Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 14

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?

They were silly notions when he had Cecilia waiting for him and other obligations requiring his attention. For a man like him, a man with ambitions, these evenings were for work as well as pleasure. There were people to meet and to impress, networks to be established. Europe to be saved. Claire smiled to herself. How many others knew what dreams he harboured? It felt good to think that for a little while, maybe she knew a piece of Jonathon no one else did. It could be her secret.

Where did that leave her? Considering the weighty matters that occupied his mind, she wasn’t sure where she stood on his list of priorities. How had he viewed tonight’s dance? Was she another piece of work he had to conduct or was she part of the pleasure? Something he chose to do or had to do? She didn’t want to think about it for fear the answer would tarnish the perfection of the moment. She wanted to be part of the pleasure for him, as he’d been for her.

May tugged at her hand. ‘You’re practically glowing so it must have been as good as it looked. Come to the retiring rooms and tell us all about it.’

The girls were excited, talking over each over on the trip down the hall. ‘You looked beautiful, Claire. No one could take their eyes off the pair of you!’ Evie exclaimed.

‘Even Cecilia,’ May offered pointedly. ‘She left the ballroom halfway through.’

‘Even Lashley. His eyes were on you the whole time.’ Beatrice’s voice was wistful.

‘He has that way about him. He knows how to make everyone feel special, not just me.’ Claire tried to establish some perspective. As much as she’d like to believe in the romance her friends were intent on seeing, she had to be practical or she’d get hurt by her own fantasy. ‘It was only a dance.’

‘She’s right, you know.’ Crisp tones sounded from the doorway of the retiring rooms. Cecilia floated in, her entourage of debutantes filing in behind her. She sat down in front of a vanity and studied her hair. ‘Good evening, Claire. It’s good to see at least one of you has any sense.’ She smiled in the mirror and Claire felt her neck prickle in warning. Claire fought the urge to leave the room before she found out what the warning was for, but Beatrice gripped her hand, a clear message that they would not be chased away.

‘My dear Lashley is terribly good with people. He can charm anyone.’ Cecilia reached in to her reticule for a small comb, everything about her suggesting this was merely a casual conversation. She used the gesture to study Claire. ‘Olive is a much better colour on you than pink. Much quieter. I do think your style is improving.’

Claire flushed. With just a few words, Cecilia brought it all rushing back: the humiliation, the cut, the laughter, as if it had happened yesterday and not three years ago.

‘Make no mistake, you looked lovely with Lashley tonight, but he can make anyone look good.’ Cecilia glanced around at the group of girls with her, making sure she had all their attention. ‘I just love wearing Lashley. He’s my new favourite colour.’ She paused to let the girls giggle in adoration of her wit. She tilted her head to one side, catching Claire in the crosshairs of a considering glance. Claire stiffened at the attention, wishing she didn’t feel such a thread of fear, that she was somehow finer, braver, than Cecilia’s threats. ‘Well done, Claire. If I was only going to dance once in an evening, I’d choose him, too.’

Cecilia laughed, a half-hearted attempt at sounding self-deprecating. ‘What am I saying? I get to dance all the dances I want and I still choose him.’

Claire felt her face burn. She heard Cecilia’s implication. Once again, we’ve chosen the same thing and once again I have triumphed over you, a bluestocking from the country. I looked better in pink and I look better on Jonathon’s arm.

The girls with Cecilia tittered. Cecilia leaned towards them, feigning confidentiality. ‘We’d dance all the dances if society allowed it. As it is, I have to settle for just two until it’s official.’ Cecilia sighed dramatically. Her entourage sighed with her.

Claire wanted to gag. The false sweetness was sickening. Did no one else see through Cecilia’s façade? Worse than the saccharine sweetness was the way she objectified Jonathon, as if he were a prize to be won, a handsome ornament and nothing more.

The girl next to her giggled. ‘You’re so lucky to be marrying him. I wish my father would find me a man just like him instead of gouty old barons.’ Marry him? Was it as final as all that? The words hovered in the air, arrows looking for the target of her heart.

Cecilia tapped the girl lightly on the arm. ‘But that’s impossible, Lizzie,’ she teased. ‘There’s no one quite like Lashley.’ Cecilia gave Claire a sly smile. ‘Isn’t that right, Claire?’

Claire had no answer. She was still reeling from the news. It was one thing to suspect Cecilia was meant for Jonathon. It was another, entirely different and awful thing to hear those speculations voiced so casually out loud from the source itself. It became real, no longer just the purvey of gossips. A punch to the stomach would have been just as effective in knocking the wind from her, the news was that devastating.

‘Why don’t you just shut up?’ Beatrice stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest, her dark eyes hot, looking every inch an avenging Fury. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. No one spoke to Cecilia Northam that way. One word from Cecilia and she could ruin your Season. Claire was living proof of it and she hadn’t even been the one to copy the dress, Cecilia had.

‘What did you say to me?’ Cecilia rose slowly from the stool in front of the vanity, eyes narrowed for combat.

‘I said, “shut up”.’ Beatrice was unwavering and why not? Claire stifled a little smile. Cecilia’s threats wouldn’t work here. Cecilia had no idea she couldn’t possibly ruin Beatrice’s Season any more than it already was.

‘May I ask why?’ Cecilia looked down her nose, a supercilious stare designed to intimidate after hours of practice in the mirror. Everything about Cecilia was designed, from the hair to the stare, everything calculated to gain maximum results. ‘Does the truth offend you?’

‘Oh? Then he has asked for your hand? I must have missed the announcement in The Times,’ Beatrice retorted with false sweetness. ‘Which issue was that in?’

Claire felt a little thrill of victory flicker through her at Cecilia’s hesitation. She felt envy, too—she wanted to be brave like Beatrice, brave enough to back Cecilia to the proverbial wall. Beatrice had her there. Cecilia didn’t dare lie. She would look foolish if she claimed such a thing.

‘Everyone knows it’s just a matter of time.’

‘Everyone knows? Not me. I don’t think Lashley will offer for you at all. I can imagine what you see in him, but I can’t imagine what he sees in you.’ Beatrice took another step closer to Cecilia, they were nearly toe to toe now.

‘Everyone who counts knows,’ Cecilia snarled, her lip turning up, wrecking the pretty features of her face. It was an ugly expression. Claire had never seen Cecilia appear less then perfectly beautiful but there was no beauty now. However, she had seen Beatrice angry before, once, when the former village butcher had cheated a poor woman out of a good cut of meat. Beatrice had railed at him for his unfair treatment and when that had failed, Beatrice had put a butcher knife to his privates. Needless to say, the butcher had relented and the woman had gone home with an excellent ham for free.

‘Who would that be? Your father? Is he going to buy you a husband like he bought you a pony? You are nothing without his money, his title.’ Beatrice hurled her insult. Claire saw something flash in Cecilia’s eyes. For a moment Claire almost felt sorry for her, but then Cecilia’s gaze turned in her direction. Cecilia stepped back from Beatrice and smoothed her lavender skirts.

‘I don’t care what you believe, Beatrice Penrose. Claire knows the truth. She knows what tonight was: a charity dance. Lashley was doing his duty, nothing more, although what he thinks he owes you for is beyond me.’ She flicked open her fan with a snap and headed for the door. ‘Come, ladies. I believe our dance cards are full and the gentlemen are waiting.’

‘What a bitch!’ May exhaled, flopping into a chair in relief. ‘Good Lord, Beatrice, I thought she was going to hit you.’ May snickered. ‘You made her leave the room, Bea. She might pretend it was all her doing, but she had to retreat. It just proves there’s a first time for everything.’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Claire gently scolded her friend. ‘She’ll make life difficult for you.’

Beatrice snorted. ‘I’m pregnant and unmarried—how much more difficult can life get? I have precisely two more months before I’m packed off to the wilds of some place where my family can forget I’m giving birth to a bastard.’

‘Oh, Bea, is it that bad?’ Claire knelt beside her, clasping Bea’s hands. ‘We won’t let them send you away.’

‘We’ll go with you, if they do,’ Evie chimed in.

Beatrice smiled, over-bright. ‘Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about Lashley and Claire and what comes next.’

Claire stood up, suddenly feeling tired. ‘Maybe we could talk later. I think I’d like to go home.’ She had danced with Jonathon, shared a stroll with him, Beatrice had bested Cecilia. They were all reasons for celebration, but that didn’t mean some of her joy hadn’t gone out of the evening anyway.