The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

in his seat. ‘Owen doesn’t know.’

      Preston chuckled. ‘Doesn’t know or you think he doesn’t know? Owen knows the colour of the king’s underwear on any given day. The man knows everything.’ Preston paused. ‘Speaking of “everything”, how’s the French going? Is it coming back?’

      Jonathon rapped the small drink table between them with his knuckles. ‘For luck,’ he explained. ‘I would hate to jinx things now. I think so, better than I hoped. Claire is a fine instructor.’ It had been on the tip of his tongue to mention the outing to the bookshop, but he thought better of it. He preferred the idea that he had some secrets at least.

      ‘Claire? First names and all? I would say that is progress indeed.’ Preston drained his brandy. ‘She’s a fine dancer, too, and don’t cut up at me for noticing. You’ve danced with her every night lately. It’s not a secret. Anyone who cared to notice could. Is that part of your tutoring as well?’ There was a veiled edge to his tone.

      ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jonathon answered with an edge of his own.

      Preston twirled the stem of his snifter with an idle nonchalance. ‘I don’t know what it means, Jonathon. That’s why I’m asking you. Does it mean anything at all?’

      Jonathon was glad the club was nearly empty. Preston’s voice suddenly seemed louder than necessary, but he couldn’t ask his friend to lower his tone without implying that perhaps something was indeed afoot. Implication was all the bone Preston would need to dog him about it until he confessed.

      I took your sister’s friend out yesterday without a chaperon and ravaged her in a French bookshop until the shopkeeper threw us out. Then we finished what we had started in her bedroom last night. Just with hands, though, no damage done.

      He didn’t need an especially creative imagination to know how that would go over. Preston had always been protective of his sister’s friends even when they were nine-year-old nuisances.

      ‘Ah, your silence condemns you, Jonathon.’ Preston gave the devil’s own grin.

      ‘I am helping her attract the attention of a beau she’s interested in. It’s a fair exchange for her tutelage,’ Jonathon replied, sounding far too defensive. His answer sounded like a denial. He hated himself for the words. They might have been the truth a few weeks ago, but it was only a slim part of the truth now. He wasn’t dancing with her to help her, but because he wanted to. He loved the feel of her in his arms, the caress of her eyes on him as they swept the dance floor. After yesterday, he wasn’t willing to share that caress. He certainly wasn’t willing to turn her over to a suitor. He was starting to feel jealous of this suitor she so desperately wanted to impress.

      Preston lifted a brow. ‘Really? I was unaware she had a suitor. May hasn’t said anything. Who is he?’

      ‘I don’t know. She won’t say.’ Jonathon shrugged as if it was of no consequence. He refused to believe Cecilia’s assertion that Sir Rufus Sheriden had a longstanding interest that might be reciprocated. Claire had kissed him, he reminded himself, unable to help the smile that spread across his face at the memory, of Claire wrapping her arms about him and pulling him close in the bookshop, her mouth covering his. There were other memories, too, that mocked the idea her attentions were engaged elsewhere. How could she be when her hand... He had to stop right there. He shifted in his seat. If he didn’t stop, he’d be giving too much away to a man who was already canny.

      ‘What are you hiding? A man only smiles like that when he’s thinking of a woman.’ Preston’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘The question is, what woman? Claire or Cecilia?’ His voice dropped to a hush, his face registering the truth Jonathon couldn’t speak. ‘By Jove, you’re falling for Claire Welton.’

      ‘Yes.’ There. He’d said it; the new truth that he was just beginning to recognise. He was falling for Claire.

      Preston nodded thoughtfully. ‘How far do you plan to fall?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ He might have already fallen, the descent complete before he’d even realised the danger. ‘Does one plan these things?’ He certainly hadn’t. He’d had a plan, a very detailed one until he’d sat across from Claire at the Worths’ dinner. That plan had slowly eroded ever since. The irony was that he’d only approached Claire in order to help that original plan, not derail it.

      ‘And Cecilia Northam? Where does she figure into all of this?’ Preston leaned forward, dropping his voice further.

      ‘I don’t know.’ Hadn’t he just said that?

      ‘What do you know? Perhaps we should start with that. In fact, let me start.’ Preston held up a finger for every item. ‘First, you need a wife to go with you to Vienna. Nothing buys respectability like having a wife at your side. That means the clock is ticking, old boy. You need to marry by summer’s end, sooner if you want to wedge in a honeymoon that doesn’t involve travelling to your post. Second, Cecilia Northam has been groomed to be a diplomat’s wife. Lord Belvoir wants a title and political position for his daughter. He wants a future prime minister for her if he can get it, this is a fairly open secret in the ton. Third, Belvoir and Cecilia want that husband to be you, also a fairly open secret. They are angling for an offer before June is out.’ Preston raised another finger and added to the list. ‘Fourth, Belvoir has the power to force your hand. If you don’t come up to scratch, it may not matter how good your French is or that you have personal connections to Owen Danvers. Belvoir can ruin your chances and see that the post goes to Elliot Wisefield. The man is vindictive enough to do it.’

      Preston sat back in his chair. ‘It’s time for some risk analysis, old boy. Cecilia secures the post for you. Without her, it’s dicey. Maybe you have enough influence without her, maybe you can survive whatever firestorm her father sends your way. It’s a big maybe, though. Are you willing to lose the Vienna post for Claire?’

      ‘Put that way, choosing Claire seems the height of idiocy.’ Jonathon expelled a tired breath. He’d known this already. It was an equation he’d been through countless times in the last several years as he’d battled back from the wound, from the grief of losing Thomas not just once, but over and over again when false leads didn’t play out. It was more than the post he was risking. The post merely symbolised the things he desired: a legacy of peace, a chance to go back and find out the truth about Thomas, a chance for closure on the past and the beginning of a future at last.

      Preston shook his head, a dark shadow crossing his face. He leaned forward and placed one hand on Jonathon’s leg in encouragement. ‘Not if you love her, not if you plan to fall all the way.’ It made Jonathon wonder what Preston knew about such falls. Love was not something Preston ever spoke about. Jonathon was not even aware Preston had experienced it. His friend was a closed book when it came to his personal relationships. ‘And Jonathon,’ Preston added, ‘with a girl like Claire, I think there’s only one way to fall.’

      Jonathon nodded, hearing the warning and the endorsement. Preston would support him no matter what he chose, even if that choice was Claire, but he was not to ruin Claire, not to toy with her. If he pursued her, it had to be in earnest. So be it. Perhaps it was best Preston didn’t know about last night. Or the bookshop. Or what he intended to do next. Jonathon called for ink and paper, a renewed sense of purpose coursing through him.

      Preston shot him a quizzical look as he began to pen a note. ‘What are you doing?’

      Jonathon gave him a wily grin. ‘Falling.’ And the ground was coming up fast. He prayed the landing wouldn’t kill him. But that was a question for which he had no answer.

      * * *

      Jonathon had become something of an unanswered question these last weeks. Cecilia plucked at the blossoms of Jonathon’s bouquet where it sat on her writing desk. She was losing him when she’d been so certain of her victory. She looked out over the garden. True, there was no formal agreement between them. Nothing bound Jonathon to her beyond her own personal expectations. But she’d thought Jonathon had informally agreed with her on those expectations. He danced with her, he sent her flowers,