The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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to be one.’
Lashley saw right through the comment. ‘I’m not a child, Miss Welton. Lying to me won’t help. You make it sound so easy. I look at the words and I see what they mean, but I can’t say them, not like you.’
‘Not yet anyway,’ Claire insisted. She couldn’t stand the look of resignation that crept across his face. ‘We simply have to practise.’
Lashley moved away from the window and ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head. ‘I have been practising. For years. I’m sorry, Miss Welton, to have wasted your time. This simply isn’t going to work.’
He was leaving? No. Unacceptable. She was not losing him after one lesson. If Beatrice was willing to brazen out having a baby with no father, perfect Jonathon Lashley could learn to speak French and she could teach him. But she had to act fast. He was already halfway to the door. Something fiery and stubborn flared inside Claire. He was not leaving this room. Claire strode across the room—no, wait, who was she kidding? She was nearly running to beat him to the door. The rules could go hang.
She fixed herself in the doorway, hands on hips to take up the entire space, blocking the exit. He would not elude her. ‘I never figured you for a quitter, Mr Lashley, or perhaps you have simply never met with a challenge you could not immediately overcome?’
‘Do you know me so well as to make such a pronouncement?’ Lashley folded his arms across his chest, his eyes boring into her. This was a colder, harsher Jonathon Lashley than the one she knew. The laughing golden boy of the ton had been transformed into something dangerously exciting. Her pulse raced, but she stood her ground.
What ground it was! She’d never been this close to him before; so close she had to look up to see his face, so close her breasts might actually brush the lapels of his coat without any contrivance on her part, so close she could smell his morning soap, all cedar and sandalwood and entirely masculine, entirely him. She’d waited her whole life to stand this close to Jonathon Lashley and, of course, it was her luck that when it happened it was because of a quarrel—a quarrel she’d provoked.
She’d never thought she’d fight with him, the supposed ‘man of her dreams’. She’d been thinking ‘never’ a lot since this all started. Yesterday, she’d never thought they would have desperation in common. Today, she’d never dreamed his French would be this bad, or that she’d have trouble teaching him or that she’d quarrel with him.
‘You are a very bold woman, Miss Welton.’ His tone was one of cold caution. ‘Yesterday you mopped up my trousers and today you are preventing me from leaving a room. One can only wonder what you might do to my person next. Perhaps tomorrow I will find myself tied to a chair and at your mercies.’
Claire flushed violently. The rather descriptive words conjured hot images of just how that might look and the mercies she might indeed invoke flooded her mind in vivid colour. Jonathon bound, his perfect cravat undone, his shirt open, those long legs wrapped about the chair, his thighs spread wide, his tight breeches unable to disguise what lay between them. Sweet heavens, where was her fan when she needed it? Where was her self-restraint? Those were thoughts for the dark of night when she was alone in her bed. But it was bright day and he was standing right in front of her, present for every one of them.
That was outside of enough. She had to stop. Claire put a tight lid on the images and stuffed them back inside whatever Pandora’s box they’d sprung from. This was all his fault, every scrap and speck of it from the disastrous lesson to the heated imaginings of rope tricks involving knots and a gentleman who wasn’t necessarily wearing clothes.
‘You asked for it!’ Claire’s temper snapped. Where had that come from? She hadn’t been this bold in years. She’d thought she’d forgotten how. Apparently not. She could lay her boldness, too, at the altar of his provocation. He was going to damn well be accountable for all of it. Great. He had her swearing now as if erotic fantasies of tying him to a chair in the middle of her father’s dusty library wasn’t enough. ‘You wanted my help and you shall have it. You need me if you have any chance of claiming that post in Vienna!’
She ruthlessly gripped his arm and turned him around, dragging him back to the window, the furthest point from the door. If he was going to run, she’d have plenty of warning, and if he couldn’t sit still, then she wouldn’t belabour it. Chairs might not be the best idea just now anyway and she had to pick her battles. ‘Now, we’re going to go through the sentences again. This time, all you have to do is watch my mouth. Do you think you can manage that?’
* * *
Probably not. He hadn’t managed to do anything right since the lesson started. He’d made an apparently lurid comment about chairs and provoked a lady to an unladylike show of temper and it was all her fault. Watching her mouth was what had caused the problem in the first place. What the hell was wrong with her? This was not the Miss Welton he knew, assuming he knew her at all?
It occurred to him that perhaps he didn’t know her any more than he’d accused her of knowing him. What did they know of each other beyond face recognition? Before today, their adult life together consisted of encountering each other at various entertainments where politeness required he acknowledge her.
She’d been out for three Seasons. What had she been doing all that time besides learning Turkish and blending into the wallpaper? Perhaps she had been tying men to chairs and having her mad way with them. She’d certainly blushed furiously enough when he’d made the remark. He’d give a guinea to know exactly what nature of thought had passed through her mind. It was always the quiet ones. And yet, he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that quietness didn’t come naturally to Claire Welton. It was, perhaps, an acquired skill. Interesting to think someone would want to become quiet.
‘Are you watching me?’ she insisted. ‘You have to concentrate.’ She started her French sentence all over again, having divined correctly that he’d missed it entirely.
He was concentrating. On her mouth. Just like she’d asked. Did she have any idea how difficult it was to stare at that wide pink mouth with its rather lush lower lip and those straight white teeth as they formed around impossible French syllables and keep his mind on the lesson? The task was nearly Herculean and it shouldn’t have been.
Perhaps the question wasn’t what the hell was wrong with her, but what the hell was wrong with him? Not once in three years of polite encounters had he ever felt quite so encouraged to look at her as he did today. Today he noticed everything, not just her mouth: those sherry-amber eyes, the nut brown of her hair, the rather distracting show of firm breasts lifted temptingly high in that bodice. Pale green was an excellent colour on her and whoever the modiste was who did the bodices of her gowns—suffice it to say that was a job well done.
‘Répétez. Je m’appelle Claire.’ He watched her mouth form the words and he repeated the phrase, his eyes taking the opportunity to stay riveted on her lips instead of other less seemly places.
‘Juh mapel Claire.’
‘Jonathon,’ she prompted softly. The sunlight through the window picked out the hidden auburn hues of her hair.
‘Yes?’ He lifted his eyes momentarily.
‘No, not a question. I meant, you should insert your own name in the sentence. You said “Claire”.’
‘Right. Juh mapel Jonathon,’ he corrected, feeling like a stupid schoolboy.
‘That was lovely. It was so much better,’ she complimented and he felt absurdly pleased at having mastered the simple sentence. She cocked her head to one side, studying him, and this time he couldn’t escape to the window. He was already there. That look of hers, as if she was trying to fathom the depths of his soul, had unnerved him and then aroused him since the lesson had started. Certainly, women had looked at him before. Being the object of their attentions wasn’t new. He knew they found him attractive: physically, fiscally, socially. His attraction was multi-faceted. But no woman ever looked at him that way. She wasn’t measuring him, she was searching him. What did she see? That made him a little nervous.
He’d