The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

of him wondered just how awkward would it look if he called on Claire at eleven o’clock at night. He was busy trying to think of how he might spin a nocturnal visit that didn’t require sneaking into her bedroom or climbing a trellis when Cecilia’s words finally penetrated.

      ‘A girl needs to plan. It might be nothing for you gentlemen to throw on a dark suit and show up at church, but a trousseau takes time.’

      Jonathon stopped and stared blankly. ‘Trousseau?’

      Cecilia gave a haughty laugh. ‘Why, yes, all the lovely dresses and linens a girl brings to her marriage.’ She explained as if he were a clueless nodcock. He knew very well what a trousseau was. That was the part that had him worried. ‘I have these exquisite Irish linens embroidered with...’

      He did not want to hear what they were embroidered with for fear it might be his initials. Jonathon did not mince words. Mincing was how a man ended up married. ‘Your high esteem flatters me, but let us be clear, I have not put forward a formal offer for you, nor have I ever spoken to you about such a thing. Any plans on your part would be premature, I assure you.’

      The harshness of his words would have daunted most women, even most men. But Cecilia merely gave him a steely smile. ‘I disagree. Marriage to me is the gateway to your future.’ She feigned a look of confusion. ‘Or are you having second thoughts about the posting to Vienna? You can’t get there without me. You need my father’s support. I assure you.’

      Couples moved out on to the floor, taking up positions. Cecilia’s smile changed into something sweeter as if she had not just demanded marriage from him. ‘A waltz! Shall we, Jonathon? Everything has worked out as it should. I believe you’re free for this dance, after all.’

Chapter Fourteen

      Jonathon turned a dark Mayfair corner, his mind uninterested in what his feet were doing as it mulled over the sad reality: He wasn’t free; not free to countermand Cecilia’s high-handed manipulation or her haughty assumptions that he could be bought in marriage; not free to pursue a relationship with Claire, no matter what his feet thought to the contrary.

      He didn’t need to look up at the house towering in front of him to know where his unconscious wanderings had taken him: The very place he was not supposed to be: Claire’s after midnight. He had no right to be here. He could promise her nothing beyond what he’d already promised and that was hardly enough. He could not offer her the only thing a well-bred lady could accept from a gentleman: marriage. Not because she didn’t deserve it, but because he didn’t. Assuming they suited one another for marriage.

      Whoa. Marriage? Was that what his reeling mind was hiding in its recesses these days? Even if it was possible, the idea of marrying after a few French lessons and stolen kisses was a bit extreme, no matter how provocative those kisses had been. He was setting the cart miles ahead of the horse at this rate. Marriage assumed, too, that he deserved her. A man who left his brother behind in a foreign land didn’t deserve her, or any chance at personal happiness after squandering that chance for his brother to experience the same. Yet he’d had the audacity to pretend he did. He’d cheated Thomas of his life! Every time he laughed, every time he felt the smallest inkling of joy, he was reminded of what his brother would never have.

      Lately, when he was with Claire, the reminder was constant. Almost. To be honest, the joy, the peace, was so great he’d lose himself, he’d forget about the guilt. That was even more frightening. He knew how to live with the guilt. He wasn’t sure he knew how to live without it.

      Jonathon stared up at the house. That was the guilt talking. One could either argue the guilt kept him focused, or chained, depending on perspective. These days, the perspective was the latter. It was the guilt that kept him chained in his mental prison of regret. He should never have let Thomas ride down that road. But he had and had paid for that decision every day since his return from the Continent; he’d lost his ability to read French out loud, he’d lost the right to happiness. That was fine, he didn’t deserve it. Why should he be happy? Why should his life go on when his brother’s had not? Such penance hadn’t bothered him too much until now. In its own way, that penance had given him direction upon his return. It had given him a sense of duty, an absolution to perform for failing to bring Thomas home safe and sound. He’d been content to let guilt rule his life. There’d been nothing he wanted that demanded he let the guilt go.

      But now, he wanted the one thing he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve. The freedom to choose. He would still choose Vienna. Peace for Europe could be made there and he could make it. But he would perhaps choose to go alone. Only he couldn’t make that choice without jeopardising the appointment altogether. Without Cecilia, Lord Belvoir would block his appointment. Not in a vote—the House of Lords didn’t confirm appointments, but in other subtle ways: funding, support, networks that would help and protect him abroad, all the tools he needed to be successful.

      He wanted to be successful on his own merits. Just as he didn’t want to be important only because of his father’s birth, he didn’t want to be chosen as a diplomat simply because of his wife’s connections. He wanted to earn it. He’d not realised how much the position had come to hinge on Cecilia until she’d thrown it into stark relief tonight.

      Jonathon picked up a handful of pebbles. He tossed one in his hand, testing its weight and trying to remember which window was Claire’s. It was in back by the garden. He told himself he wanted to see her to assure himself she was all right, but it would be partially a lie. He wanted to see her for himself. He needed her. Whatever they could or could not be to one another, she could help him sort through the rather disappointing revelations of the evening simply by being with him. Or she could help him forget.

      Jonathon slipped through the gate that gave into the garden. It had taken a waltz and an interminable supper hour before he’d been able to depart the ball. It was well past one o’clock. He should have gone home. But instead, he’d sent his carriage away and come here. Perhaps he’d be climbing trellises after all. He’d climb a mountain if that was what it took to reach her. The truth was, if there was peace to be had tonight, it would be in Claire’s arms and the future could be damned.

      Ah, there it was! The third window towards the back. He was sure that was the room. A little thrill of victory coursed through him. It had a small, semi-circular wrought-iron balcony, more decorative than useful. A person might just be able to stand there and catch the morning sun on her face. The little thrill of victory was replaced by a stronger surge of lust. To his body’s chagrin, Jonathon could very well imagine Claire on that balcony, hair loose, face tilted upward to the dawn, dressed in a fine linen shift that caught the light.

      Standing on the ground day dreaming offered no progress that direction. He tossed a pebble. It made a satisfying clink against the narrow French doors of the balcony. He counted to ten and waited. There was no response. He tossed a second pebble and then a third in rapid succession. She did not come. There was no sign of life.

      Jonathon grimaced. If she would not come to him, he would have to go to her. There was nothing for it. He’d have to climb the rose trellis. He gave the trellis a speculative look, gauging the distance between it and the balcony. He’d use the trellis for height, then he’d have to use his muscle to overcome the gap where the trellis gave out and the balcony began. His arms would just be able to span it and he could lever himself up from there. Very plausible.

      From the ground that was. Being suspended twenty-five feet above said ground tended to change a man’s perspective. So did thorns. Ten sweaty minutes later, Jonathon had learned two things: first, summer roses only smelled sweet. They were in fact the devil’s own flower, riddled with thorns just where a man might want to put his hands for a good grip. It had taken a few prickings in the dark to learn that. Second, evening clothes and dancing shoes were not at all ideal for climbing. The good news—his dark evening jacket was no longer too tight, now that it sported a relieving rip right down the centre seam in the back. At the moment, he didn’t care. He felt like he’d summited the Alps. Jonathon reached for the doors and pushed them open. Claire was inside. Peace was inside.

      *