Читать книгу Unbuttoning The Innocent Miss - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 9

Chapter Two

They had to be the ones to change. Beatrice’s words still echoed three nights later. They had to stop accepting and start fighting for the life they wanted. Claire did not take issue with the concept in theory. Beatrice’s speech had been rousing, inspiring even in a Henry the Fifth, ‘once more into the breach’ sort of way. But did she have to be first?

Claire pressed nervous hands against the flat of her stomach, repeatedly smoothing the silky material of her Evie-enhanced gown as she mounted the steps of the Worth town house behind her parents for dinner. Her friends should have started with someone they could succeed with. There was nothing like attempting the impossible to doom morale. She knew. She’d attempted it once. That’s what this mission was: the impossible, an experiment doomed to failure. Jonathon hadn’t noticed her for three years. Why would he suddenly notice her now? Why would anyone? She’d spent three years trying not to be noticed, trying to avoid reminding people she was the girl who had worn a gown identical to Cecilia Northam’s at the largest ball of the Season the year she’d come out.

Inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Worth town house, with its blue-veined marble floor and white-arched niches filled with expensive statuary, Claire’s nerves hit a ceiling of their own. Changing one’s circumstances was all well and good in the hypothetical, but in practice it was far different, far more real. It was some comfort to know that May would be there with her tonight, playing hostess with her mother, but the comfort was outweighed by the knowledge that Jonathon Lashley and his parents would be in attendance, along with Cecilia Northam’s family.

There would be others present, too, all of whom most likely outranked the Weltons in terms of social cachet. Her father was an unobtrusive man, a quiet viscount possessed of an old title, the sort of guest who could always be counted on to fill seats. As such, he and her mother were invited everywhere. It was a comfortable but not demanding popularity. Tonight was a case in point. The Worths liked to seat an even twenty for supper when they entertained, hence the need for the Weltons.

The butler led them into the drawing room and May was immediately at her side, slipping an arm through hers. Claire felt some of her nerves ease. May, like Beatrice, had been there when she’d refused her one and only offer of marriage and her family had been livid with her. May had been there when Cecilia had pulled her awful prank. Without May, Claire would have given up society years ago and retreated firmly to the country with her books. She’d probably know six languages by now instead of four.

‘You look beautiful,’ May whispered, looking lovely herself in a dress of midnight-blue silk.

‘Do you think so?’ Claire tugged self-consciously at the newly lowered bodice of her gown. Evie had recut the old conservative square one into a more modern style that was off the shoulder and considerably more revealing, before horizontally ruching the fabric to make the expanse of bosom now on display appear fuller.

May slapped her hand. ‘Stop fussing with it. The cut is fine, more than fine. Evie has outdone herself.’ The dress was hugely improved. Claire had hardly recognised it when Evie finished. It was just that Claire wasn’t used to it. It wasn’t the sort of dress a girl like her wore—a girl with no prospects, a girl who blended into the wallpaper. This was a dress that got a girl noticed. She’d not been oblivious to the second glances cast her way. The realisation made her fidgety. She wasn’t used to being looked at, only looked over, or was that overlooked?

Of course, being noticed was part of the plan: no more matching the curtains, no more blending in. Being different meant looking different and there’d been no time in the last two days for an entirely new gown to be made. The girls had crowded into Claire’s room and meticulously gone through her wardrobe until every gown had been scrutinised and discarded. Claire had not realised how plain her wardrobe was until it had needed to pass their inspection and failed.

The girls had decided she should wear blue, ‘Ethereal’, Evie had called it. Evie had taken notes on her little pad and had worked wonders with the gown. After the bodice had been remade, Evie had added wide chocolate-brown grosgrain ribbon at the hem and thinner silk ribbon of the same colour along the bodice and the tiny puffed sleeves: a striking effect against the sky-blue that brought out the amber colour of her eyes.

Truth be told, Claire did feel different in the dress, but it would take some getting used to. Maybe she felt too different. A dress could change her on the outside, but it couldn’t change her on the inside, could it? She scanned the room bravely, her eyes finding Jonathon; dark haired and tall, at the wide fireplace mantel that dominated the far wall. He was smiling, looking entirely at ease as he conversed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without that smile and that air of confidence he carried everywhere with him, trademarks of who he was; a man with the world at his fingertips.

It was no wonder he was picked for an important diplomatic post. He was witty, charming, informed and there wasn’t a talent he didn’t possess; he could sing at musical evenings, fence, box, ride and shoot. He was perfect, the Regency’s incarnation of Da Vinci’s Renaissance man.

He stood with his father and Lord Belvoir, Cecilia’s father. Cecilia Northam was at his side dressed in an exquisite rose silk, her hand on his arm, possessive and proud as if he already belonged to her. Cecilia’s eyes caught hers, her steely-silver gaze perusing Claire’s gown.

Claire could hear the old, hurtful words. ‘I wear it better. Far better. You should have known you could not wear my signature colour.’ Claire hadn’t worn pink since.

This gown was not that gown, she reasoned with herself. In no way did Evie’s blue creation resemble the rose silk Cecilia wore tonight. But Claire still felt her confidence falter. ‘I feel as if I’ve been thrown to the lions,’ she murmured to May.

‘Then be Daniel,’ May whispered. ‘Keep your head up and look them all in the eye. Let everyone know this Season you mean business, beginning tonight.’

Claire did her best as they made the rounds of the room, stopping to talk with the little clusters of guests, May leaning over to announce sotto voce, ‘Cecilia is not the only one who’s noticed. Even Lashley’s been looking a time or two. Discreetly, of course.’

Of course. It was how Jonathon did everything. Claire hazarded another look in Jonathon’s direction, unable to suppress a little trill of delight at May’s words. Everything Jonathon did was tastefully done, from clothes to manners to conversation. When he spoke with someone, they had the impression of being listened to. At least that was her experience in the few, brief interactions she’d had with him over the years. They hardly qualified as conversations, more like extended greetings. Unlike other men who merely went through the polite motions demanded by society before moving on to the women they were truly interested in, Jonathon had always taken time to ask a question and then listen to the answer. She’d understood the attraction of Beatrice’s lover too well. Listening was a vastly underrated commodity. It made one feel they had value.

She and May had just left one group and were moving on to another when she felt it: Jonathon’s gaze on her. She looked up, allowing their eyes to meet for the briefest of seconds. A small smile played on his lips, giving her the impression his smile was for her alone and Claire’s pulse rocketed as she looked away.

It was a silly, unwarranted reaction. She wanted to stand out to him, the way Cecilia Northam apparently did. She wanted to be the one with her hand resting lightly on his arm as she looked up into that handsome face with its deep-blue eyes and sharp-cut lines.

‘Come on.’ May tugged at her arm. ‘Let’s go speak with his group. We haven’t visited them yet and later, I have news.’

Claire froze, Old Claire getting the better of New Claire with her new dress and hair. Talk to Jonathon now? ‘No. I couldn’t possibly do that. What would I say?’

She wasn’t really warmed up. She’d just arrived.

‘How about “good evening”? He smiled at you. Take the opening.’ May laughed. It was easy for May to laugh. She didn’t understand. She didn’t get tongue tied every time Jonathon was around. In fact, May was hardly ever tongue tied around anyone. It was her gift and her curse. Where Claire had made herself invisible, May had made herself far too noticeable.

‘No,’ Claire insisted. ‘Not yet. Let’s wait until after dinner’, when she would have had time to get her conversation up to par with her partner, when she might finally be used to this dress and how it made her feel. May merely smiled, her hidden dimple coming out in the corner of her cheek. That worried her. May hardly ever admitted defeat. Claire had the distinct impression she was being flanked.

A moment later, she knew it. Claire had barely settled into her chair when he spoke. ‘Miss Welton, it’s a pleasure to see you this evening.’

She looked up and met Jonathon’s sharp blue eyes, quite possibly the exact shade of her gown. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ The words tumbled out without her consent, her mind too busy grappling with the fact that he was sitting across from her, too busy to pay attention to what her mouth was doing. Her mind was focused on another heart-stopping fact: He was all hers to look at for the entire meal.

He smiled broadly at her ridiculous words. What lady said such a thing? It was far too bold for a genteel dinner, but that’s what new dresses did—they made one feel as bold their neckline. She looked away, fussing with her napkin to give herself something to do. She would have thought she was used to looking at him by now. She’d been doing it most of her life. The logic of familiarity suggested the sensation should have numbed by now, should have faded from the intense pleasure of seeing him into something more comfortable. But it hadn’t. If anything, it was sharper. She was acutely aware of every angle of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curving planes of his cheeks when he smiled, the firm sensuality of his mouth. That last was a wicked thought indeed to entertain at the table.

Claire turned her thoughts to other, less wanton ideas like revenge. She shot May a knowing glance across the white-clothed expanse. Her instincts were right. Either through fate or finagling—Claire highly suspected the latter—that minx of a friend had engineered the seating arrangement. She gave May a nudge with her foot under the table to acknowledge the ploy. I am on to you, May Worth.

But there was nothing she could do about it now. Claire was not going to get her reprieve. There would be no waiting until after dinner to speak with Jonathon. If she knew May, the plan wouldn’t stop here. May had something more in mind to get her noticed. The thought was both exhilarating and agitating. She wished May had made her a party to the plan. No, wait, she didn’t. If she’d known ahead of time, she would only have worried. All she could do now was stay alert and watch for her chance. She simply had to apply herself.

Right now, all it seemed she could apply herself to was avidly staring as the first course was set in front of her. Jonathon had the most intriguing lock of errant hair that fell to the side, escaping any efforts to pomade it into place. She was doing such a good job of staring, she missed her conversation partner’s overture.

But in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered how many times her partner repeated himself. Her attention was claimed elsewhere, so it was no surprise during the fish that her ears cringed when she heard the butchered word ‘bonjure’ from across the table. Claire responded out of reflex and years of study, ‘You mean bohnzhooh. The French don’t pronounce the “r” strongly at the end of bonjour.’

Jonathon’s blue gaze landed on her, his handsome mouth smiling politely, easily, as if he was not offended at the correction or the interruption. Claire shut her mouth in horror. She wanted to melt into a pile of blancmange beneath the table. She might have if May hadn’t kicked her, a rather painful reminder that she would not shrink from the world any longer, not after Evie had re-made her gown, not after Beatrice had done up her hair, not after May had done whatever it was May had done to make this possible.

Tonight, she was representing all of them. She had to be brave. But, oh, sweet heavens, it was hard to do when she’d just corrected Jonathon Lashley, future diplomat. In public. At a dinner table in front of eighteen other guests. That was certainly one way to get his attention, although probably not the best way. Oh, dear Lord, people were starting to stare.

* * *

‘Bohnzhooh,’ Jonathon amended, acknowledging the correction. The quickest way to dispel unwanted attention was to persuade onlookers there was nothing to see. There was no show here. ‘I appreciate the opportunity for improvement.’ But why had she done it? And why here at the table of all places? His eyes remained riveted on the woman across from him.

Miss Welton had all of his attention now, whereas before, her dress had held most of it. He’d noticed the dress the moment she’d walked in this evening, but now he was noticing her. A fact that was strange in itself. She’d never been particularly noticeable before. He knew of her, most certainly. She was a friend of Preston’s sister and a neighbour to the Worths in the country. She’d been out for several Seasons and their paths crossed sporadically in London at larger catch-all affairs. She’d always struck him as a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. So he hadn’t. Noticed. Not really. Not until tonight.

She was different tonight. She’d made a rather subtle but grand entrance in her blue dress. He was sure the ladies had a sophisticated word for the colour, something more descriptive than simply blue. But to him it was blue—the colour of an English summer sky and on her it was positively stunning, although not precisely the shade or cut worn by a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps this was Miss Welton’s way of announcing she was seriously hunting a husband this Season? Or perhaps she already had one? In his experience, women dressed well when there was a man to impress.

What a woman didn’t do was correct a man at dinner and yet Miss Welton had, drawing an uncharacteristic amount of attention to herself in the process. Part of him wanted to applaud her boldness. Miss Welton was certainly coming out of her shell. Well done her. Although he wished she hadn’t chosen to do it with a remark about his French. Still, she wasn’t to be blamed. She couldn’t know it was a touchy subject with him at the moment. The French didn’t pronounce all the letters in their words, but apparently that didn’t stop him from doing it and doing it wrong. Wrong was something he wasn’t use to being.

Beside him, Cecilia was not quite as forgiving behind her frosty smile. She leaned slightly towards him as if what she had to say was between the two of them, but it was an illusion only. She meant for the table to hear. ‘I did not realise we had a Francophile at the table, Lashley.’

Jonathon stiffened, feeling his senses go on alert. Stares returned. This was not a friendly remark. He did not need or want Cecilia defending him, nor did he see the need to attack Miss Welton. Francophile was the most insulting name Cecilia could have decently called her and Miss Welton knew it. Everyone at the table knew it. Her hand halted just for a fraction of a second as she reached for her wine glass. Jonathon willed that hand to keep going, to give no sign of Cecilia’s comment having any effect.

But the damage was done. The fish was nowhere near as exciting as Cecilia Northam verbally calling someone out. People near them stopped eating and cast interested glances their way. The war might have been over for seven years, but to be a lover of anything French was still not a popular pastime.

Jonathon locked eyes with Miss Welton as if he could lend her some strength, some encouragement with his gaze. He could see how she fought the urge to retreat in the way her hand tensed around the stem of her wine glass.

Don’t you dare apologise, Miss Welton. I was incorrect and you called me on it. You’ve done nothing wrong.

If there was any apologising to be done, it should be Cecilia. Her comment had bordered on the pale and he had no wish to see anyone put down whether it be on his behalf or not, especially not a woman who had chosen tonight to step into the light.

To his everlasting delight, Miss Welton straightened her shoulders and met Cecilia’s gaze. ‘French is the language of diplomacy on the Continent, Miss Northam. One need not be a Francophile to appreciate the importance of being conversant in the language.’ She managed a sophisticated smile as if to say she would not be embarrassed over her knowledge or made to feel lesser for her education. Jonathon wanted to applaud.

‘You are lucky to be so well schooled in the language.’ He smiled, lending her support with his words, well aware that Cecilia bristled beside him, fully understanding his support of Miss Welton was a subtle but resounding denouncement of her accusation. Cecilia would not be pleased.

On his other side, a more pleasant May Worth picked up the lagging conversation. ‘Miss Welton is fluent in French and three other languages as well.’

Jonathon raised a dark brow in genuine interest over Miss Welton’s accomplishments, trying hard not to stare at those cognac eyes or lower at the expanse of bosom on display. Her bodice was no lower than anyone else’s, but it had become unexplainably more alluring. ‘Is that true, Miss Welton? I had no idea you were so accomplished.’

He envied her that accomplishment. It would come as a surprise to everyone at the table if they knew how much he wished to be her—the quiet, heretofore unobtrusive Miss Welton—in those moments. It would solve a lot of his problems. Oral fluency in French was all that kept him from finalising the Vienna appointment, a post he very much wanted for personal reasons. But it was a skill that had eluded him since he’d come home from Waterloo. Even after countless tutors and in spite of his ability to write and read the language with perfect comfort, he couldn’t speak a word of it.

A footman set down a beautifully arranged plate of beef bourguignon in front of him. Great. A French dish. Now even the food was mocking him and there was still Cecilia to contend with as the table turned; pretty, petulant Cecilia who was supposed to make him the ideal bride—her beauty and wit a representation of English womanhood to those abroad. He was expected to offer for her by the end of the Season, one more venue for securing the Vienna post was official. He would do it if that was what it took, just as he would master oral fluency in French. They were merely the last two hurdles to be overcome, he told himself. It was the least he could do in the name of his brother’s memory. He would be part of establishing peace in his time, so that no one else would have to die.

Jonathon shot one last look across the table at Miss Welton, catching her eye before she turned away to give her attention to the man beside her. What other languages did she speak and why? Did she ever intend to use them or need them? Cecilia tugged at his arm when he was too slow to give her his attention, but before he turned, Miss Welton mouthed a single word: ‘Merci.’ Thank you. Suffice it to say, his curiosity was piqued even if it shouldn’t be.