The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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in two as the cup fell, liquid pouring down his fawn breeches. ‘Damn! That’s hot!’ He leapt up, looking around rapidly for a napkin, but Claire was faster.
‘Oh, I am so sorry! Allow me!’ She wiped frantically at his trousers, thinking only of wicking away the boiling water, of wicking away his distress. ‘Are you all right? You’re not burned, are you?’ She’d got most of it. Claire pressed her napkin high against his thigh, blotting the remainder of the water.
His hand covered hers, insistent in halting her efforts, his tone somewhat stiff as he relieved her of mopping duty. ‘I am fine, just a little damp. Thank you, Miss Welton for your, ah, speedy assistance. I can take it from here.’
Claire sat back in her chair, watching him mop up his trousers, mortification setting in at what she’d done. She could feel her cheeks heat, rivalling the tea water. Just an inch or two to the right and...good Lord! She’d nearly felt up the future Viscount Oakdale and in front of her mother no less.
‘A thousand pardons, Lady Stanhope, for the language and for the teacup, I hope it wasn’t an heirloom.’ Lashley remained standing as he apologised, trying valiantly to ignore the obvious dark wet stain on his breeches.
‘It is a trifling thing, Mr Lashley, do not worry yourself over it.’ Her mother smiled smoothly as if nothing untoward had just broken out in her drawing room, as if her daughter hadn’t nearly manhandled their guest’s private parts in an attempt to be helpful. ‘I’m only glad you were not harmed unduly.’
Or molested by my daughter. She doesn’t get out much, Claire thought as Lashley left the room with considerably more dignity than most men would have managed. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again? She’d have to though, wouldn’t she? Then she remembered, she hadn’t answered his question.
Claire raced to the door, never mind that running after a man was hardly appropriate, but decorum had departed the moment she had tried to wipe up his trousers. ‘Mr Lashley!’ she called, stopping him at the front door.
Jonathon turned. ‘Yes? Miss Welton?’
‘I never answered your proposal.’ She mentally winced. That was entirely the wrong word. ‘I would be honoured to help you with your conversation.’
A broad smile took his face, bordering on brilliant. Her decision pleased him. Did she imagine it or was there relief in that smile, too? It had taken strength of character to ask her, strength enough to break a teacup. Not every man was strong enough to admit when he needed help. ‘How are mornings at eleven?’
He’d agreed! The realisation swamped her with amazement and disbelief. Beatrice and May’s plan was going to work! But then what? She pushed the thought away. She’d worry about that later. For now, she was practically giddy. Jonathon gave her an expectant arch of his brows, as if he was waiting for something. Oh, yes. A response. He was waiting for words. What a looby she was. He would be wondering how she could master French if she couldn’t even manage basic English.
‘Mornings at eleven are perfect.’ She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and tried to sound composed while her insides leapt. Jonathon had said yes! True, it was just for French lessons, but it was a start.
The lesson was perfectly awful on all levels. They were one hour in and Claire was at her wits’ end. Never did she imagine those rather considerable wits would reach their end so quickly or that her patience would have such a short fuse, especially where Jonathon Lashley was concerned. As an opportunity for Lashley to notice her, this was an absolute failure.
Her stays were suffocatingly tight in their attempt to push her breasts up in Evie’s latest creation—a low-cut morning gown in pale green—and Lashley couldn’t sit still long enough to appreciate the effort. He kept getting up from the long table that ran the length of the Welton library and walking to the window, where there was absolutely nothing of interest to see—she’d checked after his fourth trip just to make sure. Perhaps the gardeners had decided to work naked, after all. But no. Quite thankfully, the gardeners were all clothed. There was nothing to see, just the garden and the wall that separated it from the alley.
Apparently ‘point of interest’ meant something different to Lashley, though. This was the eighth time now he’d made the trip and, while it was something of a treat to watch those broad shoulders in blue superfine and those long legs sporting tan breeches sans tea stains walk across the room in a pair of highly polished boots, it wasn’t helping her cause or his.
She wanted to push him into his chair and yell, ‘Sit down and look at me!’ Not only because she’d worn this ridiculous dress just for him, but she couldn’t very well use the tips May and Beatrice had given her for attracting a man’s attention if he was forever walking away. He had to sit in order for her to lean over the table and point out something in the book. He had to sit in order for her to stand behind him so that her breasts might brush his shoulder as she pointed something out. The operative word in all of these suggestions was ‘sit’, of course, an assumption she had felt safe in making an hour ago, not so now. It was all good advice, Claire was certain, if she ever got to use it. None of her friends’ tips dealt with a man who acted like a jack in the box.
How did he expect her to uphold her end of the proposition if he wouldn’t uphold his? He’d asked for her help and she couldn’t give it if he wouldn’t sit still. She couldn’t very well teach him French if he wouldn’t read the sentences from the book and do the lesson she provided.
But a lady did not screech like a fishwife in the presence of a man she wanted to impress. Still, good manners and playing by the rules had got her very little in the way of progress today. Claire shot a frantic glance at the clock. Their time would be up and they would have accomplished nothing. Lashley would think she was incompetent. The realisation spurred on the last of her reserves. Whatever else she was, she knew she was an accomplished linguist and she would prove it. Claire drew a deep breath, calling on the final remnants, nay, the last shreds of her patience. ‘Let’s try again, Mr Lashley.’ She crossed the room to the window, book in hand, muttering under her breath. ‘Dağ sana gelmezse, sen dağa gideceksin.’
‘What did you say?’ Lashley’s head jerked away from the window, startled at the words. At last something had caught his interest and it hadn’t been French. Of course. That was how her luck had been lately.
‘I said, “If the mountain won’t come to you, you must go to the mountain”. It’s from The Essays of...’
‘Francis Bacon, I know. But Bacon wrote his essays in English,’ Lashley finished. ‘Turkish would be my guess.’
‘Yes, you’re correct. Most people don’t recognise Turkish.’ That he did was pleasantly surprising but it didn’t make up for the fact that he couldn’t focus on his lesson. He was a grown man, used to long meetings about estates and ledgers, there was nothing drier. Why couldn’t he focus on French which was anything but dull?
‘And yet you speak it, Miss Welton? Is it one of your four languages?’ He was watching her now, his sharp blue eyes on her face. He’d remembered May’s carefully placed titbit from dinner. She flushed, pleased that he’d recalled something about her.
‘It will hopefully be my fifth. Since the Ottoman Empire appears destined to demand British attention, it seemed prudent to pick up the skill.’ Maybe this was the opening she needed. She leaned forward, pointing to the page and hopefully displaying a pleasing expanse of bosom. ‘We’re not here to learn Turkish, Mr Lashley. Perhaps we might try the French sentences again? Read the first one, si’l vous plait.’
Lashley drew a breath. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly ‘Ow est lee salon?’
There it was, the second reason this lesson was a disaster, in terrible ear-splitting reality; Lashley was horrible. As if his attention deficit wasn’t problem enough, Lashley’s French sounded awful when he did try. Suffice it to say, she’d taught younger children French with more success than she