The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

lost Claire and the ideas had chased themselves about in his head until he was weary. At the door marked with a seven, he fitted his key and pushed it open. He took a step inside, his attentions fixed on putting his key away.

      ‘Jonathon, you’re here at last.’ By Jove, he’d finally gone round the bend. He’d thought of Claire for so long he was imagining her voice with lifelike accuracy. He looked up and froze. He wasn’t dreaming. It was definitely her. Claire rose from the chair, her amber eyes soft with the firelight, her mouth curving in a generous smile as if she were welcoming him home. He liked the sensation such an image engendered. He wanted to go to her, to wrap her in his arms, but she’d given him up two days ago. What did it mean that she was here, miles from London? ‘Claire, what are you doing? How did you get here?’

      He studied her, taking in every detail of her person. She was dressed for travel in a seasonal carriage dress of blue India muslin. A cloak he recognised as his own lay across the arm of the chair, a valise sat on the floor, still fastened, still packed. She had not arrived much in advance of him. He was starting to understand the desk clerk’s mischief now. She’d not been secretive about her purpose.

      ‘Preston helped me.’ He’d probably have to have some words with Preston, but that could wait. Claire’s story spilled out in semi-chronological order. ‘Preston was good enough to hire a post chaise for me. I arrived here half an hour ago. I went to your rooms in London, but you were gone.’ She moved towards him then, catching his hands and holding tight. ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake and I had to tell you, to talk to you right away.’

      ‘A mistake?’ There was so much to take in he couldn’t quite fathom it all at once. What mistake would this be?

      ‘When you realise you love someone, Jonathon, and they love you, enough to fight for you, you want to tell them at once. You don’t want to wait until they’re back from Dover.’ Jonathon felt every nerve in his body go on alert. She was talking about him. She drew a deep breath and careened on with her mesmerising words. Her amber eyes shone. ‘I love you, Jonathon Lashley, and I love who I am when I’m with you. I love what you’ve let me become.’

      Claire loved him. Stunned was the only way to describe what he felt; stunned that someone would carry that depth of emotion for him; stunned that Claire would travel this far to tell him. It couldn’t have been easy. It was more than he could have hoped for. He’d spent his day thinking of ways to get her back, to convince her, and here she was, having come to that conclusion on her own. It was the best sort of victory.

      He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them each in turn. ‘You have left me speechless, Claire. I don’t know what to say, so I hope this will suffice.’ He kissed her then, long and tender, letting his body convey what his mind could not until the maids brought up dinner.

      He shot Claire a look as they laid the little table in the front of the fire. ‘Only a half an hour ahead of me? You were incredibly industrious.’

      A saucy maid with brown curls peered up from her work. ‘Your wife is an amazing woman. Your dinner was her first priority. She ordered it the moment she had her room.’

      ‘My wife,’ Jonathon drawled, watching Claire blush under his gaze, ‘is amazing indeed.’ As was the supper. His mouth started to water as the maids departed, the table ready. Covers were removed from a platter of braised rabbit, fresh spring greens and baby carrots steamed in their bowls, a new loaf of bread and pale country butter in a small crock lay on a cutting board and a bottle of red wine stood sentinel in the centre of the table. ‘My wife has done well.’ Jonathon tossed her a sly smile.

      ‘I had to tell them something.’ Claire sat and fussed with her napkin, avoiding his gaze. ‘The clerk wouldn’t let me in to your room otherwise.’

      ‘It’s fine. It’s flattering.’ Jonathon sat down across from her and began to fill their plates. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He slid a slice of rabbit on to her plate. Did he broach the awkward subject between them or did he merely enjoy the meal and her company? He opted for the latter. It was safer ground. He would let her decide if they talked of anything more and when.

      They spoke of their journeys and the roads. They finished the wine and the candles burned down. The meal had been enjoyable and yet Jonathon felt a familiar tension begin to simmer as supper came to an inevitable end. Despite their proclamations, much lay unsettled between them, not the least being what would happen tonight.

      Claire rose from the table, her voice betraying a nervous edge, her eyes not quite meeting his. ‘If you would excuse me for a few moments?’

      Jonathon took his hint. ‘I’ll be downstairs. I need to check on a few things with the innkeeper.’

      * * *

      He would give her twenty minutes, he decided in the taproom. Twenty minutes for whatever she needed her privacy to do. But deuce take it, they were the longest twenty minutes of his life. It took only three of those minutes to confer with the innkeeper and decide his contact had not yet checked in. Perhaps tomorrow.

      He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes. Finally. Surely that was enough time?

      The innkeeper slapped him on the back. ‘Newlyweds? I can tell, you are eager to get back to your bride.’ He was a heavily built man with a hearty chuckle. ‘Enjoy it, man, because it won’t last, but it’s good while it does. I’ve been married nearly thirty years, those days have been gone for a while now, but I still remember them.’

      His wife chose that moment to come out of the kitchen, a woman as big as he, armed with a rolling pin. ‘What are you doing out here, gabbing away? I’ve got dinner to see to and there are customers to serve. I can’t do it all, lazy man.’

      ‘See?’ The man held up his hands in surrender, letting her drag him away to the bar. ‘Enjoy them!’

      Jonathon laughed and headed upstairs. Maybe his steps were quick on the treads. Maybe he was eager. Maybe he was just curious to see how far Claire was willing to take the impersonation of his wife. Was that so wrong? Despite the circumstances and his anxiety over the informant’s news, he hadn’t been this happy in a long time. He meant to hang on to it not just for ‘as long as he could’, but for ever. Claire had come for him.

      He knocked at the door to give her fair warning and stepped inside. Claire stood before the fire much as she had when he’d arrived. Only this time she had traded her carriage gown for a robe of white silk that belted at the waist, her dark hair falling in loose waves over one shoulder. There was no mistaking her intentions. This was an offering, a seduction all rolled into one. They had reached a new point of no return. ‘Claire, are you sure?’

      She stepped towards him, her hand at the belt of her robe, tugging at the sash in answer. ‘I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.’ The robe fell loose, the sleek fabric parting to offer a tantalising glimpse of skin, of breast, of a dark shadow of hair below.

      ‘You’ve had dinner, Jonathon. Are you ready for dessert?’ She gave a shrug of one shoulder, letting the robe fall to her feet, revealing herself fully. Jonathon’s mouth went dry. By the saints, Claire Welton knew how to tempt a man.

      ‘I believe I am,’ Jonathon managed. He wanted to look at her, to enjoy her in a way he had not in their previous encounters. There had been too many clothes, or too little time. Tonight, there was neither. He let his eyes linger on the fullness of her breasts, the trimness of her torso, the slimness of her waist, the flaring width of her hips and length of her legs. Her height had not occurred to him one way or the other before, but perhaps it explained why they had waltzed so effortlessly together, walked so easily together. Then again, those activities might come easy because she was simply Claire and had a way of putting him at ease with himself. He didn’t need his masks when he was with her.

      She backed away towards the chair and sat, legs crossed, the very image of Godiva in her nakedness. ‘Now it’s your turn. Take off your clothes, Jonathon.’

      ‘Don’t you want to take them off?’ he queried.

      She gave him a coy smile.