listened to. At least that was her experience in the few, brief interactions she’d had with him over the years. They hardly qualified as conversations, more like extended greetings. Unlike other men who merely went through the polite motions demanded by society before moving on to the women they were truly interested in, Jonathon had always taken time to ask a question and then listen to the answer. She’d understood the attraction of Beatrice’s lover too well. Listening was a vastly underrated commodity. It made one feel they had value.
She and May had just left one group and were moving on to another when she felt it: Jonathon’s gaze on her. She looked up, allowing their eyes to meet for the briefest of seconds. A small smile played on his lips, giving her the impression his smile was for her alone and Claire’s pulse rocketed as she looked away.
It was a silly, unwarranted reaction. She wanted to stand out to him, the way Cecilia Northam apparently did. She wanted to be the one with her hand resting lightly on his arm as she looked up into that handsome face with its deep-blue eyes and sharp-cut lines.
‘Come on.’ May tugged at her arm. ‘Let’s go speak with his group. We haven’t visited them yet and later, I have news.’
Claire froze, Old Claire getting the better of New Claire with her new dress and hair. Talk to Jonathon now? ‘No. I couldn’t possibly do that. What would I say?’
She wasn’t really warmed up. She’d just arrived.
‘How about “good evening”? He smiled at you. Take the opening.’ May laughed. It was easy for May to laugh. She didn’t understand. She didn’t get tongue tied every time Jonathon was around. In fact, May was hardly ever tongue tied around anyone. It was her gift and her curse. Where Claire had made herself invisible, May had made herself far too noticeable.
‘No,’ Claire insisted. ‘Not yet. Let’s wait until after dinner’, when she would have had time to get her conversation up to par with her partner, when she might finally be used to this dress and how it made her feel. May merely smiled, her hidden dimple coming out in the corner of her cheek. That worried her. May hardly ever admitted defeat. Claire had the distinct impression she was being flanked.
A moment later, she knew it. Claire had barely settled into her chair when he spoke. ‘Miss Welton, it’s a pleasure to see you this evening.’
She looked up and met Jonathon’s sharp blue eyes, quite possibly the exact shade of her gown. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ The words tumbled out without her consent, her mind too busy grappling with the fact that he was sitting across from her, too busy to pay attention to what her mouth was doing. Her mind was focused on another heart-stopping fact: He was all hers to look at for the entire meal.
He smiled broadly at her ridiculous words. What lady said such a thing? It was far too bold for a genteel dinner, but that’s what new dresses did—they made one feel as bold their neckline. She looked away, fussing with her napkin to give herself something to do. She would have thought she was used to looking at him by now. She’d been doing it most of her life. The logic of familiarity suggested the sensation should have numbed by now, should have faded from the intense pleasure of seeing him into something more comfortable. But it hadn’t. If anything, it was sharper. She was acutely aware of every angle of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curving planes of his cheeks when he smiled, the firm sensuality of his mouth. That last was a wicked thought indeed to entertain at the table.
Claire turned her thoughts to other, less wanton ideas like revenge. She shot May a knowing glance across the white-clothed expanse. Her instincts were right. Either through fate or finagling—Claire highly suspected the latter—that minx of a friend had engineered the seating arrangement. She gave May a nudge with her foot under the table to acknowledge the ploy. I am on to you, May Worth.
But there was nothing she could do about it now. Claire was not going to get her reprieve. There would be no waiting until after dinner to speak with Jonathon. If she knew May, the plan wouldn’t stop here. May had something more in mind to get her noticed. The thought was both exhilarating and agitating. She wished May had made her a party to the plan. No, wait, she didn’t. If she’d known ahead of time, she would only have worried. All she could do now was stay alert and watch for her chance. She simply had to apply herself.
Right now, all it seemed she could apply herself to was avidly staring as the first course was set in front of her. Jonathon had the most intriguing lock of errant hair that fell to the side, escaping any efforts to pomade it into place. She was doing such a good job of staring, she missed her conversation partner’s overture.
But in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered how many times her partner repeated himself. Her attention was claimed elsewhere, so it was no surprise during the fish that her ears cringed when she heard the butchered word ‘bonjure’ from across the table. Claire responded out of reflex and years of study, ‘You mean bohnzhooh. The French don’t pronounce the “r” strongly at the end of bonjour.’
Jonathon’s blue gaze landed on her, his handsome mouth smiling politely, easily, as if he was not offended at the correction or the interruption. Claire shut her mouth in horror. She wanted to melt into a pile of blancmange beneath the table. She might have if May hadn’t kicked her, a rather painful reminder that she would not shrink from the world any longer, not after Evie had re-made her gown, not after Beatrice had done up her hair, not after May had done whatever it was May had done to make this possible.
Tonight, she was representing all of them. She had to be brave. But, oh, sweet heavens, it was hard to do when she’d just corrected Jonathon Lashley, future diplomat. In public. At a dinner table in front of eighteen other guests. That was certainly one way to get his attention, although probably not the best way. Oh, dear Lord, people were starting to stare.
* * *
‘Bohnzhooh,’ Jonathon amended, acknowledging the correction. The quickest way to dispel unwanted attention was to persuade onlookers there was nothing to see. There was no show here. ‘I appreciate the opportunity for improvement.’ But why had she done it? And why here at the table of all places? His eyes remained riveted on the woman across from him.
Miss Welton had all of his attention now, whereas before, her dress had held most of it. He’d noticed the dress the moment she’d walked in this evening, but now he was noticing her. A fact that was strange in itself. She’d never been particularly noticeable before. He knew of her, most certainly. She was a friend of Preston’s sister and a neighbour to the Worths in the country. She’d been out for several Seasons and their paths crossed sporadically in London at larger catch-all affairs. She’d always struck him as a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. So he hadn’t. Noticed. Not really. Not until tonight.
She was different tonight. She’d made a rather subtle but grand entrance in her blue dress. He was sure the ladies had a sophisticated word for the colour, something more descriptive than simply blue. But to him it was blue—the colour of an English summer sky and on her it was positively stunning, although not precisely the shade or cut worn by a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps this was Miss Welton’s way of announcing she was seriously hunting a husband this Season? Or perhaps she already had one? In his experience, women dressed well when there was a man to impress.
What a woman didn’t do was correct a man at dinner and yet Miss Welton had, drawing an uncharacteristic amount of attention to herself in the process. Part of him wanted to applaud her boldness. Miss Welton was certainly coming out of her shell. Well done her. Although he wished she hadn’t chosen to do it with a remark about his French. Still, she wasn’t to be blamed. She couldn’t know it was a touchy subject with him at the moment. The French didn’t pronounce all the letters in their words, but apparently that didn’t stop him from doing it and doing it wrong. Wrong
