can survive whatever firestorm her father sends your way. It’s a big maybe, though. Are you willing to lose the Vienna post for Claire?’
‘Put that way, choosing Claire seems the height of idiocy.’ Jonathon expelled a tired breath. He’d known this already. It was an equation he’d been through countless times in the last several years as he’d battled back from the wound, from the grief of losing Thomas not just once, but over and over again when false leads didn’t play out. It was more than the post he was risking. The post merely symbolised the things he desired: a legacy of peace, a chance to go back and find out the truth about Thomas, a chance for closure on the past and the beginning of a future at last.
Preston shook his head, a dark shadow crossing his face. He leaned forward and placed one hand on Jonathon’s leg in encouragement. ‘Not if you love her, not if you plan to fall all the way.’ It made Jonathon wonder what Preston knew about such falls. Love was not something Preston ever spoke about. Jonathon was not even aware Preston had experienced it. His friend was a closed book when it came to his personal relationships. ‘And Jonathon,’ Preston added, ‘with a girl like Claire, I think there’s only one way to fall.’
Jonathon nodded, hearing the warning and the endorsement. Preston would support him no matter what he chose, even if that choice was Claire, but he was not to ruin Claire, not to toy with her. If he pursued her, it had to be in earnest. So be it. Perhaps it was best Preston didn’t know about last night. Or the bookshop. Or what he intended to do next. Jonathon called for ink and paper, a renewed sense of purpose coursing through him.
Preston shot him a quizzical look as he began to pen a note. ‘What are you doing?’
Jonathon gave him a wily grin. ‘Falling.’ And the ground was coming up fast. He prayed the landing wouldn’t kill him. But that was a question for which he had no answer.
* * *
Jonathon had become something of an unanswered question these last weeks. Cecilia plucked at the blossoms of Jonathon’s bouquet where it sat on her writing desk. She was losing him when she’d been so certain of her victory. She looked out over the garden. True, there was no formal agreement between them. Nothing bound Jonathon to her beyond her own personal expectations. But she’d thought Jonathon had informally agreed with her on those expectations. He danced with her, he sent her flowers, he stood at her side, escorted her to events on occasion. They were invited to the same places.
Now, all those safe assumptions 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.’
