The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
good afternoon.’ He offered Claire his arm. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of taking it, of feeling the flex of his muscles beneath his coat as she lay her hand on his sleeve. ‘Claire, are you ready? My carriage is outside.’
The adventure moved from theory to practice the moment she took her seat beside him on the curricle. Anyone seeing them here in Mayfair would see that Jonathon had his tiger with them, riding on the shelf in the back. There was nothing odd about a gentleman taking a lady for a drive this time of day, she told herself. Unless, of course, the oddness lay in who was driving whom.
If there was any real danger in their being together it was in the Soho portion of their trip—a gentleman and an unchaperoned, unmarried lady of good breeding out together, alone. But no one would recognise them in the bohemian neighbourhoods bordering the West End.
‘Relax, Claire, what’s the worst that can happen on a jaunt to a bookshop?’ Jonathon teased her as Mayfair fell behind them.
‘People would say you compromised me. We could end up married.’ She voiced the fear that plagued her without thinking.
Jonathon laughed. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. Would that be so horrible? A fate worse than death?’
‘It’s not funny.’ She tried to hold on to her chagrin, but it was useless. Jonathon’s laughter was infectious. Claire felt herself smiling. ‘Still, I wouldn’t want a husband who was forced to marry me. I certainly wouldn’t want a husband who was spineless enough to bow to a silly rule and let it decide the rest of his life.’ Even if it was Jonathon. That might be worse, to know she’d ruined the life of someone she truly cared about.
Jonathon arched a dark eyebrow. ‘Your suitor must be quite the paragon then. Those are high standards.’
‘He’s not a suitor, not in truth, you know that. I told you from the start he hardly notices me.’ Claire paused looking for the right words. ‘He’s more like a wish.’
Jonathon looked over at her, his smile making her stomach flutter. ‘Don’t worry, Claire. We’ll make him notice you yet.’
She doubted it. ‘The wish’ in question had kissed her and hardly noticed. If he hadn’t noticed her then with his mouth on hers, their bodies pressed to one another, she doubted he ever would. She’d merely been a convenient outlet for his desperation. ‘Turn right here, the bookshop should be the next street over.’ It was time to stop daydreaming and start thinking about the outing. ‘We’ll try to speak French the whole time. Don’t worry, I’ll be there if you need me. Just relax. You do very well when you don’t think about it. Remember, we’re looking for a copy of Diderot’s Le Neveu de Rameau.’ At yesterday’s lesson they’d designed and practised a script about what today’s interactions might include. He wouldn’t always have the luxury of preparing a script, but for now it seemed like a good way to ease him into real-life interactions.
Jonathon found a place by the kerb to park the curricle and came around to help her down. His hands lingered at her waist, an energetic grin taking his face. ‘Allez. Que les jeux commencement.’ He was possessed, too, of the same eager brand of anxiousness she was. This would be a real test of what they’d accomplished in her garden and they both wanted him to pass.
She spoke French to him as they walked the short distance to the bookshop, warming up like actors before a show. She didn’t want Jonathon to face the shopkeeper without some practice to ease himself into the situation. If she was right about him having performance anxiety, she didn’t want him freezing up the moment he was under scrutiny. That was what today was about for her, a diagnostic of sorts. How far had he come? Where were his weak points?
The bell over the door jingled and they stepped inside. Jonathon greeted the bookshop owner with a flawless bonjour and asked for the Diderot book, which the shopkeeper found immediately. So far so good. They were off to a nice start, but this only proved he could memorise a script and execute it. Claire had no intention of settling for that. She wouldn’t always be there to write and practise scripts with him.
Claire wandered down an aisle of poetry, engaging the shopkeeper in a discussion. They were off script now and she wanted to see how Jonathon responded, how quickly he could adapt. After a few minutes, the door jingled and the shopkeeper excused himself to help the new customer. Claire selected several slim volumes and headed towards a table in the back where customers could sit and read.
She opened a book to a random page and slid it towards him. ‘Would you read? I think you will like Machaut. He’s considered the last great French poet who was both poet and composer.’
‘Le Remède de Fortune.’ He looked up from the book with a sly grin, never breaking his use of French. ‘Is there a personal message in this for me?’ he teased, his French easy and fluent as he made the offhand remark. His eyes scanned the work and flipped through a few pages. ‘Ah, perhaps your suitor should read this. The hero in our story needs to be taught how to be a good lover before he can succeed with his lady.’ Jonathon wagged his dark eyebrows in play. ‘Perhaps I will take a few notes, too. A man can always improve.’
They laughed a little too loudly, earning a look of censure from the shopkeeper. How had this happened—that she should be sitting in a bookshop, laughing in French with Jonathon Lashley over love poetry? What a difference a few weeks and a few pretty dresses made.
Don’t forget the enormous amount of courage and the urging of your friends. You were against this at the start. You were still protesting it as late as a few days ago, her conscience reminded her.
It hadn’t been as simple as changing her appearance. The first lesson had been a disaster and she’d been nervous during the lessons that had followed, overly conscious of every time he touched her, every time he spoke. It had taken all of her concentration to focus. But now, if one overlooked the ill-fated kiss, there was a comfort between them. When had that sprung up?
‘Est ce-que j’ai deux têtes?’ Do I have two heads? Jonathon dropped his voice to an appropriate whisper. ‘You’re staring.’
‘Pardon.’ Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘And you’re stalling.’ She didn’t want him to break down now. He’d done extraordinarily well on this outing. Maybe she was pushing for too much too soon. She reached to take the book from him. ‘Perhaps I should start.’
* * *
Jonathon watched Claire’s mouth. It was rather convenient that their lessons required it of him. She had the most delicious lips, pink and the bottom lip carried just a hint of sensual fullness to it, promising delight to those who might tempt to drink from that mouth, a promise that was born out in her kiss. Kissing her had been a misstep, though.
He could not bring himself to think of it as a mistake, merely a wonderful misstep. One did not kiss their teachers. Usually because those teachers were male. But also because it blended business with pleasure and it was easy to confuse gratitude over having learned something with other more passionate emotions.
One probably shouldn’t dance with their tutors either for the same reasons. In the last few weeks he’d done both and enjoyed them far more than he should. Just as he was enjoying this outing, which wasn’t really supposed to be an outing. He wasn’t ‘out’ with her, he was on a field trip with his tutor and yet he couldn’t quite convince himself this was the same thing as visiting the botanical gardens with his tutor, Mr Hadley, when he was a young boy. Probably because he wasn’t a boy any more and probably because he hadn’t kissed Mr Hadley or spent countless hours staring at Mr Hadley’s mouth, which as he recalled, had a small wart on the left side. He spent most of the time trying not to look at it. He’d never wondered about Mr Hadley the way he wondered about Claire Welton.
She paused from her reading and he let his question tumble out, in French of course. ‘Why so many languages, Claire?’ He was gratified to see the question startled her, she was always so in control during their lessons, directing their conversations with an enviable coolness.
She stared at him, a little furrow forming between her brows. ‘What does that have to do with Machaut’s