The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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along. Maybe he could offer the man some encouragement if he saw the fellow at one of his clubs. She came off a bit aloof with her occasionally sharp tongue and sharper mind. The gentleman in question might not know she was interested. It was the least he could do for her. She was helping him. He’d like to return the favour and he could hardly pay her the way he would a tutor.
She shook her head. ‘That is not necessary. He is unaware of my interest,’ she stammered, taking great care with her words.
He pulled out his pocket watch, surprised to see that it was half past one. He’d overstayed his welcome. ‘Perhaps we should make him aware. Will you be at Lady Griffin’s tonight? You might save me a dance.’ The fastest way to make a man notice you was to dance with another. Arrogant as it might seem to admit, women who danced with him were noticed because he was noticed. A flirty widow who wanted more than a waltz from him had once told him matchmaking mamas sat in a corner keeping lists of his partners.
‘Oh, no! I couldn’t.’ She was truly aghast.
He would not let her withdraw. ‘Come now, I’m not proposing we drag him out into an alley and beat some sense into him.’ Although maybe the fellow needed it if he was oblivious to Claire’s charms.
‘Well, if you put it that way, je voudrais rien de plus.’ She gave him a little curtsy. ‘Nothing would please me more.’
He could think of a few things that would please him better than a dance. Perhaps a kiss. The errant thought struck him hard. He wanted to kiss Claire Welton? It was admittedly a bit more tame than yesterday’s chairs and ropes, but where had that idea come from? She was his French tutor, nothing more.
Perhaps it was mere male curiosity. Now that there was another man involved, perhaps he wanted to know what he was missing. There was a difference between wondering and wanting. Wondering was objective and wanting was not. There was that dress to consider, too. She’d worn a deep-yellow gown today, the shade of daffodils, and it brought out the glow of her skin and the darkness of her hair. She looked positively radiant, a beam of sunshine that drew the eye. Jonathon drew a breath. He was a healthy young male. It was natural to be drawn to a pretty girl.
A stray curl had come down and tickled her cheek. Jonathon reached out and pushed it back behind her ear without thinking. ‘Until tonight, then. I am looking forward to our dance. Whoever the man is, he’s a fool not to have noticed you.’
To his surprise, the compliment did not please her. ‘Do you know me so well then after a few days’ acquaintance?’
‘I’ve known you far longer than that.’ His tone was sharper now, sensing an argument coming and warming to it. When it came to discussing herself, she was prickly, defensive. ‘We played together as children.’
That brought a flush to her face. ‘Please don’t remember it. We chased you and Preston. There was very little playing involved. We must have been very annoying little girls. A past acquaintance does not require you to say things you don’t mean.’
How do you know I don’t mean them? He was tempted to say the words for the sake of the debate, but where the words would please another sort of woman, the response would only insult Claire. She was too smart for such elementary banter. She would not accept empty flattery. Most women would. Cecilia Northam certainly would. She ate up compliments like chocolate. He kept her well supplied with both. It was the simplest way to keep her in good spirits. He had enough experience with women to know he should quit while he was ahead.
Jonathon made his bow, determined to leave before he could lose the argument entirely. ‘Think what you like, Miss Welton, I shall look forward to seeing you tonight.’
Jonathon had asked her to dance! Not even the knowledge that the request had come from some notion he harboured about helping her could diminish Claire’s good spirits. She stood on the sidelines of the Griffin ball with her friends, fairly bristling with energy at the prospect and feeling pretty in the most recent of Evie’s re-made creations: delicate cream lace discreetly highlighting the elegance of her olive silk—a gown that had not lived up to its potential with its old black trimmings and higher neckline.
Around them, gentlemen flocked to ladies, filling in the tiny dance cards that hung from delicate wrists while their own cards remained woefully unpopulated except for the usual. Preston had scrawled his name on an obligatory country set. May’s brother always did his duty as did a distant cousin or two of Evie’s, but it was nothing like the traffic of gentlemen gathered around Cecilia and her coterie of young ladies, all of them deemed the ton’s finest flowers. She’d gathered them all to her and Claire felt a brief stab of envy. What would it be like to be sought after? Adored by the masses? Ladies eager to see what you wore? Gentlemen hanging on every word? She knew it wasn’t well done of her to be selfish and covetous, especially when she had chosen this path. After her less-than-successful debut, she’d chosen not to engage society. If society now chose not to engage with her, it was merely following her lead.
A horrid thought took her. What if Jonathon followed that lead? What if he’d changed his mind and thought better of dancing with her? The old insecurities, born of a miserable proposal, and a cruel girl’s prank, flooded back. What if he’d taken one look at Cecilia Northam this evening and decided he had better things to do and better people to spend the evening with? That was the problem with re-engaging, she had to face those old demons.
‘Miss Welton, you look particularly lovely this evening.’ Suddenly Jonathon was there, standing before her, bending over her hand, elegant in his dark evening clothes, his smile warm as his errant lock of hair fell forward, the imperfection serving to make him look more handsome.
‘Mr Lashley, good evening.’ Her smile was so wide she could feel it at the far corners of her face. He had not forgotten her.
‘I would like to request the honour of a dance. That is, if you have any left?’ His eyes glanced expectantly to where her card hung from her wrist.
‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’ There’s plenty to pick from. She watched as he wrote his name next to the fifth dance of the night, a waltz, and tried to stay cool while her insides were a crazy mess of excitement. Jonathon was going to waltz with her! Surely that alone was worth the cost of actively rejoining polite society.
‘Is your young man here?’ Jonathon leaned in conspiratorially, the sandalwood of his toilette captivating her. For a moment the reference confused her. Then she remembered.
‘Um, yes.’ Standing right in front of me, actually.
‘Then perhaps we should take a stroll about the ballroom before our dance.’ Jonathon smiled and offered her his arm. He gave her a friendly wink. ‘We can practise our French.’
* * *
‘This was actually a very good idea, Mr Lashley,’ Claire said as they concluded their rotation of the room. She’d relaxed, falling easily into the role of instructor as they strolled.
Jonathon laughed. ‘I am known to have good ideas on occasion.’
‘I got to see you in your native habitat. You did well. Your French is coming along nicely,’ Claire complimented. He had done so well, in fact, that it had given her other ideas for improving their instruction.
‘My native habitat? You make me sound like a zoo exhibit.’ His eyes twinkled as he teased her.
‘I don’t mean to. Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you uncomfortable in any setting.’ The words were out before she could take them back for being too bold. He seemed to bring the boldness out in her without even trying. Maybe he even brought out the crazy.
He acknowledged the words with a nod, his eyes losing some of their shine. ‘You are too kind. I suppose a ballroom is my native habitat these days. I spend enough time in them.’ She wondered if he would have said more if the orchestra hadn’t chosen that moment to strike up for the fifth dance. ‘I believe that’s our cue, Miss