The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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His hand gripped the material of her skirts. It would be the work of a moment to have his hand behind them, the work of a few moments more to slide his fingers into her wet place and give her the pleasure her body was craving.
There was a cough behind him and Claire gave a gasp, her gaze hurtling to a spot over his shoulder, her cheeks flaming in mortification while the shopkeeper launched into a torrent of French.
‘Mon Dieu! Est-ce pas un bordel! Sortir, prendre votre amour ailleurs.’
Honestly, as they hurriedly gathered up Claire’s hat and left money for their purchases, Jonathon couldn’t tell if the man was genuinely offended or if he simply had to put up a pro forma protest because one really should not devour another’s mouth or body in a public establishment. There was no getting around it. That was precisely what he and Claire had been doing. Together.
That kiss had been about as ‘two way’ as it got and he refused to feel ashamed over it. He ushered Claire out of the store as if they’d done nothing wrong and very properly bid the shopkeeper adieu. The shopkeeper glared at them, but Jonathon merely laughed as the door swung shut behind them. He’d not had nearly that much fun in ages. For the first time, in a long time, the smile he wore was there by choice instead of force.
Claire’s face was blazing by the time he pulled the curricle away from the kerb. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his head.
‘What are you sorry about, Claire? Kissing me? Or getting caught?’
‘Getting caught, of course.’ Claire blushed even deeper, completely flustered once she realised what she’d said. The blush made her beautiful, a woman admitting to her passions. Would she look that way lying beneath him? Sated and replete from lovemaking? God, how he wanted to know. His body was rock hard from the wanting.
Jonathon laughed, steering the team into the traffic.
‘Aren’t you sorry?’ Claire persisted.
‘No, absolutely not.’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘However, having said that, you do understand there’s no good way for a man to answer the question?’ He lifted his eyebrows and pierced her with a direct look. ‘This afternoon was a most pleasant revelation. I’ve discovered I can speak French and you, Claire Welton, are a wild soul indeed. Only one question remains: where shall we go tomorrow?’ That was a lie. There were more questions that needed answering, like the one he’d asked her before the shopkeeper had interrupted them.
‘I shall have to think about that,’ Claire replied, her eyes dancing, her earlier mortification giving way to the hilarity and adventure of the situation. ‘It’s not every day a girl gets expelled from a bookshop for kissing Jonathon Lashley. I can’t imagine what sort of encore would top today’s excursion.’
‘I can, if you’d let me show you.’ It was a bold, wicked thing to say, but then again she’d kissed him. He was not the only interested party. ‘Will you promise me something? Save me two dances tonight and we can discuss it then.’
Claire raised a cocky eyebrow, willing to play the game. ‘Tomorrow’s excursion or the pleasure of kissing you?’
‘Both. I don’t recall saying they were mutually exclusive.’ He gave her a meaningful look. ‘Two dances, Claire. There will be no more running out on me.’
Two dances! He’d pledged the little bitch two dances. Cecilia fumed with angry tears smarting in her eyes from the sidelines. She’d caught sight of Claire’s dance card quite by contrived accident earlier in the evening when they’d passed in the retiring room. Claire’s card was fuller than usual, but that hadn’t been the surprise. The surprise had been seeing Jonathon’s name in bold letters printed on the card not once, but twice!
Twice! Twice was the maximum dances a gentleman could offer to a lady. It was the number Jonathon reserved for her. To offer that many dances to Claire somehow made Claire, an adequately dressed wallflower, equal to her, Cecilia Northam, a diamond of the first water, a woman destined to be the next Countess of Oakdale. Heaven forbid! It was not to be borne. Jonathon was hers and he needed reminding of it. Claire did, too.
Just look at them! She couldn’t help but notice the pair of them flying by on the dance floor, Claire in a lovely lilac and a beatific smile on her face, Jonathon laughing down at her as if the little wallflower had said something witty. He looked as though he was enjoying himself. Immensely. There was an easiness, a tenderness when he looked at Claire. Maybe Anne was right and he had kissed her, after all. She’d prefer to believe Anne was just being spiteful with her news. But seeing them like this, it was hard to dismiss Anne’s comment as complete heresy.
She twirled her champagne glass between her fingers. Signing up for two dances was one thing. Getting both of those dances was another. Lilac was a lovely colour, but it showed water stains. Badly.
* * *
‘Have you decided?’ Jonathon whispered, swinging her through a turn. ‘Where shall our next adventure take place?’
‘The French market tomorrow near Fitzrovia.’ She’d decided that afternoon, not long after he’d dropped her off. He would have a chance to barter and argue. Haggling with the vendors would force him to think on his feet. There could be no script like today. Anticipating the conversations would only get him so far. His wits would have to do the rest.
‘I like the challenge of that.’ Jonathon smiled his approval and she nearly melted. She didn’t tell him the rest—that there would be handwritten signs at the stalls, just a few words at the most at a time. She was hoping to trick him into reading without thinking in the hopes that the spontaneity and informality of the setting would break through what was left of his performance anxiety.
‘Good.’ She beamed up at him. ‘I’ll bring a shopping list and a basket.’
‘And our other adventure, Claire? I would like to walk with you in the garden tonight.’ His voice dropped, husky and private at her ear, his hand tightening on her back to draw her closer.
She didn’t feign ignorance. She knew precisely what adventure he meant. She’d thought of nothing else since he’d first uttered his rather provocative suggestion: that he could show her great pleasure. ‘You know that’s the very sort of invitation our mothers counsel us to reject.’
‘Only because they fear you will be ruined.’ He appealed to her intellect, her sense of logic. ‘What if I told you I could give you the pleasure and leave your honour intact? There would be no risk to you.’
‘Except discovery.’ There was always a risk.
‘I would never allow that to happen, Claire.’ He whispered his potent arguments with the skill of Lucifer in the garden. It would be so easy to believe him because she wanted to believe him, wanted—how had he put it?—to see what lay on the other side of this. Not just because she was curious and untried, but because it was him doing the asking. She wanted to see what was on the other side of this with him.
She lowered her lashes and flirted. ‘Why, Jonathon Lashley, I never imagined you as a rake.’ She felt alive with him, like she was once again her true self—a woman who spoke her mind, a woman who reached out for what she wanted.
‘That makes two of us.’ His voice was warm at her ear. ‘I never imagined you a wallflower. When you were younger, you were always too vibrant, too alive for that. I thought for certain you would take the ton by storm, too much for any man.’ His lips brushed her ear. ‘Will you come alive for me, again, Claire?’
The dance was ending. She had to make a decision. He had quite deliberately manoeuvred them to finish the dance near the French doors leading outside. ‘We need only to slip outside, Claire. The night is warm, the stars are bright.’ To walk, to talk, to kiss, to touch, to rekindle what had flared to life between them in the bookshop. What if this was her only chance? What if the urgency which had driven him to her