Unbuttoning The Innocent Miss. Bronwyn Scott

a job well done.

      ‘Répétez. Je m’appelle Claire.’ He watched her mouth form the words and he repeated the phrase, his eyes taking the opportunity to stay riveted on her lips instead of other less seemly places.

      ‘Juh mapel Claire.’

      ‘Jonathon,’ she prompted softly. The sunlight through the window picked out the hidden auburn hues of her hair.

      ‘Yes?’ He lifted his eyes momentarily.

      ‘No, not a question. I meant, you should insert your own name in the sentence. You said “Claire”.’

      ‘Right. Juh mapel Jonathon,’ he corrected, feeling like a stupid schoolboy.

      ‘That was lovely. It was so much better,’ she complimented and he felt absurdly pleased at having mastered the simple sentence. She cocked her head to one side, studying him, and this time he couldn’t escape to the window. He was already there. That look of hers, as if she was trying to fathom the depths of his soul, had unnerved him and then aroused him since the lesson had started. Certainly, women had looked at him before. Being the object of their attentions wasn’t new. He knew they found him attractive: physically, fiscally, socially. His attraction was multi-faceted. But no woman ever looked at him that way. She wasn’t measuring him, she was searching him. What did she see? That made him a little nervous.

      He’d got up to move so many times she must think he had a problem. He couldn’t very well explain he was moving to spare her the obvious sight of an erection well in progress. Fawn breeches had not been his friend lately. First tea, now this.

      ‘May I ask you a few questions?’ Her tone was softer now, more ladylike as she searched. It better matched the soft shades of her eyes than the scold she’d given him. ‘You can translate the language? You can write it?’

      ‘Yes. Quite well.’ A hint of defensiveness crept into his tone. Did she think him an entirely ignorant buffoon? His pride stung. For a moment he thought it might be better if she did see his erection. Better that than to think he was illiterate.

      ‘How did you work with your tutors in the past? Did you read from sheets like the one I had for you this morning?’

      ‘Yes, we’d read passages out of books.’ He tried to guess where she was going with this. ‘What does that have to do with anything, Miss Welton?’ Now he was feeling defensive on behalf of his instructors. He’d had the best.

      ‘We won’t be doing that any more. I don’t think it will work for you. If it was going to work, it would have worked by now.’ She tapped her chin thoughtfully with one long finger. ‘I have a hunch, Mr Lashley, that you may suffer from performance anxiety.’

      Clearly she had not seen the state of his breeches.

      ‘Whoa, wait a minute, Miss Welton, I assure you I do not have “performance anxiety”.’ If anything, this morning’s debacle proved just the opposite. He was fully functioning, all right, aroused by a woman he barely knew because she wore a pale-green dress and did gorgeous things with her mouth.

      She gave a delicate cough. ‘There are many types of performance anxiety, Mr Lashley. I am not entirely sure what sort of performance anxiety you are referring to, but I am referring to the idea that when you’ve spoken French in the past, you’ve felt as if you were on display or under judgement and it hampered your ability to perform the task.’

      Jonathon gave a snort. ‘And you can solve this problem?’ He already feared she couldn’t, through no fault of her own. He wasn’t telling her everything about his apparent disability.

      She nodded without hesitation, never suspecting he was holding out on her. ‘Yes, I believe I can. It may require some unorthodox teaching methods.’ Ropes and chairs came to mind unbidden. Perhaps he hadn’t been wrong after all. ‘We won’t be sitting at tables and reading from books.’ Oh, so no ropes and chairs. ‘I believe reading, the presence of visual cues, has been part of the problem. When you read, you see the words, you don’t hear them. You pronounce them as we would in English. While the French may have the same letters in the alphabet as the English, they don’t always have the same sounds. You need to hear the language, not see it. We’ll work from there.’

      Jonathon raised a dark brow, in part impressed with her theory, but also doubtful. He really ought to tell her the rest of it. ‘Countless tutors have tried.’ It was unfair to hold back the last piece. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak French. Only that he couldn’t any more. At one time, he’d been perfectly fluent on all levels; before he’d gone to war, before he’d lost Thomas. Before his life had been put on hold.

      ‘They haven’t tried my method. Are you willing? We’ll start with simply having you repeat my phrases and then we’ll eventually move on to conversations where you will construct your own responses. We won’t be doing any of this sitting at a table in a stuffy old room. Tomorrow, we’ll walk in the gardens so you might feel more at ease, more natural.’ Ah, the performance anxiety theory again. He had to give her points for trying.

      The clock on the mantel chimed. It was one. The lesson was over. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur Lashley. À la prochaine.’

      ‘Alla pro-shane... Claire.’ Such familiarity was bold of him. His voice hovered over her name, drawing it out as if it were a new discovery. In its way it was precisely that. He couldn’t think of her as Miss Welton any more. Miss Welton belonged to a wallflower of a woman, but this woman, the woman he’d met in the library, had been anything but retiring. This woman had fought for him. Claire Welton was tenacious.

      He let his eyes hold hers as if she were a woman he’d met at a ball and found interesting. Something flickered in her eyes and she dropped her gaze first. Apparently tenacity had its limits and while those limits extended to throwing herself in front of doors and saying provocative things like ‘performance anxiety’ and ‘watch my mouth’, it drew the line at returning a man’s extended gaze. It was an interesting dichotomy to be sure. Claire Welton was not all she seemed. She had layers.

      He wouldn’t mind peeling them back, not so much like peeling an onion—that just left the onion in a shambles—but like the petals of a rose, where the petals were pulled back not to ruin, but to reveal.