The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’ His grin was infectious as his hand slid to her back, firm and confident as he guided her into position.
Claire felt a moment of panic creep up. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve waltzed.’ Not since her debut ball, in fact. What if she tripped? What if she stepped on his toes? What if she didn’t remember the steps?
‘You think too much.’ Jonathon laughed, reading her every thought. ‘I won’t let you fall.’
‘Easy for you to say!’ Claire whispered frantically. ‘You waltz every night.’
‘You could, too.’ Jonathon arched a meaningful eyebrow as the music began. He moved them into the dance, his hand signalling her to move with him. Hesitantly, her feet followed, her body followed, picking up the rhythm. Jonathon made it easy to remember. He waltzed as well as he did everything else, effortlessly making adjustments.
‘You’re doing splendidly! You’re a wonderful dancer.’ Jonathon took them through the first turn. ‘Why don’t you dance more often?’
It was a good question. It was hard to remember why when she was whirling away in Jonathon’s arms. Dancing was liberating. The first time she’d waltzed, she’d felt as if she were flying. She felt that way tonight, only better. This wasn’t flying, it was soaring. ‘I don’t know. I just stopped.’
His eyes held hers, bright and merry. ‘Maybe it’s time to “just start” again.’
Maybe it was. But dancing required partners and partners required calling attention to oneself. She’d given up drawing attention years ago. It was too risky. It would have to be enough to enjoy this moment for the singular event it was, something she didn’t expect would ever happen again.
Jonathon was an exquisite partner in all ways. Never once did his eyes stray from her, never did his conversation falter, or his grip slacken. His interest stayed entirely fixed on her. Even in a room crowded with people, there was an intimacy to his attentions.
It was over all too soon. The dance ended and she could think of no way to keep him with her. He’d already walked with her, danced with her. He returned her to the sidelines and took his leave with a promise to see her the next day. He gave her another flash of that dazzling smile and was gone. It was all very proper. What had she expected? Did she think he’d claim a second dance? Take her in for supper? Spend the rest of the evening practising French as they strolled among the guests?
They were silly notions when he had Cecilia waiting for him and other obligations requiring his attention. For a man like him, a man with ambitions, these evenings were for work as well as pleasure. There were people to meet and to impress, networks to be established. Europe to be saved. Claire smiled to herself. How many others knew what dreams he harboured? It felt good to think that for a little while, maybe she knew a piece of Jonathon no one else did. It could be her secret.
Where did that leave her? Considering the weighty matters that occupied his mind, she wasn’t sure where she stood on his list of priorities. How had he viewed tonight’s dance? Was she another piece of work he had to conduct or was she part of the pleasure? Something he chose to do or had to do? She didn’t want to think about it for fear the answer would tarnish the perfection of the moment. She wanted to be part of the pleasure for him, as he’d been for her.
May tugged at her hand. ‘You’re practically glowing so it must have been as good as it looked. Come to the retiring rooms and tell us all about it.’
The girls were excited, talking over each over on the trip down the hall. ‘You looked beautiful, Claire. No one could take their eyes off the pair of you!’ Evie exclaimed.
‘Even Cecilia,’ May offered pointedly. ‘She left the ballroom halfway through.’
‘Even Lashley. His eyes were on you the whole time.’ Beatrice’s voice was wistful.
‘He has that way about him. He knows how to make everyone feel special, not just me.’ Claire tried to establish some perspective. As much as she’d like to believe in the romance her friends were intent on seeing, she had to be practical or she’d get hurt by her own fantasy. ‘It was only a dance.’
‘She’s right, you know.’ Crisp tones sounded from the doorway of the retiring rooms. Cecilia floated in, her entourage of debutantes filing in behind her. She sat down in front of a vanity and studied her hair. ‘Good evening, Claire. It’s good to see at least one of you has any sense.’ She smiled in the mirror and Claire felt her neck prickle in warning. Claire fought the urge to leave the room before she found out what the warning was for, but Beatrice gripped her hand, a clear message that they would not be chased away.
‘My dear Lashley is terribly good with people. He can charm anyone.’ Cecilia reached in to her reticule for a small comb, everything about her suggesting this was merely a casual conversation. She used the gesture to study Claire. ‘Olive is a much better colour on you than pink. Much quieter. I do think your style is improving.’
Claire flushed. With just a few words, Cecilia brought it all rushing back: the humiliation, the cut, the laughter, as if it had happened yesterday and not three years ago.
‘Make no mistake, you looked lovely with Lashley tonight, but he can make anyone look good.’ Cecilia glanced around at the group of girls with her, making sure she had all their attention. ‘I just love wearing Lashley. He’s my new favourite colour.’ She paused to let the girls giggle in adoration of her wit. She tilted her head to one side, catching Claire in the crosshairs of a considering glance. Claire stiffened at the attention, wishing she didn’t feel such a thread of fear, that she was somehow finer, braver, than Cecilia’s threats. ‘Well done, Claire. If I was only going to dance once in an evening, I’d choose him, too.’
Cecilia laughed, a half-hearted attempt at sounding self-deprecating. ‘What am I saying? I get to dance all the dances I want and I still choose him.’
Claire felt her face burn. She heard Cecilia’s implication. Once again, we’ve chosen the same thing and once again I have triumphed over you, a bluestocking from the country. I looked better in pink and I look better on Jonathon’s arm.
The girls with Cecilia tittered. Cecilia leaned towards them, feigning confidentiality. ‘We’d dance all the dances if society allowed it. As it is, I have to settle for just two until it’s official.’ Cecilia sighed dramatically. Her entourage sighed with her.
Claire wanted to gag. The false sweetness was sickening. Did no one else see through Cecilia’s façade? Worse than the saccharine sweetness was the way she objectified Jonathon, as if he were a prize to be won, a handsome ornament and nothing more.
The girl next to her giggled. ‘You’re so lucky to be marrying him. I wish my father would find me a man just like him instead of gouty old barons.’ Marry him? Was it as final as all that? The words hovered in the air, arrows looking for the target of her heart.
Cecilia tapped the girl lightly on the arm. ‘But that’s impossible, Lizzie,’ she teased. ‘There’s no one quite like Lashley.’ Cecilia gave Claire a sly smile. ‘Isn’t that right, Claire?’
Claire had no answer. She was still reeling from the news. It was one thing to suspect Cecilia was meant for Jonathon. It was another, entirely different and awful thing to hear those speculations voiced so casually out loud from the source itself. It became real, no longer just the purvey of gossips. A punch to the stomach would have been just as effective in knocking the wind from her, the news was that devastating.
‘Why don’t you just shut up?’ Beatrice stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest, her dark eyes hot, looking every inch an avenging Fury. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. No one spoke to Cecilia Northam that way. One word from Cecilia and she could ruin your Season. Claire was living proof of it and she hadn’t even been the one to copy the dress, Cecilia had.
‘What did you say to me?’ Cecilia rose slowly from the stool in front of the vanity, eyes narrowed for combat.
‘I