The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

There was nothing like attempting the impossible to doom morale. She knew. She’d attempted it once. That’s what this mission was: the impossible, an experiment doomed to failure. Jonathon hadn’t noticed her for three years. Why would he suddenly notice her now? Why would anyone? She’d spent three years trying not to be noticed, trying to avoid reminding people she was the girl who had worn a gown identical to Cecilia Northam’s at the largest ball of the Season the year she’d come out.

      Inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Worth town house, with its blue-veined marble floor and white-arched niches filled with expensive statuary, Claire’s nerves hit a ceiling of their own. Changing one’s circumstances was all well and good in the hypothetical, but in practice it was far different, far more real. It was some comfort to know that May would be there with her tonight, playing hostess with her mother, but the comfort was outweighed by the knowledge that Jonathon Lashley and his parents would be in attendance, along with Cecilia Northam’s family.

      There would be others present, too, all of whom most likely outranked the Weltons in terms of social cachet. Her father was an unobtrusive man, a quiet viscount possessed of an old title, the sort of guest who could always be counted on to fill seats. As such, he and her mother were invited everywhere. It was a comfortable but not demanding popularity. Tonight was a case in point. The Worths liked to seat an even twenty for supper when they entertained, hence the need for the Weltons.

      The butler led them into the drawing room and May was immediately at her side, slipping an arm through hers. Claire felt some of her nerves ease. May, like Beatrice, had been there when she’d refused her one and only offer of marriage and her family had been livid with her. May had been there when Cecilia had pulled her awful prank. Without May, Claire would have given up society years ago and retreated firmly to the country with her books. She’d probably know six languages by now instead of four.

      ‘You look beautiful,’ May whispered, looking lovely herself in a dress of midnight-blue silk.

      ‘Do you think so?’ Claire tugged self-consciously at the newly lowered bodice of her gown. Evie had recut the old conservative square one into a more modern style that was off the shoulder and considerably more revealing, before horizontally ruching the fabric to make the expanse of bosom now on display appear fuller.

      May slapped her hand. ‘Stop fussing with it. The cut is fine, more than fine. Evie has outdone herself.’ The dress was hugely improved. Claire had hardly recognised it when Evie finished. It was just that Claire wasn’t used to it. It wasn’t the sort of dress a girl like her wore—a girl with no prospects, a girl who blended into the wallpaper. This was a dress that got a girl noticed. She’d not been oblivious to the second glances cast her way. The realisation made her fidgety. She wasn’t used to being looked at, only looked over, or was that overlooked?

      Of course, being noticed was part of the plan: no more matching the curtains, no more blending in. Being different meant looking different and there’d been no time in the last two days for an entirely new gown to be made. The girls had crowded into Claire’s room and meticulously gone through her wardrobe until every gown had been scrutinised and discarded. Claire had not realised how plain her wardrobe was until it had needed to pass their inspection and failed.

      The girls had decided she should wear blue, ‘Ethereal’, Evie had called it. Evie had taken notes on her little pad and had worked wonders with the gown. After the bodice had been remade, Evie had added wide chocolate-brown grosgrain ribbon at the hem and thinner silk ribbon of the same colour along the bodice and the tiny puffed sleeves: a striking effect against the sky-blue that brought out the amber colour of her eyes.

      Truth be told, Claire did feel different in the dress, but it would take some getting used to. Maybe she felt too different. A dress could change her on the outside, but it couldn’t change her on the inside, could it? She scanned the room bravely, her eyes finding Jonathon; dark haired and tall, at the wide fireplace mantel that dominated the far wall. He was smiling, looking entirely at ease as he conversed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without that smile and that air of confidence he carried everywhere with him, trademarks of who he was; a man with the world at his fingertips.

      It was no wonder he was picked for an important diplomatic post. He was witty, charming, informed and there wasn’t a talent he didn’t possess; he could sing at musical evenings, fence, box, ride and shoot. He was perfect, the Regency’s incarnation of Da Vinci’s Renaissance man.

      He stood with his father and Lord Belvoir, Cecilia’s father. Cecilia Northam was at his side dressed in an exquisite rose silk, her hand on his arm, possessive and proud as if he already belonged to her. Cecilia’s eyes caught hers, her steely-silver gaze perusing Claire’s gown.

      Claire could hear the old, hurtful words. ‘I wear it better. Far better. You should have known you could not wear my signature colour.’ Claire hadn’t worn pink since.

      This gown was not that gown, she reasoned with herself. In no way did Evie’s blue creation resemble the rose silk Cecilia wore tonight. But Claire still felt her confidence falter. ‘I feel as if I’ve been thrown to the lions,’ she murmured to May.

      ‘Then be Daniel,’ May whispered. ‘Keep your head up and look them all in the eye. Let everyone know this Season you mean business, beginning tonight.’

      Claire did her best as they made the rounds of the room, stopping to talk with the little clusters of guests, May leaning over to announce sotto voce, ‘Cecilia is not the only one who’s noticed. Even Lashley’s been looking a time or two. Discreetly, of course.’

      Of course. It was how Jonathon did everything. Claire hazarded another look in Jonathon’s direction, unable to suppress a little trill of delight at May’s words. Everything Jonathon did was tastefully done, from clothes to manners to conversation. When he spoke with someone, they had the impression of being listened to. At least that was her experience in the few, brief interactions she’d had with him over the years. They hardly qualified as conversations, more like extended greetings. Unlike other men who merely went through the polite motions demanded by society before moving on to the women they were truly interested in, Jonathon had always taken time to ask a question and then listen to the answer. She’d understood the attraction of Beatrice’s lover too well. Listening was a vastly underrated commodity. It made one feel they had value.

      She and May had just left one group and were moving on to another when she felt it: Jonathon’s gaze on her. She looked up, allowing their eyes to meet for the briefest of seconds. A small smile played on his lips, giving her the impression his smile was for her alone and Claire’s pulse rocketed as she looked away.

      It was a silly, unwarranted reaction. She wanted to stand out to him, the way Cecilia Northam apparently did. She wanted to be the one with her hand resting lightly on his arm as she looked up into that handsome face with its deep-blue eyes and sharp-cut lines.

      ‘Come on.’ May tugged at her arm. ‘Let’s go speak with his group. We haven’t visited them yet and later, I have news.’

      Claire froze, Old Claire getting the better of New Claire with her new dress and hair. Talk to Jonathon now? ‘No. I couldn’t possibly do that. What would I say?’

      She wasn’t really warmed up. She’d just arrived.

      ‘How about “good evening”? He smiled at you. Take the opening.’ May laughed. It was easy for May to laugh. She didn’t understand. She didn’t get tongue tied every time Jonathon was around. In fact, May was hardly ever tongue tied around anyone. It was her gift and her curse. Where Claire had made herself invisible, May had made herself far too noticeable.

      ‘No,’ Claire insisted. ‘Not yet. Let’s wait until after dinner’, when she would have had time to get her conversation up to par with her partner, when she might finally be used to this dress and how it made her feel. May merely smiled, her hidden dimple coming out in the corner of her cheek. That worried her. May hardly ever admitted defeat. Claire had the distinct impression she was being flanked.

      A moment later, she knew it. Claire had barely settled into her chair when he spoke. ‘Miss Welton, it’s a pleasure to see you