Her parents surged around them, Lady Belvoir swept past with a cold look. ‘Come, Cecilia, we have an unwanted guest to take care of. This is an exclusive event. She has some gall showing her face after this past week.’
Lord Belvoir’s hand closed on Jonathon’s arm, his voice a cautioning growl. ‘If you take one more step, you will never see Vienna.’
Jonathon raised his voice, his decision made. He was indeed done here. ‘Are you threatening me?’ Heads swivelled.
‘Be careful, boy. I can make sure you never see a diplomatic post,’ Belvoir warned, but Jonathon was past the point of caution. Let Claire see that he would give up Vienna because he wanted to, not because she compelled him to. Let her see that he was free to come to her if she should change her mind. She had no arguments left now. He could never come to resent her. This was his choice alone.
‘I was unaware that marriage to your daughter was a qualification for diplomacy,’ Jonathon shot back. ‘The last time I checked, Britain preferred to send the best man into the field, a man who cannot be bought. I am that man. Let everyone here be aware of it and be aware of how you choose to wield your power.’ People began to back away from them, murmuring among themselves. Belvoir had been exposed. He was a powerful man; would it matter? It didn’t matter to Jonathon. He stalked towards the door but Cecilia’s words halted him.
‘This is all her fault!’ Cecilia’s voice rang shrill through the room. ‘Claire Welton is a whore. She’s turned your head, Jonathon Lashley, with seduction and now you’re willing to throw everything away for her.’
Guests fell into stunned silence. There hadn’t been such a cut direct in ages. He had to act now. For Claire. For himself. This could not go unaddressed. But Claire was faster, closer. Jonathon watched it all happen in slow motion. Claire’s face was a portrait of icy disdain as she raised her gloved hand, slapping Cecilia across the face, before she turned and stalked out of the room. He was two steps behind her. She was not leaving without him. Not ever again.
* * *
So this was how the world ended, with a slap across the face. Claire pressed a hand to her stomach. She could barely breathe and her pulse was racing. She couldn’t believe she’d done it. But words had seemed an inadequate response to being called a whore in front of London’s finest. Really, her ship was sunk before the slap. She might as well go down with it, too.
‘You slapped her!’ Jonathon materialised by her side, his hand at her elbow helping her navigate the stairs.
‘She had her hands on you. I thought that was the rule?’ Claire started to tremble, the shock of it all threatening to overwhelm her. It would be the talk of the ton tomorrow. Probably by midnight. She would be truly exiled, she supposed. She didn’t think she minded. Not yet anyway. For now, it was enough to have Jonathon beside her.
‘You slapped Belvoir, metaphorically speaking.’ She was still stunned by what he’d done. His voice had carried loud and strong across the drawing room, making a public proclamation of his refusal to be bullied. Her heart had swelled for him in those moments. ‘You’ve given up Vienna. Your dream.’
‘Maybe. Perhaps I will still get the post on merit, not marriage.’ Jonathon beamed at her. ‘Although, I do plan to marry very soon.’
Claire’s breath caught. ‘Jonathon—’
He interrupted her protest. ‘You can’t say I gave Vienna up for you now, Claire. I gave it up for me, at least getting it that way. I want that post on merit and you have no more excuses.’ He dropped to his knee and gripped her hand tight, laughter and longing dancing in his eyes. ‘Veux-tu m’epouser, Claire?’
Marriage? The words stunned her. She was starting to tremble again. Happy-ever-after was being offered, kneeling right before her and she had no more excuses. A bubble of joy welled up in her throat. She was tempted to tease him with a saucy retort, but this was too serious, no teasing matter. This was about her and Jonathon.
‘Claire, you’re shaking.’
‘Now I’m crying, too.’ She tugged at her hands, wanting to wipe away her tears as they spilled down her cheeks.
‘Why?’
‘Because this is about happiness, about dreams coming true. This is about for ever.’
‘Damn right it is, Claire.’ Jonathon rose and wiped away a tear with his thumb. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘Oui.’ Quite possibly the best word in the French language ever.
He kissed her hard and long and then they were running, down the street, laughing up at the sky, filled with the thrill of living and loving.
‘Jonathon, where are we going?’ Claire gasped between the laughter, not that it mattered. She’d go anywhere with him.
‘Into the future, together.’ He grabbed her about the waist and swung her around in the middle of the street. ‘Whatever it brings, Claire, wherever it brings!’
Claire laughed up at him, letting the joy of the moment take her soul. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Epilogue
Welton ballroom—two weeks later
It would be her last party for a while. Maybe her last party ever on this grand scale. Who knew how things would end for her? Beatrice surreptitiously put a hand over her stomach as she surveyed the glittering ballroom. Tonight was a farewell on several accounts. Most obviously, everyone was gathered to send off Jonathon and Claire. Only three of the people gathered this evening were here to send her off. Jonathon and Claire would leave tomorrow for Vienna, his appointment had come through on his wedding day, a week ago. Sir Owen Danvers had presented it to him at the wedding breakfast. They would leave tomorrow for the next great adventure in their lives.
So would she. She would leave for the country, for exile.
It was the end of July, the end of her allotted time in the city for the Season, all her family could afford without being disgraced. She’d promised her family she’d leave for the country before anyone suspected her condition. She didn’t dare wait any longer. The flat of her stomach was starting to give way day by day to a gently rising mound. She didn’t regret it. She wished society didn’t either.
She was ready to go. She watched Claire and Jonathon dance past, Claire radiant with happiness. The wedding had been public and extraordinary, held at St George’s with flowers galore. The church had been packed with standing room only to see the man who had faced down Lord Belvoir in the man’s own drawing room wed the sensation of the Season in an ivory creation embroidered elaborately at the hem with lavender and yellow flowers and forget me nots.
Some would say Claire had changed in the past months, but Beatrice knew better. Claire was the same as she’d always been, she’d just stopped hiding it and that choice had led to her happy ever after with the man she loved, the man she deserved.
The thought brought a wash of tears to Beatrice’s eyes and she blinked them back as Evie and May approached. There was no time for tears, no time for regrets. ‘You’re not crying on us, are you?’ May looped an arm through hers and hugged her. ‘Evie and I will be back in the country soon enough. You only have to survive two weeks without us.’
Beatrice forced a smile. ‘If I am crying, it’s tears of happiness. I declare our first mission a success.’ She gave Evie a mischievous look. ‘Get ready. You’re next.’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from COMMANDED BY THE FRENCH DUKE by Meriel Fuller.
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Commanded by the French Duke
by Meriel Fuller
Chapter One
Wiltshire, England—October 1265
‘Thank you, Ralph, for coming today.’ Alinor of Claverstock turned to the burly lad sitting beside her on the cart seat, a trace of relief in her voice. Despite the faint rays of a weak October sun, she shivered in the chilly morning air, her green eyes vivid, shining, as she threw him a grateful smile.
‘Any excuse to break from ploughing in the stubble, mistress,’ Ralph replied with a quick grin, flicking the reins expertly down the bristled backs of the oxen as they began to slow. His skin was ruddy, sunburnt from his constant work outside. ‘Market day in Knighton is certainly a better option.’
‘I probably could have managed on my own.’ Alinor fixed her eyes on the rutted track ahead before it disappeared around the curve of the next hill, willing the oxen to move slightly faster than their current snail’s pace. Leaning back against the wooden seat, she adjusted her slight frame to the incline of the cart as it lumbered to the valley bottom. ‘I feel guilty for taking you away from your other duties; there’s so much to do at the Priory at this time of year.’
Ralph twisted around, his muscled shoulder jogging into the towering pile of grain sacks behind them. ‘I would have liked to have seen you try and shift this lot, mistress. Besides, it’s not right, a lady of your—’
‘We’ve been through this, Ralph.’ Alinor cut off his speech abruptly. ‘The nuns need my help and I’m happy to give it.’ She flicked the uneven hem of her practical gown down over her boots, stained dark from the heavy morning dew. Through her silk hose, which she had forgotten to change in her haste to reach the Priory that morning, the coarse wool dress scratched uncomfortably at her legs. Around her waist, at the point where the knotted girdle pulled in the baggy garment, her skin itched. She glanced up at the sky where the sun was attempting to push through a rolling bank of pale-grey cloud. When the light broke through, the rays were hot, illuminating the mists that rose from the dew-soaked fields, polishing the grass to silver.
‘Well, it’s very good of you, my lady.’ The cart lurched over a large dried-up rut in the track, a sudden, jolting movement, and Ralph frowned as one of the cart’s wheels began to squeak ominously. ‘I knew I should have put some extra grease on that wheel before we left,’ he muttered.
‘Will it slow us up at all?’ Alinor asked quickly, then bit down on her bottom lip, hoping Ralph hadn’t noticed the urgency in her tone. Behave normally, she told herself. No one must suspect anything. Usually, she would take the whole day to attend the market in Knighton, selling the grain before buying any goods that the nuns might need. But today? Today she wanted to return to the Priory as soon as possible. Ralph had no idea what she had done and neither did the nuns. But if no one knew of the girl’s existence, she would be safer. Only Alinor knew where she was hidden. Clasping her knees tightly, she willed her heart to stop racing. The sooner she could help the poor maid leave the country, the better.
‘I’m sure we will reach the market,’ Ralph reassured her, ‘and I’ll fix it while I’m there.’ As they squeaked past a solitary hawthorn, branches thick with red berries, three magpies rose, squawking indignantly, blue-black feathers glossy in the sun, white flashes on dark tails.
Running a finger around the tight curve of her wimple, Alinor tried to loosen the restrictive cloth around her neck and temples. The thick white linen wound about her throat, rising around her face to cover every strand of hair, over which she wore a piece of fawn-coloured linen which served as a veil. Even now, her stepmother’s mocking tone echoed in her skull; Wilhelma simply couldn’t understand why her stepdaughter would choose to wear such sober garments: a plain, undyed linen gown with a mud-coloured veil. But then, Wilhelma failed to even comprehend why she would help the nuns in the first place. Her stepmother would never think of helping anyone, apart from her wonderful son, Eustace. An involuntary shudder crawled down Alinor’s spine; no, she would not think of her stepmother now, of what that woman had wanted to do. Elements of that terrifying night at Claverstock shot through her brain: desperate, splintered images that sent ripples of anxiety through her slight frame. She smoothed out the fabric of her gown across her knees, plucking at a stray thread. Dragging her thoughts to the present, she forced her brain to focus on her task today. The market. Selling the nuns’ grain at a profit. The sisters would need the money to get them through the coming winter; she needed to concentrate on that.
As the sun rose, the air became unseasonably muggy, oppressive. Clouds of midges rose up, dancing above dank wet spots beside the track. Parched leaves, edges curled up and blackened, drifted down from the few trees dotted here and there in the sloping fields that ran down to the path, catching under the cart wheels with a dry rustle. The scant, shifting breeze carried a sharpness, a forerunner of winter.
‘It’s not far now, mistress,’ Ralph said, across the incessant noise of the squeaking wheel. ‘The bridge is around this next bend.’
And then the river was before them, startling, glinting silver. Water rushed, cackling throatily across the stones at the shallow, stone-strewn edges. In the middle, the river was deep and fast-flowing, the surge of current too dangerous for a horse or person to cross safely. A narrow packhorse bridge spanned the gurgling flow with four stone arches, rising steeply at the centre to counter any problems with flooding in winter.
Clusters of brown-winged seeds bunched beneath the yellowing leaves of the sycamores by the river’s edge; a few spun down, circling crazily around her, landing on her shoulders, her lap. ‘Quick, let’s cross it before someone comes the other way!’ Alinor grasped at Ralph’s arm. ‘I want to get to the market before noon.’
‘There’s no one around, mistress,’ Ralph said, pushing back his chestnut hair, the smooth strands flopping across his brow. ‘It’s too early for most folks.’ Pulling on the reins, he guided the oxen towards the flared stone entrance of the bridge, their hooves slipping on the steep ascent of greasy cobbles. He drove the animals along carefully, their heads nodding in unison as he steered them between the stone parapets. As they passed the middle of the bridge, an ominous crack sounded from the squeaking wheel, followed by a sickening sound of crunching wood. The cart tipped violently, the right side dropping down with a significant jolt.
‘Oh!’ Alinor’s arms flailed outwards, instinctively seeking to steady herself as she was thrown to one side. For one horrible moment she thought she would lose her balance and tip straight into the whirling river below, but Ralph grabbed her arm, hauling her back.
‘Damn it!’ he cursed in annoyance, pushing distracted fingers through his hair. ‘Wait here, my lady, and hold the animals while I see what’s happened.’ Squeez
ing his brawny frame between the stone parapet and the cart, he ducked beneath.
She heard a muffled groan. ‘The axle’s broken,’ Ralph shouted up to her, coming back. ‘I’ll have to fetch some help before we can shift this thing.’
‘Then I’ll come with you,’ Alinor said, shuffling to the edge of the seat.
Ralph held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Probably best if you stay here, my lady.’ He glanced at the voluminous fabric that spilled out from her girdle and draped over the seat, material that would hamper her stride. ‘With the greatest respect, I can move more quickly on my own. Besides, someone needs to stay with the cart; those sacks of grain are worth a lot of money.’
‘A whole winter’s worth,’ Alinor agreed. Ralph’s words made sense.
‘Will you be all right on your own, my lady? I’ll not be gone long. I seem to remember passing a farmstead a couple of fields back.’
‘Of course,’ she replied confidently. ‘I have my dagger—’ she touched the leather scabbard hanging from her plaited waist belt ‘—and no one would ever dream of attacking a lay sister, or at least someone dressed as one!’
Ralph laughed. ‘Not unless they wanted to risk eternal hell and damnation!’ He waved casually and loped off along the way they had come.
Alinor sighed. Wriggling her spine against the cart seat, she allowed the reins to drop beside her. Out of habit, she kneaded her left forearm, trying to alleviate the slight, constant ache that had plagued her since her accident, a small frown crinkling the skin between her finely etched brows. The oxen stood patiently, ears flicking idly at the flies massing above their heads. There were more trees now, along the river: sturdy beech, willow, stubby hawthorn dotted the flat, wide valley. The earlier cloud had dispersed and now the rising sun filtered through the shifting leaf canopy, casting a dappled glow.
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives) Page 22
