Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 23

Chapter Fifteen

Lucifer’s balls, what had he done? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that question since leaving Claire’s in the wee hours of morning the same way he’d got in. By now he was quite familiar with what he’d done. Jonathon twirled the stem of his brandy snifter in idle frustration. Maybe the more important question was what was he going to do? He’d been sitting here since early morning. The sky had still been grey when he’d banged on the door of White’s. Since then, he’d progressed from coffee to brandy. This was his second glass. That was saying something considering it was only one in the afternoon. He was no closer to an answer.

He’d starting drinking at eleven instead of going to French lessons. He could not go to Claire until he had an answer. They’d both tacitly pretended last night had been a night out of time, a night that existed apart from the realities of their world. But he had not bargained on the pleasure being so exquisite, so meaningful. No, that was a lie. He would not have gone if he hadn’t thought the possibility existed. He’d taken no small risk in climbing that trellis. He’d known very well what lay at the end of that journey. Last night, it had been enough to simply discover it, claim it. But today, he wanted more of it and today, he couldn’t have it. Reality intruded.

He owed it to Claire to stay away now that they both understood what lay between them. He’d kept his promise. She’d had pleasure and she had not been ruined. But he could not dare anything more. It would not be fair to either of them. So, he’d sent a note informing her he wouldn’t be there for his lesson. He’d played the gentleman in that choice, but he felt like a coward. As for the planned trip to Fitzrovia and the French market, he let the weather do the rest.

It had been pouring since ten o’clock, keeping everyone inside and ruining the possibility of another excursion even if it had been possible. Jonathon had to settle for an afternoon spent at White’s which offered plenty of time to read the foreign newspapers and reflect on the fact that doing so was nowhere near as exciting as reading in a French bookshop with Claire, or climbing into bedrooms with Claire, or Claire’s hand on him bringing the most personal of pleasures.

‘May I join you?’

Jonathon looked up from the French news to greet Preston Worth. He smiled at his old friend and motioned to the empty chair. ‘Please. I could do with some company. The weather has driven everyone to ground.’

‘Unless one fancies ladies’ tea parties.’ Preston took a seat and gestured for a waiter to bring him a drink. ‘I hear you’ve been doing the pretty. My mother tells me you came to Lady Morrison’s at-home the other day.’

‘Not on purpose.’ Jonathon laughed and held his hands up in mock defence. ‘I was looking for someone.’

Preston gave him a sly look. ‘Does it happen to be a brunette with chocolate eyes who’s taken a newfound interest in clothes and speaks flawless French?’ The allusion was unmistakable.

‘Cognac, her eyes are the colour of cognac, not chocolate and dammit, Preston, this is why one’s friends shouldn’t go into intelligence. Do I have no privacy?’

Preston smiled smugly and overlooked the dig about intelligence. ‘So you were looking for Claire Welton.’

‘She is my French tutor, as you well know, apparently.’ He was a bit chuffed Preston knew. For his sake and Claire’s, Jonathon would rather have kept that bit of information under wraps.

Preston leaned forward, triumph leaving his expression, replaced by sincerity. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Having friends in intelligence also means they know how to keep a secret. You can trust Owen and me. We are souls of discretion.’

Jonathon shifted in his seat. ‘Owen doesn’t know.’

Preston chuckled. ‘Doesn’t know or you think he doesn’t know? Owen knows the colour of the king’s underwear on any given day. The man knows everything.’ Preston paused. ‘Speaking of “everything”, how’s the French going? Is it coming back?’

Jonathon rapped the small drink table between them with his knuckles. ‘For luck,’ he explained. ‘I would hate to jinx things now. I think so, better than I hoped. Claire is a fine instructor.’ It had been on the tip of his tongue to mention the outing to the bookshop, but he thought better of it. He preferred the idea that he had some secrets at least.

‘Claire? First names and all? I would say that is progress indeed.’ Preston drained his brandy. ‘She’s a fine dancer, too, and don’t cut up at me for noticing. You’ve danced with her every night lately. It’s not a secret. Anyone who cared to notice could. Is that part of your tutoring as well?’ There was a veiled edge to his tone.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jonathon answered with an edge of his own.

Preston twirled the stem of his snifter with an idle nonchalance. ‘I don’t know what it means, Jonathon. That’s why I’m asking you. Does it mean anything at all?’

Jonathon was glad the club was nearly empty. Preston’s voice suddenly seemed louder than necessary, but he couldn’t ask his friend to lower his tone without implying that perhaps something was indeed afoot. Implication was all the bone Preston would need to dog him about it until he confessed.

I took your sister’s friend out yesterday without a chaperon and ravaged her in a French bookshop until the shopkeeper threw us out. Then we finished what we had started in her bedroom last night. Just with hands, though, no damage done.

He didn’t need an especially creative imagination to know how that would go over. Preston had always been protective of his sister’s friends even when they were nine-year-old nuisances.

‘Ah, your silence condemns you, Jonathon.’ Preston gave the devil’s own grin.

‘I am helping her attract the attention of a beau she’s interested in. It’s a fair exchange for her tutelage,’ Jonathon replied, sounding far too defensive. His answer sounded like a denial. He hated himself for the words. They might have been the truth a few weeks ago, but it was only a slim part of the truth now. He wasn’t dancing with her to help her, but because he wanted to. He loved the feel of her in his arms, the caress of her eyes on him as they swept the dance floor. After yesterday, he wasn’t willing to share that caress. He certainly wasn’t willing to turn her over to a suitor. He was starting to feel jealous of this suitor she so desperately wanted to impress.

Preston lifted a brow. ‘Really? I was unaware she had a suitor. May hasn’t said anything. Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. She won’t say.’ Jonathon shrugged as if it was of no consequence. He refused to believe Cecilia’s assertion that Sir Rufus Sheriden had a longstanding interest that might be reciprocated. Claire had kissed him, he reminded himself, unable to help the smile that spread across his face at the memory, of Claire wrapping her arms about him and pulling him close in the bookshop, her mouth covering his. There were other memories, too, that mocked the idea her attentions were engaged elsewhere. How could she be when her hand... He had to stop right there. He shifted in his seat. If he didn’t stop, he’d be giving too much away to a man who was already canny.

‘What are you hiding? A man only smiles like that when he’s thinking of a woman.’ Preston’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘The question is, what woman? Claire or Cecilia?’ His voice dropped to a hush, his face registering the truth Jonathon couldn’t speak. ‘By Jove, you’re falling for Claire Welton.’

‘Yes.’ There. He’d said it; the new truth that he was just beginning to recognise. He was falling for Claire.

Preston nodded thoughtfully. ‘How far do you plan to fall?’

‘I don’t know.’ He might have already fallen, the descent complete before he’d even realised the danger. ‘Does one plan these things?’ He certainly hadn’t. He’d had a plan, a very detailed one until he’d sat across from Claire at the Worths’ dinner. That plan had slowly eroded ever since. The irony was that he’d only approached Claire in order to help that original plan, not derail it.

‘And Cecilia Northam? Where does she figure into all of this?’ Preston leaned forward, dropping his voice further.

‘I don’t know.’ Hadn’t he just said that?

‘What do you know? Perhaps we should start with that. In fact, let me start.’ Preston held up a finger for every item. ‘First, you need a wife to go with you to Vienna. Nothing buys respectability like having a wife at your side. That means the clock is ticking, old boy. You need to marry by summer’s end, sooner if you want to wedge in a honeymoon that doesn’t involve travelling to your post. Second, Cecilia Northam has been groomed to be a diplomat’s wife. Lord Belvoir wants a title and political position for his daughter. He wants a future prime minister for her if he can get it, this is a fairly open secret in the ton. Third, Belvoir and Cecilia want that husband to be you, also a fairly open secret. They are angling for an offer before June is out.’ Preston raised another finger and added to the list. ‘Fourth, Belvoir has the power to force your hand. If you don’t come up to scratch, it may not matter how good your French is or that you have personal connections to Owen Danvers. Belvoir can ruin your chances and see that the post goes to Elliot Wisefield. The man is vindictive enough to do it.’

Preston sat back in his chair. ‘It’s time for some risk analysis, old boy. Cecilia secures the post for you. Without her, it’s dicey. Maybe you have enough influence without her, maybe you can survive whatever firestorm her father sends your way. It’s a big maybe, though. Are you willing to lose the Vienna post for Claire?’

‘Put that way, choosing Claire seems the height of idiocy.’ Jonathon expelled a tired breath. He’d known this already. It was an equation he’d been through countless times in the last several years as he’d battled back from the wound, from the grief of losing Thomas not just once, but over and over again when false leads didn’t play out. It was more than the post he was risking. The post merely symbolised the things he desired: a legacy of peace, a chance to go back and find out the truth about Thomas, a chance for closure on the past and the beginning of a future at last.

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.