a field trip with his tutor and yet he couldn’t quite convince himself this was the same thing as visiting the botanical gardens with his tutor, Mr Hadley, when he was a young boy. Probably because he wasn’t a boy any more and probably because he hadn’t kissed Mr Hadley or spent countless hours staring at Mr Hadley’s mouth, which as he recalled, had a small wart on the left side. He spent most of the time trying not to look at it. He’d never wondered about Mr Hadley the way he wondered about Claire Welton.
She paused from her reading and he let his question tumble out, in French of course. ‘Why so many languages, Claire?’ He was gratified to see the question startled her, she was always so in control during their lessons, directing their conversations with an enviable coolness.
She stared at him, a little furrow forming between her brows. ‘What does that have to do with Machaut’s poetry?’
‘Nothing.’ Jonathon gave her a wide smile and didn’t back down. He continued in French. ‘It has to do with you.’
Lovely and intelligent, Claire Welton was becoming a potent temptation. It was hard to imagine the woman across from him was the same Claire Welton who had started the Season timid and dressed in what could only be described as ‘adequate fashion’. ‘Are you going to answer or do I have to stare at you all afternoon?’
She set down the book. ‘You won’t laugh?’ His Claire had a vulnerable side. His? Hardly his, not in the usual way.
Jonathon shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
‘For the same reason I read. Words are escape, freedom. I can go places I’ve never been. Best of all, I can see the world differently. Languages all have unique words that English doesn’t have equivalents for because the cultures they represent have different experiences than we do, different understandings.’
‘Donnez-moi une example.’ He was truly sucked into the conversation now, barely aware of how easily he responded in French to her French.
‘Votre ami, Diderot.’ She gestured to the book the shopkeeper had left on the table, ‘He coined a phrase l’esprit d’escalier—the idea that one does not think of an appropriate response to a remark until one has left the party, or quite literally, reached the bottom of the stairs and it’s too late to respond. I don’t think we have an exact phrase for that concept in English.’
Fascinating. There was no other way to explain what it meant to sit there in the dusty bookshop and listen to her talk about escape, about freedom, about her desire to travel and see the world. To do so in French was only a small part of that fascination. She could have spoken in Turkish and it would have fascinated him. Admittedly, the French should have appealed much more given what he had at stake and what he’d struggled to overcome in the last seven years.
With Claire, he did feel he was on the road to recovery, but he wasn’t quite there. One successful outing did not a victory make. He knew before she said, ‘We should get back to our reading’, that he still had a way to go. If he tried to read from the book of poetry, he would stumble. It wasn’t exactly the note he wanted to end their day on. He prevaricated and Claire rose from the table, sensing his reluctance. Perhaps she, too, didn’t want to risk the little successes of the afternoon.
‘Maybe something different? Machaut can be difficult at first.’ She went to an aisle, no doubt intending to find another text. When she didn’t return immediately, he followed her, finding her engrossed in a slim volume, her back to him, her head bent just so, exposing the nape of her neck left bare from the upsweep of her hair. She made a pretty picture and an irresistible one. An urge to claim this moment, to claim her, swept him in a powerful wave. What would she do, if he kissed her here? Would she come alive as she had in the Rosedale garden? Would he?
He strode up behind her, his hands gripping her arms in gentle alert to his presence, his mouth close to her ear. ‘What are you doing, Claire?’ She jumped a little, startled out of her reading by his nearness, perhaps by his touch. It was a familiar touch, the kind a lover would use, but he didn’t let go.
‘Looking for something we can read.’
‘Je ne veux pas lire, Claire.’ His whisper sounded hoarse. Good, let it be a foreshadowing of what he did want, of what he meant to have if she would allow it. Was any of the intrigue he felt returned on her part? ‘Je veux te baiser.’ He kissed the bare space of her neck. Claire stiffened and he knew a moment’s trepidation. He’d overstepped himself, once more swept away by the moment.
‘You mean, je veux t’embrasser...’ She whispered the correction, breaking from the French for the first time since they’d entered the store. ‘You want to kiss me.’
‘Oui.’ Jonathon let a slow smile creep across his face. ‘What did I say?’ He had her backed to the wall now.
‘That you wanted to f—’ She blushed. ‘It’s a naughty word, Jonathon.’ Well, maybe he wanted to do that too. Just because he had manners didn’t mean he didn’t have baser desires too. The two were not mutually exclusive. He was a man after all and she was a beautiful, intriguing woman.
He started to reframe his question, but she cut him off, a finger pressed to his lips. ‘The answer is no. You may not kiss me.’ Her eyes danced and she made no effort to move away.
‘Why?’ Jonathon drawled, flirting with his eyes on her lips, not convinced he’d been rejected entirely.
‘This time I’m going to kiss you.’ Her arms were around his neck, pulling him close, her mouth finding his, full, open, and welcoming as it claimed his. Then his arms were about her, holding her against him, feeling the press of her, the curves of her, all warmth and willingness and eagerness, this was her kiss after all. She had initiated it, but the elation was all his. She wanted to kiss him! His bold Claire wanted to kiss him! It would be complicated later, but for now, it was pure, raw, joy and he let it shoot through him in lusty bolts.
The kiss was heady and hot, their mouths devouring each other by turn, his lips moving to her jaw, her throat, the pulse at the base of her neck. Only the last remnants of Claire’s sanity kept him from attempting something more wicked. ‘We have to stop.’ She drew a ragged breath, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth mere inches from his, her body giving no sign of agreeing with her mind. Jonathon pushed his advantage, reluctant to surrender the moment.
‘Not yet,’ he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers, his hand sliding up the slim width of her rib cage, until the curve of his palms cupped the undersides of her breasts through the muslin of her gown. He ran a thumb over a nipple and felt a shudder ripple through her. This was a torturous game of have and have not he played. It was heavenly to touch her, to feel the firmness, the fullness of her breasts in his hand, but it was hellish to have to stop there, to not take them in his mouth and kiss them as he did her lips, to not see them bared, naked in his hands.
‘Have you ever thought about not stopping, Claire?’ This was madness. His words were evidence of it. He dare not take this any further and yet he dare not stop. ‘Do you want to see what’s on the other side of this passion?’ Jonathon gave a groan, his hips grinding against hers as her sighs filled his mouth. ‘I could show you pleasure finer than this.’ His hand gripped the material of her skirts. It would be the work of a moment to have his hand behind them, the work of a few moments more to slide his fingers into her wet place and give her the pleasure her body was craving.
There was a cough behind him and Claire gave a gasp, her gaze hurtling to a spot over his shoulder, her cheeks flaming in mortification while the shopkeeper launched into a torrent of French.
‘Mon
