Let It Be Love (22 page)

Desire. Temptation. Seduction. Surrender.

She stared at him. “What?”

Good God, had he said that aloud? He groaned to himself.

“Did you say something?”

“Did I…yes. Yes, I believe I did indeed.” He drew a deep breath. “I said desire, temptation, seduction.”

Her gaze met his. “And surrender.”

“And surrender.” He nodded. “Yes, I certainly said surrender. Fine word,surrender . It means to…to…submit, you know. To yield, to capitulate.”

“I know what surrender means. What I don’t know is why you said it. Nor do I know why you also said desire and seduction.”

“Don’t forget temptation,” he said weakly.

“Oh, I would never forget temptation.”

“Nor would I,” he muttered.

“Well?” There was a definite twinkle of amusement in her eye as if she knew full well precisely what he’d been thinking and exactly what had been, and indeed still was, on his mind. The corners of her mouth quirked upward in the vaguest hint of a smug smile.

And there it was again. That awful feeling that his life was no longer under his control. That forces that had nothing to do with him had taken it—no—had snatched it from his hands. Forces that had swirled around him since the moment Fiona Fairchild had appeared from the shadows and into the forefront of his life.

“Well…” It was time to take his life back. Past time. “I’ve been considering the merits of desire and seduction.” His gaze met hers. “As well as temptation.”

Caution sounded in her voice. “The merits? What do you mean, the merits?”

“I mean the benefits, the virtues, as it were. As well as the merits of surrender.”

She stared up at him. “Surrender?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

She licked her lips as if her mouth were abruptly dry. He resisted the urge to grin. “I’m…I’m not sure.”

“Although I must say seduction has a great deal of appeal as well, as does desire and temptation. But I think my preference is for surrender.” He smiled pleasantly. “What do you say, Miss Fairchild? Will you agree to surrender, then?”

She stared in obvious disbelief, then rose to her feet and raised her chin. “Surrender is not a possibility, my lord, nor will it ever be. I told you once before, I—”

“Miss Fairchild.” Jonathon rested his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “I think surrender will suit our purposes rather well.”

She gasped. “Your purposes, perhaps, but as I think our individual intentions are completely at odds—”

“Therefore I proposeThe Surrender of the Seasons as a title for”—he straightened—“Fiona’s Book.”

“A title?” Her eyes widened. “You were talking about a title?”

“Of course.” He cast her an innocent look. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“I thought…well, you said…and…a title?”

He nodded and resisted the urge to laugh. “A title.”

“A title, of course, yes. Exactly.” She nodded with enthusiasm. “I thought you were talking about a title.”

“Unless you preferred
The Seduction of the Seasons, as you seem to have rather strong feelings about surrender.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not at all. Surrender”—she winced slightly at the word—“is acceptable.”

He shrugged. “Either will work, I suppose. Although, personally, I do still prefer”—he flashed her a wicked grin—“surrender.”

“I’m not surprised.” Her gaze locked with his and a glimmer of admiration showed in her eyes. Or perhaps it was recognition. At once he realized she played this game every bit as well as he did. “I think surrender sounds”—she lowered her voice—“perfect.”

“You do?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She paused. “Although desire is appropriate as well. Let me think.” She tapped the end of her pen on her lower lip. “What about
Desire of the Gods ?”

“Acceptable, I suppose.” His gaze followed the movement of her pen. It was extremely distracting. No doubt deliberately. “As you say,
desire is an appropriate word. For our purposes.”

“Isn’t it, though?” She ran the end of the pen along her lip and his stomach twisted. Fiona’s skill at flirtation was as polished as Jonathon’s. How very interesting. “But perhaps even better would be…temptation?”

And most effective. He swallowed hard. “Temptation?”

“For our purposes, that is.”

“Yes, yes, our purposes.”

“Temptation
,
too is an excellent word. Although upon further consideration I must admit that I agree with you.” She reached forward across the table and tapped the end of her pen on his chest. “As to the merits of surrender, that is.”

Enough, however, was enough. His writing might lack, but in the fine art of flirtation he was an expert. He caught her hand. “In the title?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“As in
The Surrender of the Seasons ?”

She met his gaze directly. “Or
A Nymph’s Surrender .”

“Surrender to the Gods.”

She nodded. “A Divine Surrender.”

“Better yet”—he took the pen from her hand and tossed it aside—“A Fair Surrender.”

“A Fair Surrender?”

How far would she allow this game to go? How far would he permit it? He pulled her hand to his lips, his gaze locked on hers. “A Very Fair Surrender.”

“My lord.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. “I think—”

“Miss Fairchild, throughout all of this you have been candid and honest with me.”

“Yes?” Her voice had a breathless quality.

“I have not been similarly so with you, in regards to your proposal of marriage, that is. I should like to remedy that now.” He lightly kissed the palm of her hand and she shivered beneath his touch. “I should like to be completely honest.”

“You would?”

“I would indeed, and in all honesty, I must tell you…” His gaze drifted to her lips and back to her eyes.

“A woman has never caused me to lose sleep before.”

“Never?”

“Never.” He shook his head. “I have been unable to think of anything except you.” “You haven’t?”

“You are in my thoughts day and night.”

“Oh, my,” she murmured, staring in what might be disbelief or simply surprise.

“You have muddled my mind, Miss Fairchild. You have confused my senses.” He kept hold of her hand and moved toward the end of the table, drawing her along with him, Fiona on one side, Jonathon on the other. “I have never been befuddled in my life until now.”

“Never?”

They reached the end of the table and he stepped toward her. “Not that I can recall.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice didn’t so much as waver, but there was a definite touch of confusion in her eyes. Good. It was her turn to be confused. “Perhaps your memory is faulty?”

“My memory is excellent.” He smiled down at her in a slow and leisurely manner.

“Well, then…” She squared her shoulders, stepped closer to him and looked into his eyes. “Do you intend to do something about it? Your befuddlement, that is?”

“Oh, I do, Miss Fairchild.” He pulled her into his arms. “I do indeed.”

“Perhaps,” she said slowly and with a great deal of reluctance, “this would be the proper moment, in the interest of friendship and getting better acquainted and your well-being—”

“My well-being?”

“Our well-being, then, to ask a question.”

“Unless I’m very much mistaken”—he bent and

kissed the side of her neck just below her ear—“you already have.”

She shuddered. “Have I?”

“You asked what I intended to do about my befuddlement.” He ran his lips along the line of her jaw.

She sucked in a hard breath. “And did you answer?”

“Not entirely.” His lips murmured over her skin. “But what I intend to do right now is kiss you.”

“I suspected as much.” Her breath was shallow. “And did you have a question for me?”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I said there would be no more kissing. I don’t think—oh, my, that’s very nice.”

“I thought so.” He smiled against her neck.

“Still, it’s not the wisest course.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Answer my question,” he fairly growled. “Do you want me to kiss y—”

“Yes.” Fiona stared up at him, an odd mix of determination and desire in her eyes. “Yes, I do. I think it might well be the only way to ease this—”

“Miss Fairchild.” He pulled her firmly against him. “Kissing you will not ease anything.” He brushed his lips over hers. “But it will be most delightful.”

He pressed his lips harder to hers. For a moment she was still. Then her body relaxed against his, an odd sort of sigh whispered through her and her mouth opened to his. Abruptly she pulled away. “This is a dreadful mistake, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” he said solemnly.

She studied him as if to gauge his sincerity, then nodded. “As long as you know.”

She grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him back to her, kissing him with an eagerness that did indeed speak of desire and temptation and seduction and surrender and…

He pulled away and stared at her. “Upon further thought, I might not know. Why is it a mistake? Other than the obvious impropriety.”

“Because one kiss with you, Jonathon Effington”—she wrapped her arms around him and smiled—“is not nearly enough.” She pulled his head to hers, and pressed her lips hard against his. Her body molded to his and he gathered her closer against him. Her lips were soft and warm and just the nicest bit demanding. And there was a heady scent about her, that of sun and spring and all sorts of delights. He could easily lose himself in the feel of her mouth on his, the heat between his body and hers, the anticipation surging with the blood in his veins….

One kiss is not nearly enough.

Not for her and definitely not for him. He had known it from the moment they’d met. One kiss was simply the beginning, a prelude, a prologue….

Good Lord, what was he doing? What was he thinking? Or rather, he wasn’t thinking, at least not with his head. There could be no more kisses or anything else, regardless of how tempting, unless he was prepared to do the honorable thing and marry her. And he wasn’t. He’d become far and away too involved with this woman. Why, they’d become well acquainted and one would think that alone would be enough to quell any surges of lust. But if anything, their fledgling friendship had only intensified more intimate feelings. However subtly it had happened, this woman had worked her way into his life. She dominated his thoughts, if not other parts of his body. And it would end badly. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. How could it end otherwise?

He might well break her heart. He had never broken a heart before and the idea was not appealing. Or she might break his. That held no appeal either. He had seen his friends in the throes of a broken heart and it was to be avoided.

He pulled away. “Fiona, I think—”

“Did you hear that?” Her brow furrowed. “Voices in the entryway?”

“No, I didn’t hear a thing.” Save the thudding of his own heart. “Fiona—”

Abruptly she stepped out of his arms, turned toward the table, grabbed the pages they had written along with her drawings and stashed them all in the portfolio. She moved quickly to her seat, put them on the chair and promptly sat on them, the wide skirt of her gown providing an effective hiding place. She folded her hands on the table and smiled up at him in a polite and formal manner as if they had not just been in each other’s arms. “You were saying, my lord?”

He stared in confusion. “I was saying…what are you—”

Without warning the barely open door swung wide and a trio of exuberant young ladies swept into the room in a flurry of chatter and cold air from the out-of-doors. All three were much the same in appearance, although one was a few inches taller.

“We’re back,” the first said brightly, her hat dangling from her hand. She caught sight of Jonathon and pulled up short. “You must be Lord Helmsley.”

“The
Lord Helmsley?” the tallest said with the raise of an arched brow. The third narrowed her eyes. “The same Lord Helmsley who agreed to marry Fiona and then thought better—”

Fiona stood. “Is Aunt Edwina with you?”

The girl who had just spoken shrugged, pulled off her bonnet and patted her hair. “She is conferring with the cook about supper.”

“Good.” Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, took the portfolio from the seat behind her and tossed it on the table. “My lord, I don’t believe you have met my sisters.”

“I have not had the pleasure,” he murmured, although
pleasure might not be the right word. Given the way they stared at him,
ordeal might be more appropriate.

Fiona’s sisters studied him as if he were a specimen under glass. A specimen they found lacking in some manner, like an insect missing a leg or a moth with a mangled wing. An ugly moth. There was, however, nothing lacking in these three as far as he could see. They were all lovely, with dark hair and dark eyes and, as well as he could tell given they were still clad in cloaks, as fair in figure as their older sister. The two shorter girls were obviously twins, although the taller sister looked as much like the others as to give the appearance of triplets. Oliver’s assessment of them was correct: These three would have no problem finding suitable husbands.