the one thing she thought they would talk about hadn’t been addressed at all. He hadn’t mentioned the kiss once. Claire supposed she ought to be glad. After all, what was there to discuss? But it was still lowering to realise it had been so inconsequential as to not merit comment. Surely, if the kiss had meant something, if it had been intended to alter the nature of their relationship, he would have addressed it? By not mentioning it, they were politely, tacitly, admitting it was a mistake that ought to be put behind them. At least it seemed that Jonathon certainly had. She might have to settle for being Jonathon’s friend, as hard as that might be.
* * *
No one would ever mistake Cecilia Northam for a soft woman. She made sure of it. She was beautiful the way a diamond was beautiful: multi-faceted, sparkling, a dazzling treat to the eyes that came with sharp edges. She was not afraid to cut with words or actions. A lady had to know how to defend herself among the ton. It was an important skill to hone as a debutante as much as the art of flirting or dancing. Some day, the successful flirt would have a husband to defend against the cats of the ton and later children to launch. The fight to protect and to establish would be a successful lady’s lifelong career. Every other woman posed a threat to that success unless they were taken down.
The bloodthirstiness of Cecilia Northam’s outlook would definitely have surprised the girls seated around her as she tried on her new ball gown for a final fitting at the dressmaker. Cecilia took a twirl, liking the feel of the skirt against her ankles. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it will be just the thing to bring Lashley back to your side.’ One of the girls, Anne, fanned herself languidly as if she hadn’t let drop a juicy piece of news. A few others held their breaths and shot Anne a warning look. Cecilia looked at the girls’ responses and knew she had to address the issue immediately. This was touchy ground indeed if they were trying to censor Anne.
She stepped down from the dressmaker’s dais and faced the offender. ‘I was unaware Lashley had to be brought back,’ she said coolly. Of course that was a lie. Lashley’s behaviour had been somewhat troublesome this past week. In a Season comprised of three months, where matches were made in a matter of weeks, a week of erratic behaviour was worrisome indeed. It was hardly something she talked about though. However, hearing the words made the concern real. She was on the verge of reeling Lashley in. She didn’t need anyone smelling blood here at the last.
‘He’s dancing with Claire Welton out of the blue.’ Anne didn’t back down. ‘It seems odd to me that he’s had years to dance with her and hasn’t. But now...’ Her voice trailed off in implication.
Cecilia narrowed her eyes. Was that all? She would enjoy taking Anne down. ‘Claire Welton is nothing. He danced with her out of pity. He’s friends with the brother of one of her friends. It was probably arranged.’ She paused. ‘I forgot you weren’t with us that night, Anne.’
‘Perhaps dancing with her once might be explained as friendly charity, but twice?’ Anne tossed her dark hair with a competitive smirk. ‘They did more than dance at the Rosedale ball last night. He took her out to the garden.’ She paused. ‘Oh, I forgot, you weren’t there,’ she mimicked.
‘Fresh air is not a marriage proposal,’ Cecilia replied in her most unconcerned tone. ‘Heavens, Anne, you’re such a prude. A gentleman and a lady can walk in a garden without it meaning something. Didn’t Viscount Downing take you out to the garden last week?’ The others laughed nervously. Good. She was putting the rebellion down.
‘And kissing?’ Anne shot back with feigned innocence. ‘I suppose that’s of no consequence either?’
Cecilia shot her a thunderous look, but Anne was unrepentant.
‘Don’t kill the messenger, Cece. I’m just telling you what I saw.’
Cecilia relented. She was smart enough to know she couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. Maybe Anne meant well and maybe she meant something more predatory with her remarks, but that would have to wait. The immediate concern was Claire Welton. Anne posed no threat to Lashley, but apparently Claire did—that blue-stocking mouse who’d come out of nowhere this Season with her new dresses. She’d guessed there was a man involved when she’d first seen the gowns. But she’d never guessed those attentions were for Lashley. Claire Welton overstepped herself when she knew Lashley belonged to her. Nor had Cecilia guessed Lashley might be so easily swayed from her side.
She stepped back on to the dais, taking a final spin in the pale ice-pink silk. Anne was right about one thing. This was the perfect gown for getting Lashley back. It was time to defend what was hers. Better yet, it was time to claim it. ‘I think,’ she said out loud to the girls. ‘It is time for Lashley to come up to scratch.’ She would compromise him to the altar if she had to. She was going to be the future Countess Oakdale. Claire Welton and her four languages were not going to stand in her way.
The little issue of propriety and a chaperon wasn’t going to stand in the way of a grand adventure. It had taken some planning on her part and a slight almost-lie to her mother, but Claire had done it. She was going to Evie’s. She just wasn’t going to stay there. Going to Evie’s covered a number of problems, the foremost being the need for her maid to accompany her. Evie only lived a street away and she’d been going to the Milhams for years on her own.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind covering for me?’ Claire asked for the tenth time as they waited for Jonathon in the key garden. She’d lost the fight an hour ago to contain her excitement and she was fairly bristling with unbridled anticipation.
‘It’s only for a few hours,’ Evie insisted, almost as excited as Claire was over the prospect of an illicit adventure. ‘I can manage until you get back. Besides, my mother thinks we’re going to May’s.’
Claire worried her lip. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to get into trouble if anything should go wrong.’ Nothing would though. She’d thought this through and it was only a trip to a little French bookshop in Soho. Bookstores were harmless venues. More was the pity.
‘Do you think he’ll kiss you again?’ Evie asked in a whisper, her cheeks turning pink.
‘No, I doubt a musty old bookshop would do much to spark a man’s ardour.’ Claire gave a small smile and a laugh, but deep down she rather regretted that the bookshop wasn’t a more inspiring venue. It seemed unlikely Jonathon would be encouraged to kiss her again amid the tall aisles of bookcases. ‘He didn’t even mention the first kiss.’ On those grounds, it would take far more than a bookshop to inspire a second one.
‘In that case, maybe you should kiss him?’ Evie suggested quietly. Coming from Evie, the idea was positively shocking. It was the kind of thought Claire expected Beatrice or May to have. But Evie? ‘Bookstores inspire you, Claire. Perhaps you could read to him from a French romance, an old troubadour ballad or some such, and then lean over and just kiss him, nice and soft on the lips, and see what he does. If it’s a little kiss, there’s no harm in it. Now, if it were a big one, all open-mouthed with a little tongue, that might be a bit more difficult to come back from if he’s not up for it.’
‘Evie!’ Claire smiled in shocked surprise at her quiet friend. She’d never guessed thoughts of that nature filtered through Evie’s brain. Apparently they did and in great detail. ‘How do you know about such things?’
Evie smiled back. ‘I read books, too, Claire. I’ve picked up a few pieces of knowledge on the way.’
‘I’ll take
