The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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a trading of tasks and goods. It was interesting to note what was left off that list; neither offered the other loyalty, fidelity, affection, devotion, care. The old question that had plagued him raised itself again—shouldn’t marriage be more? He’d been thinking about that often lately. It was probably due to the social pressure he was under.
Lord Belvoir had stopped by at the club yesterday to subtly talk about Cecilia and his posting to Vienna. It had all appeared very casual, but Jonathon knew better. There were expectations in that direction. A wife was essential to a diplomat abroad, especially in a city like Vienna where navigating the social whirl was the key to political success.
He needed a wife by August, just as he needed oral fluency in French, one more thing to check off his packing list. Thinking of it that way seemed so impersonal. While his valet was busy acquiring trunks and clothing, he was supposed to be busy acquiring French and a wife, sa femme. Claire would be proud of him for thinking in French.
‘Lashley, there you are!’ Cecilia crossed the hall with purpose and latched on to his arm, a bright smile on her face. ‘The supper dance is coming up and I didn’t want to miss it.’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial low tone. ‘It’s my favourite time of night, because I get you all to myself.’ He remembered how it had once felt to hear her utter those words and look up at him with those eyes—like he’d won a prize. This evening, there was the faintest hint of dread in hearing them, his restlessness raising its head.
When had the thought of Cecilia become tarnished instead of tolerable? Probably when he’d started attaching words like ‘for ever’ and ‘marriage’ to her. Jonathon forced a smile. ‘Do you suppose they’ll have lobster patties?’
She laughed uncertainly at the remark, unsure how to interpret it. Taken literally, it was the question of an idiot. Taken with the slight undertone of sarcasm as he’d intended, it might pass as a dry joke, a commentary on the sameness of every evening. ‘They always have lobster patties.’ Cecilia covered her uncertainty with a bright smile.
His point exactly. There wasn’t a party all Season that didn’t have the required delicacy. Everything was the same: every night, every day, the same routine of clubs and activities until now. This week there’d finally been a crack in the routine: Vienna and Claire. He was in a sour mood. It was unfair to take it out on Cecilia.
He had to stop the negativity. He had to remember Cecilia was part of that dream, too. He needed her on his arm to succeed in Vienna; a pretty hostess who could organise parties and make guests feel welcome; a wife who could run a flawless house and command the servants while still looking like perfection at the head of his table; a wife with strong connections to policy makers in England. He would need all that and more. Going to Vienna was about peace in his time certainly. But it was more than that. It was a chance to know at last what had happened to his brother. For the first time, he’d have the authority and resources to retrace his brother’s last steps.
Jonathon clasped Cecilia’s hand and gave her his best smile to soften the blow. He just needed a night to himself, a night to settle his thoughts. ‘Will you pardon me? I am terrible company this evening. I could not do your sparkling presence justice. I have papers I need to go over for the morning. I’m going to call it an early night.’ He let go and walked away without looking back. His native habitat could do without him for a while.
‘You left the ball. Early. Not long after we danced.’ The words brought Claire to an abrupt halt in the garden, forcing Jonathon to stop beside her. After speaking French for the past hour, the English words sounded markedly out of place, almost jarringly so. But perhaps more jarring was the subject matter. They’d been practising a conversation about flowers to give Jonathon a chance to use his vocabulary of colours and adjectives. This conversational topic was definitely a non sequitur.
‘I’m surprised you noticed.’ She played with the soft petals of a rose, idly stroking its velvety surface and trying not to look at Jonathon. It was difficult looking at him today, remembering their dance, the heavenly feel of his hand at her back guiding her through the patterns, and then Cecilia’s cruel words ruining the most delightful waltz she’d ever experienced. The girl who was meant to wear Evie’s new dresses would not be bothered by any of it. But the girl she was out of those dresses couldn’t ignore the words.
‘No worries. I left early, too. Shh... Don’t tell anyone.’ Jonathon’s voice was a conspirator’s whisper, friendly laughter humming beneath the surface of his words. ‘Your friends came back in from wherever you had all gone, but you weren’t with them.’ There was a spark in his eye. This time she heard the teasing in his voice. ‘Might I hope our dance bore fruit?’
If you count sour lemons. Your soon-to-be fiancée reminded me our dance was a charity project. But that clearly was not what he was referring to. It took her a moment to understand his meaning. Ah, he meant the ‘suitor’ she was trying to impress.
When she hesitated, he became concerned. ‘I hope your gentleman wasn’t upset?’
‘No, he wasn’t upset.’ Definitely true. Jonathon hadn’t appeared fazed by their dance one way or another, and why would he be?
Jonathon seemed perplexed by her answer, however. It was clearly not the outcome he’d expected. ‘Did he see us dancing? And he didn’t whisk you off to the terrace to politely stake his claim on your attentions before he lost you to another?’
The image was so ridiculous the laughter slipped out before she could stop it. ‘Good heavens, what sort of life do you imagine I lead? I hardly have a dance card full of jealous suitors vying for my attentions.’
‘You are sure he saw us dancing?’
‘Yes.’ Not a lie, but just barely the truth. She knew full well he would misconstrue the answer. She kept her attentions fixed on the rose.
‘Well, good.’ Jonathon sounded staunchly positive beside her. ‘Maybe that’s something your oblivious suitor should see again, say tonight at Lady Rosedale’s.’
Another dance, another chance at heaven. Only this time, she knew the price for it. She was leading him on, letting him believe there was a gentleman of interest. She was leading herself, too. But this time she couldn’t pretend it was a fantasy come to life. She ought to put a stop to it. No good could come of stealing more dances with Jonathon Lashley. She was supposed to win his heart by teaching him French, not by dancing with him. ‘I don’t want charity, Mr Lashley. I can manage my affairs on my own.’ A poor choice of words perhaps.
She felt him stiffen beside her. ‘Charity, is it?’ Now she’d offended him. There probably wasn’t a woman in the ton who viewed a dance with him as charity. ‘Are these French lessons charity? Perhaps I have misunderstood the nature of our association.’
‘They’re not charity, you came to me asking for assistance,’ Claire stammered. She could see where this was going and she had no grounds for argument. She could speak four languages and yet she couldn’t carry on a decent, logical conversation with one attractive man in English.
He gave a ‘my point exactly’ smile. ‘Neither is dancing with you. Dancing, like French lessons, is merely two friends helping one another achieve their goals.’ He gave another considering pause. ‘We are friends, are we not?’
Claire tried to ignore twin sensations that thought evoked—one of them warm and lovely over the thought of being considered Jonathon Lashley’s friend, the other one slightly more practical. ‘I am your French tutor for the time being. Nothing more.’
That gave Jonathon pause. She had him there, but there was no triumph in it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be right. Being right certainly didn’t help her cause. She wasn’t supposed to be driving him away, but drawing him in. Beatrice would kick her if she was here.
‘Is that what you do? Push people away by telling them how inconsequential you are?’ Jonathon drawled slowly. ‘No doubt, it’s a very effective strategy.