The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

the exact shade of her gown. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ The words tumbled out without her consent, her mind too busy grappling with the fact that he was sitting across from her, too busy to pay attention to what her mouth was doing. Her mind was focused on another heart-stopping fact: He was all hers to look at for the entire meal.

      He smiled broadly at her ridiculous words. What lady said such a thing? It was far too bold for a genteel dinner, but that’s what new dresses did—they made one feel as bold their neckline. She looked away, fussing with her napkin to give herself something to do. She would have thought she was used to looking at him by now. She’d been doing it most of her life. The logic of familiarity suggested the sensation should have numbed by now, should have faded from the intense pleasure of seeing him into something more comfortable. But it hadn’t. If anything, it was sharper. She was acutely aware of every angle of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curving planes of his cheeks when he smiled, the firm sensuality of his mouth. That last was a wicked thought indeed to entertain at the table.

      Claire turned her thoughts to other, less wanton ideas like revenge. She shot May a knowing glance across the white-clothed expanse. Her instincts were right. Either through fate or finagling—Claire highly suspected the latter—that minx of a friend had engineered the seating arrangement. She gave May a nudge with her foot under the table to acknowledge the ploy. I am on to you, May Worth.

      But there was nothing she could do about it now. Claire was not going to get her reprieve. There would be no waiting until after dinner to speak with Jonathon. If she knew May, the plan wouldn’t stop here. May had something more in mind to get her noticed. The thought was both exhilarating and agitating. She wished May had made her a party to the plan. No, wait, she didn’t. If she’d known ahead of time, she would only have worried. All she could do now was stay alert and watch for her chance. She simply had to apply herself.

      Right now, all it seemed she could apply herself to was avidly staring as the first course was set in front of her. Jonathon had the most intriguing lock of errant hair that fell to the side, escaping any efforts to pomade it into place. She was doing such a good job of staring, she missed her conversation partner’s overture.

      But in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered how many times her partner repeated himself. Her attention was claimed elsewhere, so it was no surprise during the fish that her ears cringed when she heard the butchered word ‘bonjure’ from across the table. Claire responded out of reflex and years of study, ‘You mean bohnzhooh. The French don’t pronounce the “r” strongly at the end of bonjour.’

      Jonathon’s blue gaze landed on her, his handsome mouth smiling politely, easily, as if he was not offended at the correction or the interruption. Claire shut her mouth in horror. She wanted to melt into a pile of blancmange beneath the table. She might have if May hadn’t kicked her, a rather painful reminder that she would not shrink from the world any longer, not after Evie had re-made her gown, not after Beatrice had done up her hair, not after May had done whatever it was May had done to make this possible.

      Tonight, she was representing all of them. She had to be brave. But, oh, sweet heavens, it was hard to do when she’d just corrected Jonathon Lashley, future diplomat. In public. At a dinner table in front of eighteen other guests. That was certainly one way to get his attention, although probably not the best way. Oh, dear Lord, people were starting to stare.

      * * *

      ‘Bohnzhooh,’ Jonathon amended, acknowledging the correction. The quickest way to dispel unwanted attention was to persuade onlookers there was nothing to see. There was no show here. ‘I appreciate the opportunity for improvement.’ But why had she done it? And why here at the table of all places? His eyes remained riveted on the woman across from him.

      Miss Welton had all of his attention now, whereas before, her dress had held most of it. He’d noticed the dress the moment she’d walked in this evening, but now he was noticing her. A fact that was strange in itself. She’d never been particularly noticeable before. He knew of her, most certainly. She was a friend of Preston’s sister and a neighbour to the Worths in the country. She’d been out for several Seasons and their paths crossed sporadically in London at larger catch-all affairs. She’d always struck him as a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. So he hadn’t. Noticed. Not really. Not until tonight.

      She was different tonight. She’d made a rather subtle but grand entrance in her blue dress. He was sure the ladies had a sophisticated word for the colour, something more descriptive than simply blue. But to him it was blue—the colour of an English summer sky and on her it was positively stunning, although not precisely the shade or cut worn by a woman who didn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps this was Miss Welton’s way of announcing she was seriously hunting a husband this Season? Or perhaps she already had one? In his experience, women dressed well when there was a man to impress.

      What a woman didn’t do was correct a man at dinner and yet Miss Welton had, drawing an uncharacteristic amount of attention to herself in the process. Part of him wanted to applaud her boldness. Miss Welton was certainly coming out of her shell. Well done her. Although he wished she hadn’t chosen to do it with a remark about his French. Still, she wasn’t to be blamed. She couldn’t know it was a touchy subject with him at the moment. The French didn’t pronounce all the letters in their words, but apparently that didn’t stop him from doing it and doing it wrong. Wrong was something he wasn’t use to being.

      Beside him, Cecilia was not quite as forgiving behind her frosty smile. She leaned slightly towards him as if what she had to say was between the two of them, but it was an illusion only. She meant for the table to hear. ‘I did not realise we had a Francophile at the table, Lashley.’

      Jonathon stiffened, feeling his senses go on alert. Stares returned. This was not a friendly remark. He did not need or want Cecilia defending him, nor did he see the need to attack Miss Welton. Francophile was the most insulting name Cecilia could have decently called her and Miss Welton knew it. Everyone at the table knew it. Her hand halted just for a fraction of a second as she reached for her wine glass. Jonathon willed that hand to keep going, to give no sign of Cecilia’s comment having any effect.

      But the damage was done. The fish was nowhere near as exciting as Cecilia Northam verbally calling someone out. People near them stopped eating and cast interested glances their way. The war might have been over for seven years, but to be a lover of anything French was still not a popular pastime.

      Jonathon locked eyes with Miss Welton as if he could lend her some strength, some encouragement with his gaze. He could see how she fought the urge to retreat in the way her hand tensed around the stem of her wine glass.

      Don’t you dare apologise, Miss Welton. I was incorrect and you called me on it. You’ve done nothing wrong.

      If there was any apologising to be done, it should be Cecilia. Her comment had bordered on the pale and he had no wish to see anyone put down whether it be on his behalf or not, especially not a woman who had chosen tonight to step into the light.

      To his everlasting delight, Miss Welton straightened her shoulders and met Cecilia’s gaze. ‘French is the language of diplomacy on the Continent, Miss Northam. One need not be a Francophile to appreciate the importance of being conversant in the language.’ She managed a sophisticated smile as if to say she would not be embarrassed over her knowledge or made to feel lesser for her education. Jonathon wanted to applaud.

      ‘You are lucky to be so well schooled in the language.’ He smiled, lending her support with his words, well aware that Cecilia bristled beside him, fully understanding his support of Miss Welton was a subtle but resounding denouncement of her accusation. Cecilia would not be pleased.

      On his other side, a more pleasant May Worth picked up the lagging conversation. ‘Miss Welton is fluent in French and three other languages as well.’

      Jonathon raised a dark brow in genuine interest over Miss Welton’s accomplishments, trying hard not to stare at those cognac eyes or lower at the expanse of bosom on display. Her bodice was no lower than anyone else’s, but it had become unexplainably more alluring. ‘Is that true, Miss Welton? I had no idea you were so accomplished.’

      He