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 so. But perhaps more jarring was the subject matter. They’d been practising a conversation about flowers to give Jonathon a chance to use his vocabulary of colours and adjectives. This conversational topic was definitely a non sequitur.
‘I’m surprised you noticed.’ She played with the soft petals of a rose, idly stroking its velvety surface and trying not to look at Jonathon. It was difficult looking at him today, remembering their dance, the heavenly feel of his hand at her back guiding her through the patterns, and then Cecilia’s cruel words ruining the most delightful waltz she’d ever experienced. The girl who was meant to wear Evie’s new dresses would not be bothered by any of it. But the girl she was out of those dresses couldn’t ignore the words.
‘No worries. I left early, too. Shh... Don’t tell anyone.’ Jonathon’s voice was a conspirator’s whisper, friendly laughter humming beneath the surface of his words. ‘Your friends came back in from wherever you had all gone, but you weren’t with them.’ There was a spark in his eye. This time she heard the teasing in his voice. ‘Might I hope our dance bore fruit?’
If you count sour lemons. Your soon-to-be fiancée reminded me our dance was a charity project. But that clearly was not what he was referring to. It took her a moment to understand his meaning. Ah, he meant the ‘suitor’ she was trying to impress.
When she hesitated, he became concerned. ‘I hope your gentleman wasn’t upset?’
‘No, he wasn’t upset.’ Definitely true. Jonathon hadn’t appeared fazed by their dance one way or another, and why would he be?
Jonathon seemed perplexed by her answer, however. It was clearly not the outcome he’d expected. ‘Did he see us dancing? And he didn’t whisk you off to the terrace to politely stake his claim on your attentions before he lost you to another?’
The image was so ridiculous the laughter slipped out before she could stop it. ‘Good heavens, what sort of life do you imagine I lead? I hardly have a dance card full of jealous suitors vying for my attentions.’
‘You are sure he saw us dancing?’
‘Yes.’
