Northam, blonde and regal in a gown identical in colour and cut to hers—her dream gown, worn by another. Not just any other, but a girl poised to be a Diamond of the First Water. Now that girl stood ten paces away, facing her not unlike a duellist.
‘Very pretty, Claire, but even so, I wear it better. Pink is more my colour than yours.’
Cecilia fired first and the words were deadly. Everyone had laughed. People had backed off, leaving her alone to face Cecilia. Only Claire hadn’t faced it. Young and unprepared, Claire had fled.
Claire opened her eyes, regretting for the thousandth time her choice that night. She’d fled and let the incident become her legacy. Now she was stuck with it. It would have to be overcome, only there was so much more of it to overcome. That moment had defined her. She’d made choices and those choices had changed her.
She’d withdrawn from society and now she wanted to re-engage. In order to do that, she would have to face her fears, have to face Cecilia. The road back, the road to Jonathon, was through Cecilia Northam. Claire might have been brave enough once, but now? She didn’t know. She should have gone back in, faced whatever scrutiny was thrown her way and got it over with.
Nothing will change until we do. Could she change again? She wished with all her heart she’d never left the ballroom that night.
* * *
Claire hadn’t returned to the ballroom. He’d been watching long enough to conclude she wasn’t coming back. The realisation stole some of the excitement from the evening. Jonathon excused himself from the group he was with and sought the relative quiet of the hall. Anyone out there was too busy with their own concerns to pay him much mind and that was fine with him. He was poor company at the moment; restless and suddenly dissatisfied with the evening. He gave a short nod to an acquaintance just arriving and kept moving before the man could engage him. He didn’t feel particularly social at the moment.
Why did it matter if Claire hadn’t returned? He’d danced with her. His self-imposed duty was done. Perhaps, even now, she was dancing with her suitor. He could devote his evening to Cecilia without interruption. But was it really a duty if it was self-imposed? No one had made him dance with her. He’d wanted to. He’d offered. And he’d enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. She’d actually looked at him when they danced instead of peering over his shoulder to see who was watching them.
Cecilia constantly looked around the room and whispered a social commentary in his ear. ‘Amelia Parks is wearing yellow—why does she persist? It’s such an awful colour for her...makes her look sallow, and she needs all the help she can get or she’ll lose Robert Farley. Bertie Bagnold is dancing with Miss Jellison again. I think he’ll offer for her soon. She can’t expect to do better...’
The comparison was poorly done of him and not for the first time. He’d held Cecilia up to Claire Welton earlier in the garden. Cecilia Northam was all he’d been raised to desire in a mate; lovely—there was none more beautiful if a man preferred the idea that beauty was defined as blonde and blue eyed; socially astute—she was perhaps the most well-informed young woman in any ballroom. She knew who was courting whom, who would be successful and who would fail, she knew what to wear, how and when to wear it. She would never embarrass him at any occasion, never contradict him in public, unlike a certain sherry-eyed miss.
But in private, she could be petulant. He’d been raised to understand that was the nature of women, too. His father had suggested as much with a weary sigh. It was the price men paid for a hostess, someone to grace their table, make guests feel at ease, run their homes, raise their children and ensure the continuance of their line. In exchange, a man offered that woman his home, his title, his money, his name, his patience, for the rest of his life. It was difficult to imagine Claire fitting that image. She would be empathetic, listening carefully and contributing a thoughtful opinion. He laughed at himself. His father would be quick to disabuse him of such a fantasy.
Marriage in the echelons of the ton simply wasn’t meant to be that way. It was meant to be a compromise, a trading of tasks and goods. It was interesting to note what was left off that list; neither offered the other loyalty, fidelity, affection, devotion, care. The old question that had plagued him raised itself again—shouldn’t marriage be more? He’d been thinking about that often lately. It was probably due to the social pressure he was under.
Lord Belvoir had stopped by at the club yesterday to subtly talk about Cecilia and his posting to Vienna. It had all appeared very casual, but Jonathon knew better. There were expectations in that direction. A wife was essential to a diplomat abroad, especially in a city like Vienna where navigating the social whirl was the key to political success.
He needed a wife by August, just as he needed oral fluency in French, one more thing to check off his packing list. Thinking of it that way seemed so impersonal. While his valet was busy acquiring trunks and clothing, he was supposed to be busy acquiring French and a wife, sa femme. Claire would be proud of him for thinking in French.
‘Lashley, there you are!’ Cecilia crossed the hall with purpose and latched on to his arm, a bright smile on her face. ‘The supper dance is coming up and I didn’t want to miss it.’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial low tone. ‘It’s my favourite time of night, because I get you all to myself.’ He remembered how it had once felt to hear her utter those words and look up at him with those eyes—like he’d won a prize. This evening, there was the faintest hint of dread in hearing them, his restlessness raising its head.
When had the thought of Cecilia become tarnished instead of tolerable? Probably when he’d started attaching words like ‘for ever’ and ‘marriage’ to her. Jonathon forced a smile. ‘Do you suppose they’ll have lobster patties?’
She laughed uncertainly at the remark, unsure how to interpret it. Taken literally, it was the question of an idiot. Taken with the slight undertone of sarcasm as he’d intended, it might pass as a dry joke, a commentary on the sameness of every evening. ‘They always have lobster patties.’ Cecilia covered her uncertainty with a bright smile.
His point exactly. There wasn’t a party all Season that didn’t have the required delicacy. Everything was the same: every night, every day, the same routine of clubs and activities until now. This week there’d finally been a crack in the routine: Vienna and Claire. He was in a sour mood. It was unfair to take it out on Cecilia.
He had to stop the negativity. He had to remember Cecilia was part of that dream, too. He needed her on his arm to succeed in Vienna; a pretty hostess who could organise parties and make guests feel welcome; a wife who could run a flawless house and command the servants while still looking like perfection at the head of his table; a wife with strong connections to policy makers in England. He would need all that and more. Going to Vienna was about peace in his time certainly. But it was more than that. It was a chance to know at last what had happened to his brother. For the first time, he’d have the authority and resources to retrace his brother’s last steps.
Jonathon clasped Cecilia’s hand and gave her his best smile to soften the blow. He just needed a night to himself, a night to settle his thoughts. ‘Will you pardon me? I am terrible company this evening. I could not do your sparkling presence justice. I have papers I need to go over for the morning. I’m going to call it an early night.’ He let go and walked away without looking back. His native habitat could do without him for a while.
‘You left the ball. Early. Not long after we danced.’ The words brought Claire to an abrupt halt in the garden, forcing Jonathon to stop beside her. After speaking French for the past hour, the English words sounded markedly out of place, almost jarringly
