Let It Be Love (2 page)

“Not that kind of passion,” Oliver said. “We’re talking about passion of the spirit. Of the heart.”

Warton nodded. “Love, if you will.”

Cavendish raised his glass. “Love.”

“Love, Jonathon.” Oliver eyed him. “Or passion. Whatever you wish to call it. You are never carried away. Never overwhelmed. Which is precisely why you and whatever lady has caught your eye for a time can go your separate ways without recrimination on either side.”

“Or promises of undying affection on her part.” Warton waved blithely. “Even threats—”

“Or family members vowing to track you to the ends of the earth to carve you like a goose if you so much as…” Cavendish paused, then winced. “Only me again?”

Warton eyed the other man with equal parts awe and disbelief. “One does wonder where you find the time.”

Cavendish grinned wickedly. “One makes the time.”

“This is not the least bit amusing.” Helmsley’s tone was mild. “I am as passionate as any of you, probably more. I simply pour most of my passion into my prose.”

Oliver bit back a grin. Helmsley fancied himself the next Charles Dickens, but he had yet to publish so much as a single verse. His failure to do so was in many ways a credit to his integrity. Helmsley’s godfather was a well-respected publisher and his mother wrote novels of adventure and romance. He certainly could have had his work published, but he preferred to submit his offerings under an assumed name, wishing his writing to succeed on its own merit rather than his family connections. Thus far, his integrity remained intact, although his pride was sorely tested.

“Perhaps”—Helmsley considered his friends thoughtfully—“it is not my lack of passion that has prompted this charge against me but my skill and, I might add, success in dealing with the fairer sex.”

Oliver and Warton traded glances.

Cavendish snorted in disdain. “Just because you have never been involved in a scan—”

“Nor shall I. I”—Helmsley got to his feet and bowed to the others with a dramatic flourish—“am a true gentleman. That coupled with my charm and an in-nate understanding of the nature of women is why, when a lady and I decide to part company, it is without recrimination, frenzied promises and”—he glanced ruefully at Cavendish—“threats of dismemberment. As for the question of a perfect bride, I make no apologies for knowing precisely what I want and knowing as well that when I find it I shall waste no time in making the lady in question my wife. And furthermore I admit that knowledge brings me a great deal of satisfaction, as does knowing”—he flashed a triumphant grin—“that it drives the rest of you mad.”

“One day, old man, that confident nature of yours will be your downfall.” Warton’s manner was ominous.

It wasn’t that Helmsley was especially better behaved than the rest of them, it was just that he had never actually been embroiled in a situation he could not talk his way out of. That, coupled with the annoying tendency of women to immediately forgive him for whatever transgression had occurred because he was so blasted nice, and a fair amount of luck, had kept his public reputation, if not completely spotless, at least eminently respectable.

“Take, for example, that rendezvous you have every year at your family’s Christmas Ball.” Warton studied Helmsley curiously. “Have you no concern as to the consequences should someone uninvited stumble upon that little assignation?”

Helmsley thought for a moment, then shrugged and grinned. “No.”

It was common knowledge among the men that Helmsley had a Christmas tradition of sorts—a private meeting with whatever woman had captured his fancy at that particular Christmas in the library at Effington House at some point during the annual Effington Christmas Ball. Helmsley claimed the encounters were relatively innocent, consisting merely of conversation, champagne and perhaps an embrace and a kiss or two. Nothing, he insisted, that would provoke a true scandal, no ruination of virgins or writhing about on the library rug. Still, such claims were made with a distinctly wicked twinkle in his eye, and as much as Helmsley prided himself on his honorable nature and his position as atrue gentleman , no one—save the ladies involved—was especially certain exactly what did transpire in the Effington House library during the Christmas Ball each and every Christmas Eve. Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, heir to the Duke of Roxborough, had never been caught. That too drove his friends mad.

“I say, just out of idle curiosity, mind you,” Cavendish started in a casual manner, “who is the lady this year?”

“Yes, Helmsley, do tell,” Warton drawled. “Who is this year’s lucky miss?”

“I cannot believe you would ask such a thing. A gentleman never reveals the name of a lady under such circumstances.” Helmsley shook his head in a mock mournful manner. “Besides”—an altogether ungentlemanly grin flashed across his face—“there’s more than a week until the ball.”

Oliver chuckled. “So there is no lady as of yet.”

“Ah, but there will be, old friend.” Helmsley paused. “Would you care to make a small wager on it?”

Oliver shook his head. “No.”

“We might as well throw our money into the streets,” Warton added wryly. “If nothing else, you do have our confidence.”

Helmsley laughed. “And on that note I shall bid you all a good day. Christmas is but a week away and I have a great deal to accomplish between then and now.”

“Go, then.” Warton waved him off. “And take that nauseating good cheer with you.”

Helmsley laughed again, the friends made their farewells and a moment later he was off, the faint whistle of a Christmas carol lingering in his wake.

“I do wonder, though”—Warton studied Helmsley’s retreating figure thoughtfully—“exactly what would happen if Helmsley did find a woman who met all his qualifications.”

“A woman with spirit to challenge his mind.” Oliver chuckled. “I daresay such a woman would have no end of other qualities Helmsley might not find as enchanting.”

“In my experience, spirited women tend to be stubborn and single-minded. And not overly concerned with propriety. Not at all the type of woman who could be a duchess. Of course, he might well enjoy that.” Cavendish thought for a moment. “Or”—He grinned—“she would drive him mad.”

It was a delightful thought.

For a long moment, the trio was silent.

“It’s really rather a pity…” Warton began.

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Oliver said slowly.

Warton’s brow furrowed. “Of course, no one in particular comes to mind.”

“No one he hasn’t met.” Oliver shook his head. “Therefore it would have to be someone entirely unknown.”

“It would be the least we could do—”

“In the name of friendship and in the spirit of the season—”

“What?” Confusion rang in Cavendish’s voice. “What is the least we can do in the name of friendship and the spirit of the season?”

“Why, give Helmsley precisely what he wants, of course.” Oliver grinned. “The woman of his dreams.”

“It’s a brilliant idea.” Warton heaved a resigned sigh. “It’s a shame we can’t do something about it.”

“I do have a cousin who should be arriving from Italy any day now,” Oliver said slowly.

“A cousin?” Warton brightened. “Is she the type of woman to appeal to Helmsley?”

“I have no idea.” Oliver thought for a moment. “My mother corresponds with her regularly, but we haven’t seen her for years. My recollection of her is of a somewhat plump, freckled, red-haired, quiet creature. Not an especially attractive child, but pleasant enough in nature, as I remember.”

“Perhaps she’s changed?” Cavendish said.

“Perhaps. She’s five-and-twenty now—”

“And not yet married?” Cavendish asked.

“No. Indeed, her father’s displeasure at her failure to wed is the one item Mother has repeatedly mentioned in regards to my cousin’s letters.”

“Not wed at five-and-twenty?” Cavendish winced. “That’s a bad sign.”

“I doubt she would serve our purposes.” Oliver shrugged. Fiona’s letter announcing her imminent arrival was brief and contained no sense of the young lady’s character. Or why she had decided to return to England after nearly a decade. Of course, her father had died several months ago and perhaps she simply wanted to at last return home. “Besides, I would hesitate to offer up a family member in this cause.”

“Pity. I should love, just once, to see Helmsley head over heels for a woman who is precisely what he claims he wants. It would be the quintessential Christmas gift.” A slow grin grew on Warton’s face. “And it would indeed drive him mad.”

One

Six days later…

“What am I to do, Oliver?” Miss Fiona Fairchild paced the width of her cousin’s parlor and ignored the amused, or perhaps bemused, expression on his face.

Fiona and her sisters had arrived at Oliver’s home a scant hour ago accompanied by the Contessa Orsetti, who had graciously agreed to chaperone them on their journey from Italy. She was traveling to England anyway and said it was certainly no bother. Aunt Edwina had greeted the party with an enthusiasm that quite warmed Fiona’s heart and provided a significant measure of relief as well. For one thing, Aunt Edwina was thankfully nothing like the contessa, who could be both overbearing and presumptuous. For another, her aunt and cousin had had very little warning as to their arrival and it had been more than a dozen years since they’d last seen one another. After sending the contessa on her way, Aunt Edwina had spirited the younger girls off to settle them in their accommodations. Fiona had preferred to wait in the parlor for Cousin Oliver to return home. His greeting had been just as warm as his mother’s, but Fiona had had no time for idle pleasantries. In truth, she had no time to waste at all. She had a crisis of immense proportions confronting her and Oliver might well be her only salvation.

“I refuse to marry a man I’ve never seen, let alone met, and an American at that. He would probably wish to live in his own country and I have spent far too many years away from England already. This is my home and I have missed it more than I can say.”

Oliver leaned casually against the fireplace mantel and studied her. “But you are not averse to marriage in and of itself?”

“Of course not. I wish to marry. Whatever would I do if I did not marry? I am rather a good match, you know.” She turned to him and ticked the points off on her fingers. “I am of good family. I can run a household. I am an excellent hostess. I speak three languages fluently and several others adequately. And the mirror tells me, as have any number of suitors, that I am pretty as well.”

“You are not as…roundand speckled as you were as a child,” Oliver murmured. “You have turned out nicely. Quite nicely.”

“Surprisingly so.” She grinned with the satisfaction of a woman who was indeed pleased with the way she’d turned out. “Thank you, cousin.” Her smile vanished. “What am I to do?”

Oliver’s brows drew together. “I cannot believe Uncle Alfred would leave you in such a position.”

“He was, unfortunately, doing what he thought was best for me. He had encouraged me to marry for years before he fell ill.”

“I assume there were offers?” Oliver’s gaze traveled over her in an appreciative manner. She was well aware of precisely what he saw: a figure no longer plump but curved and appealingly lush, hair that had deepened from a bright, almost orange color to a rich mahogany, intelligent green eyes that tilted upward slightly at the corners and a porcelain complexion marred only by an annoying smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose that men oddly enough seemed to find enchanting. Fiona Fairchild had become a true beauty and she well knew it. Why, hadn’t men compared her to a Renaissance painting?

Still, she could be as ugly as sin, for all it mattered.

“Yes, of course.” She waved away his comment. “Aside from the aforementioned attributes, I am heir to a significant fortune. At least I was. When Father realized he would not recover…” A wave of sadness passed through her and she ignored it. She had mourned for her father upon his death nearly four months ago, and would mourn and miss him for the rest of her days, but at the moment she had the pressing matter of how to resolve the circumstances he had left her in to consider. “He took matters into his own hands.

“In spite of his urgings, Father felt my failure to wed was in part his fault. It wasn’t, of course. I simply never met a man with whom I should wish to spend the rest of my days.” She shrugged. “You must understand that after my stepmother died, I took over her duties in regards to running the household, acting as Father’s hostess and helping with my stepsisters.”

“There are three, aren’t there? And two are twins?”

Fiona nodded. “And I could not care for them more than if they were my own flesh and blood, which in itself compounds my dilemma. Father knew if I had only myself to consider I would never marry a man I had not met.”

“What would you do with your life, then?” Oliver asked mildly. “I cannot see you becoming a governess.”

“Nor can I.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or a lady’s companion or anything else of that nature. I would probably do exactly what I have done.”

“Throw yourself on the mercy of your closest living relative?” He grinned.

“Most certainly.” She flashed him a blinding smile. “You and dear Aunt Edwina would never abandon me and throw me into the streets. Still, I—or rather we—cannot impose on your hospitality forever.”