The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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had become uncertain and uncertainty made Cecilia nervous. She’d admit it privately to herself, but she’d never say it out loud to her friends. No one could know the great Cecilia Northam, reigning beauty of the ton, was unsure of herself or of Jonathon Lashley.
But this was uncharted territory to be sure. She wasn’t used to being nervous. She was always very sure of herself and even more sure of others. She was good at creating a desired response. At least she used to be. The ice-pink gown had not gone over as well as hoped. Jonathon had told her the gown looked lovely, but it hadn’t stopped him from dancing with Claire Welton, again. And again. And again.
The phenomena had happened often enough that everyone had taken note. People were starting to talk. She’d heard the whispers about how pretty Claire looked, how the girl had blossomed this Season. The gossips were starting to nod and smile sagely to themselves and say insipid things like ‘third time’s a charm it seems’.
The gossips said it was amazing what a nice dress could do for a girl, but Cecilia knew better. While it was true that Claire was dressing better, and her eyes sparked with a certain lively light, it wasn’t a dress that put the sparkle there. It was Lashley that made Claire pretty. Without him, Claire would still be Claire, wallflower extraordinaire, three Seasons since her debut and still alone.
It was proof of just how exquisite Jonathon was if he could get a girl like Claire to bloom. There was no man more attractive, no man better mannered, no man who danced as well, fenced or rode as well, spoke as well. A man like that deserved a woman like herself, his equal in perfection. It was an obvious conclusion to her. But even spilled champagne had not been enough to make the conclusion obvious to Jonathon.
Last night had proven to her it was no longer enough to simply remind Jonathon of what she offered. She had to show him what Claire lacked. The best way to do that was to show him her and Claire together and she knew just how to do it. Her parents were hosting a small, intimate and exclusive musicale featuring a renowned Italian soprano. She would invite Claire and Jonathon could see the two of them side by side. He would come to the logical conclusion. Claire couldn’t possibly complete with her face to face.
Cecilia began to pen the invitation, a horrible thought forming. If Claire was nothing without Jonathon, what would she, herself, be if she lost him? The answer haunted her: A girl three Seasons out with no prospect. A girl like Claire. Her hand shook. A blob of ink blotted the clean invitation and she had to start again. In those moments, Claire was not just the competition, she became the enemy and enemies needed to be conquered.
The invitations arrived simultaneously, delivered to her room by no one less than her mother, who handed them over with an enquiring smile. ‘Two notes, for you personally, Claire.’ Her mother stepped inside her room. Claire couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been there. Usually, they met in the rooms downstairs for meals, for receiving, or in the carriage as they made calls or shopped.
Claire scanned the notes, both still sealed. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of one of them. Jonathon. The second one from him today. Would it be more bad news? He’d not come to his lesson and the weather had ruined the chance to go to the French market even if he had intended to go. Last night had raised more questions than answers as to what lay between them. She could tell herself all she wanted that last night was for fantasy only, that nothing could come of it. But that didn’t stop her from wishing otherwise. The other was a woman’s hand, but she didn’t recognise it. An awkward silence full of expectation began to grow when she made no move to open the notes. Perhaps her mother would take the silence as a hint she wished to open her notes in privacy and leave?
The hint conspired against her. Instead of leaving, her mother entrenched, a most unusual strategy for a woman who traditionally favoured a laissez-faire approach to life. Her mother was a calm woman, not easily flustered or bothered by the goings on of the world. ‘Is that one from Mr Lashley?’ Her mother took a seat on the edge of her bed, clearly signalling she was not going to be dismissed until the missives were read.
Claire did not want to open that note particularly, not when there was a good chance it was either a request to sneak away to one of their French locations or to apologise for any untoward behaviour or worse! Dear lord, she hoped Jonathon wouldn’t be so brash as to put any reference to last night or the bookshop into a note that would compromise him. If her mother knew he’d been here, and what they had done, there would be no explaining it. Claire thought quickly, her mind racing through her options. If she opened the note, her mother would want to see it. Given the events of the last two days, it was unlikely the note contained innocuous information. Giving her mother the note was out of the question, but she could give her the truth, although she would rather give her mother neither. The less her mother knew about Jonathon the better. Her mother had been the most disappointed when things had soured with Sheriden.
Claire slid the unopened note under a jar on her vanity, establishing that she was saving the exact details for a private moment. ‘Yes, I believe it is.’ She offered the truth as casually as possible.
‘French lessons seem to be going well,’ her mother said vaguely.
‘Yes.’ Claire decided to keep her answers short and terse.
‘Your Season seems to be going decidedly better than usual now that you’ve taken an interest in it.’ Her mother smiled. ‘I told you it just needed a little management on your end. Mr Lashley has been dancing with you quite a lot. I don’t suppose dancing is part of the French lessons?’
‘Yes, Jonathon seems to have made a habit of it, although I’ve assured him it’s not necessary.’ In her attempt to treat the remark lightly, she made her mistake.
Her mother pounced. ‘Jonathon, is it? Have you two become as close as all that? First names, is, well...’ She fluttered a hand.
‘It’s nothing, Mother.’ Claire leaned back against her vanity, her hands gripping the edge against the blatant lie. He’d kissed her in the Rosedale garden. She’d kissed him in a French bookshop. She could still feel his hands on her, the strength of his body as he’d come up behind her, his mouth at her ear whispering decadent words. ‘Claire, I don’t want to read.’ He’d put his hand on her breast. He’d climbed a trellis for her at midnight, she’d had her hand on his manly core in the very bed her mother now sat on. What they’d done, what they’d become wasn’t exactly nothing even if what existed between them lay undefined.
Her mother was not satisfied. ‘Are the flowers downstairs that arrive like clockwork nothing either?’
‘He is appreciative. He wants this position in Vienna badly.’ She hoped that was a lie, too. She wanted to believe last night was more than a show of appreciation.
‘Flowers, dancing, he even called at Lady Morrison’s to enquire as to your whereabouts.’ Her mother built her case, her soft, doe eyes growing shrewd. Lady Morrison’s would have been the day he’d come to Evie’s and waited for a half-hour downstairs, but Claire kept that to herself—voicing it wouldn’t help her argument. Her mother wasn’t done. ‘It seems like a lot of unnecessary trouble for French lessons, no matter how badly he wants the post.’ Her mother paused. ‘He’s not the only one going to a lot of trouble these days. I see other things, too, Claire. I see you, looking beautiful in altered gowns. I see you taking an interest in your appearance and in society. You haven’t complained at all this Season about going out. Usually by now I have to pry you out of the house. And I see why. If a handsome man like Mr Lashley was waiting to dance with me, I’d not want to stay home either.’
‘We enjoy one another’s company,’ Claire prevaricated. ‘I wouldn’t make too much of it.’
‘And slipping off to destinations unknown in the middle of the afternoon without a chaperon?’ There was a quiet steel in her mother’s voice now as she dropped the most damning piece of evidence. The irony was that the adventure had been for learning purposes, it had simply turned in to something more. Her mother rose and paced to the window overlooking the garden.