could be on his way, stuck in the traffic of London. But soon, she’d have to give up that little fantasy. Once the clock reached eleven-thirty, it would be a ridiculous pretence.
Claire stopped in front of the big window that let in the light, although there wasn’t much light to let in today. The weather was still grey and rain threatened like it had the day before. She leaned her head against the cool panes of the glass. Had it really been only yesterday she’d received his note? That she’d gone to Soho? No matter how old she got, she would never forget the sight of Jonathon fighting in the street. For her. And what had she done? She’d let him go.
No regrets. She told herself. She’d done what was right. He was destined for greatness and she was destined for nothing. She’d set herself on that course years ago just as assuredly as he’d set himself on his. She would only hold him back and he would come to resent her for it.
If she’d known pursuing Jonathon would be this complicated, she would never have embarked on Beatrice’s mission to see each of them launched into happiness. She should have been more careful of what she wished for, but she hadn’t really believed she would succeed. The girls would be scolding her if they knew her thoughts. She could almost hear Beatrice now. ‘Well, you’ve got Jonathon Lashley, what are you going to do with him?’
She desperately wanted to go to her friends and lay this latest burden at their feet, but she couldn’t. This was her relationship and only she could manage it. This new, adventurous Claire who’d come to life had to take responsibility for herself. She smiled a little to herself. She had changed. She’d taken back her life. Not because she had a man, she still never wanted to be a woman who defined herself through the man on her arm, but because she’d found herself again.
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives) Page 17