Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives)

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Absolutely,’ Claire answered boldly, stepping away to resume her place on the bed. ‘Why don’t you take it off for me so I can watch?’

  He made her a small bow. ‘As you wish, my lady.’ But it was as he wished and he wished to play with her a bit. She saw it in the tilt of his smile, the flare of mischief in his eyes. She settled against the pillows and turned up her lamp to give the room a modicum of light. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this. He made a show of slowly removing the fasteners at his cuffs, the collar, pulling the tails of his shirt from his trousers until at last the shirt was loose.

  She imagined sliding her hands beneath it and running them up the bare planes of his chest, imagined the feel of his skin against the palms of her hands. Then, he slipped the shirt off and she imagined no more. He stood before her, half-naked, his shirt tossed to a pile on the floor, hands on narrow hips, blue eyes challenging her. ‘Do you like what you see?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He was gorgeous. Fully clothed, he’d merely been handsome. The adjective hardly did this man, with his firm abdomen and sculpted chest, justice. She patted the space on the bed beside her. It was her turn to tease. ‘It’s still a bit dark in here. I can’t quite see. Come a little closer.’

  He took the invitation, stretching out alongside her, his head propped in his hand. He couldn’t get much closer than this. ‘Do I please you, Claire?’

  She gave a little laugh, her hand trailing across his chest in exploration and wonder. ‘How could you not? You’re beautiful.’ She raised her gaze to his, her voice an honest, quiet whisper. ‘You’ve always been beautiful to me.’ Her hand traced a fine line along his shoulder and stilled. ‘Scars and all,’ she ventured softly, the importance of the moment hitting her full force. To be naked, even partially naked with another, was to expose oneself in intimate ways. ‘Was this from the war?’

  ‘From the war, from my stubborn foolishness.’ She knew, as did most of London, that he’d come home wounded, dangerously so. There’d been a time when it had not been clear he would live. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it.

  She retraced the line with her hand, this time noting how close the scar was to his chest. A scant few inches had separated life from death. He had healed well, but the scar would be with him always. ‘It looks painful.’

  ‘Terribly. Although I’m told under normal circumstances it would have been a fairly minor wound. The bullet didn’t exit. Still, it could have been pulled out and I could have been stitched up. But the bullet I was shot with was rusty. That makes it poisonous all on its own. A horrible infection followed.’ Jonathon tried to laugh, not wanting to inflict that horror on Claire. ‘Fortunately, I don’t remember it. I was delirious, out of my head with fever once the infection truly set in.’

  ‘That was when they sent you home?’ Her question was quiet.

  ‘I don’t remember much of that either. I am told there was some concern I wouldn’t make it home. I raved in French the whole trip back.’ He took her hand away from the scar and raised it to his lips. ‘I don’t want to talk about the war tonight, Claire.’ Or any night, Claire thought with a flash of intuition. As a rule, people shied away from topics that were unpleasant and Jonathon took great pains to always be pleasant. There were secrets there, perhaps even nightmares. But he was right, tonight was for other things.

  He reached for her and she went easily, letting him draw her flush against him so that their lengths matched. His mouth found hers perhaps as much to start the pleasure as to stop the words, the questions. His hand slid beneath her night rail, warm against her leg, the fabric rucking up as his hand progressed up her thigh. He murmured against the column of her neck, ‘You are beautiful, too, Claire. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.’

  She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Such flattery, Jonathon.’ But for the night she would believe it. He made her feel beautiful, wanted, with his words, with his touch. His fingers skimmed the place between her thighs and her body wept with delight and with knowledge. This was what he’d meant to do in the bookshop, to touch her like this, to conjure this sensation from her. She was glad now the shopkeeper had caught them. She wanted to savour the sensations, wanted to linger over the pleasure.

  He touched her again. This time his stroke was insistent, no mere skimming graze, and her body seemed to leap to life. ‘Mmm...’ A slow moan escaped her lips, her legs parted, following the logic that surely more access meant more pleasure. She was not wrong. Jonathon cupped her mons, stroked her, building a slow, hot fire within and all the while she felt her core weeping, preparing for something more. Warmth pooled in her low and potent, waiting to be loosed. Her hips arched upwards, seeking the ‘more’. Jonathon’s fingers parted her, exposed her and she gasped at the intimate intrusion—shocking and exquisite in its boldness. His thumb teased the tiny bean hidden within and her body went wild with a thousand sensations, one word chorusing in her mind again, again, again!

  With each pass, each stroke, she soared, she wept until she could feel her own slickness against Jonathon’s hand. The pleasure became too much. Her body pressed into Jonathon’s hand, her body crying with contradictions, wanting more and yet wanting release. It was too much. It was not enough. Jonathon knew. Each stroke brought her closer to whatever she sought until she was there at last. Soaring, falling, shattering, with a scream muffled by Jonathon’s mouth.

  ‘Oh, sweet heavens,’ she said at last when the power of the moment had settled. ‘I hadn’t known such a thing was possible.’ Her voice sounded breathy to her. Jonathon was gazing at her with something akin to awe in those beautiful eyes.

  ‘Now you know.’ His own voice was husky and it occurred to her that while she’d found release he had not, not physically any way.

  Her own audacity got the better of her. ‘May I do that to you? For you?’ Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to give him pleasure, to watch him find pleasure and know she’d been the one to give it.

  His eyes glittered, dark with want as he spoke a single word. ‘Yes.’ His hands moved to the fall of his trousers, but she pushed them away.

  ‘Let me.’ She wanted to do all of it, be responsible for all of it. Her hands trembled as they worked the flap. She could feel him hot and ready beneath the fabric, already in a state of arousal. Pleasuring her had already brought him pleasure it seemed. A smile took her. Her response had pleased him, had been, in fact, exactly what he’d hoped.

  The realisation made her bold, confident. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, his body open to her, exposed as she had been to him. He was hers for the taking, every inch of him magnificent. His phallus stirred under her gaze, starting to strain. It was all the invitation she needed. She closed her hand about him, hearing the sharp intake of breath at her touch and then an exhalation of pleasure. ‘You feel so damn good, Claire.’

  She slid her hand down his length, exploring, testing the power of her touch to rouse him, to pleasure him. And then up, to be welcomed by a bead of moisture at his tip. Up and back, her hand made the journey, his body arching into her stroke, until it gathered itself, giving her warning that he, too, was about to shatter. Only it wasn’t a shattering, a breaking apart when it came, but a surging, potent and hot as she held him, feeling the strength of the shudders racing through him, watching the arch of his muscles and then the relaxation taking him as pleasure ran its course.

  He reached for her, pulling her close against him with the last of his waking strength and she went, laying her head against his chest, fitting her body to his and for a while they slept, but she already knew, as exquisite as the pleasure had been, it hadn’t been enough. Tonight had not satisfied as she’d hoped. It had only provoked, proving it was nothing more than an appetiser on passion’s plate, and when she woke, he would most likely be gone, perhaps in more ways than merely the physical.

  Chapter Fifteen

 
; Lucifer’s balls, what had he done? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that question since leaving Claire’s in the wee hours of morning the same way he’d got in. By now he was quite familiar with what he’d done. Jonathon twirled the stem of his brandy snifter in idle frustration. Maybe the more important question was what was he going to do? He’d been sitting here since early morning. The sky had still been grey when he’d banged on the door of White’s. Since then, he’d progressed from coffee to brandy. This was his second glass. That was saying something considering it was only one in the afternoon. He was no closer to an answer.

  He’d starting drinking at eleven instead of going to French lessons. He could not go to Claire until he had an answer. They’d both tacitly pretended last night had been a night out of time, a night that existed apart from the realities of their world. But he had not bargained on the pleasure being so exquisite, so meaningful. No, that was a lie. He would not have gone if he hadn’t thought the possibility existed. He’d taken no small risk in climbing that trellis. He’d known very well what lay at the end of that journey. Last night, it had been enough to simply discover it, claim it. But today, he wanted more of it and today, he couldn’t have it. Reality intruded.

  He owed it to Claire to stay away now that they both understood what lay between them. He’d kept his promise. She’d had pleasure and she had not been ruined. But he could not dare anything more. It would not be fair to either of them. So, he’d sent a note informing her he wouldn’t be there for his lesson. He’d played the gentleman in that choice, but he felt like a coward. As for the planned trip to Fitzrovia and the French market, he let the weather do the rest.

  It had been pouring since ten o’clock, keeping everyone inside and ruining the possibility of another excursion even if it had been possible. Jonathon had to settle for an afternoon spent at White’s which offered plenty of time to read the foreign newspapers and reflect on the fact that doing so was nowhere near as exciting as reading in a French bookshop with Claire, or climbing into bedrooms with Claire, or Claire’s hand on him bringing the most personal of pleasures.

  ‘May I join you?’

  Jonathon looked up from the French news to greet Preston Worth. He smiled at his old friend and motioned to the empty chair. ‘Please. I could do with some company. The weather has driven everyone to ground.’

  ‘Unless one fancies ladies’ tea parties.’ Preston took a seat and gestured for a waiter to bring him a drink. ‘I hear you’ve been doing the pretty. My mother tells me you came to Lady Morrison’s at-home the other day.’

  ‘Not on purpose.’ Jonathon laughed and held his hands up in mock defence. ‘I was looking for someone.’

  Preston gave him a sly look. ‘Does it happen to be a brunette with chocolate eyes who’s taken a newfound interest in clothes and speaks flawless French?’ The allusion was unmistakable.

  ‘Cognac, her eyes are the colour of cognac, not chocolate and dammit, Preston, this is why one’s friends shouldn’t go into intelligence. Do I have no privacy?’

  Preston smiled smugly and overlooked the dig about intelligence. ‘So you were looking for Claire Welton.’

  ‘She is my French tutor, as you well know, apparently.’ He was a bit chuffed Preston knew. For his sake and Claire’s, Jonathon would rather have kept that bit of information under wraps.

  Preston leaned forward, triumph leaving his expression, replaced by sincerity. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Having friends in intelligence also means they know how to keep a secret. You can trust Owen and me. We are souls of discretion.’

  Jonathon shifted 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 Cecil
ia 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.