Let It Be Love (24 page)

“I must go. Now, I…I…I have an appointment. Yes, that’s it.” Jonathon grabbed the portfolio and started toward the door, refusing to meet her gaze. He wasn’t at all sure he could see desire simmering in her green eyes and remain steadfast. “I can finish the rest of the story myself. I have your drawings. Indeed, there’s no need for us to…Silly, really when you think about it. Just asking for trouble,” he muttered. “I have recently arranged the purchase of a town house from the man who is to marry my sister, tomorrow actually, and it will provide a quiet place to write without interruption.”

“Jonathon, you’re babbling.” Amusement sounded in her voice.

“Don’t be absurd. I never babble. I have never babbled in my life and I do not intend to start now.” He headed for the door knowing full well he was indeed babbling, or something suspiciously like babbling. Nonetheless, he knew he had to leave now, at once, before the temptation presented by the willing and delectable Fiona Fairchild proved too much. Even a saint would be hard-pressed to reject what she offered, and he was no saint.

“When will you return?” she called after him.

“When the story is finished,” he said, fumbling with the door handle. “And when I have spoken to the printers and arranged for lithographs to be made of your drawings and that sort of thing.” Dear Lord, he had no idea what he was saying.

“Do keep in mind we probably haven’t much time.”

“I know. I shall do everything possible to expedite matters.” He forced a businesslike note to his voice.

“With luck, I should have it all well in hand sometime next week.”

“I will see you before Lady Chester’s ball, then?”

“Yes. Of course. Probably. I don’t know.” He yanked the door open wide.

“Jonathon?”

“What?” He snapped his head toward her, only then realizing she stood no more than an inch or two from him. And realized as well he was trapped with one hand on the door handle and the other gripping the portfolio.

“Jonathon.” She rested her palms on his chest. Without thinking, he flattened himself against the door.

“I simply want you to know.” She leaner closer, the breath of her words warm against his lips. It was all he could do not to toss caution aside, abandon restraint, drop the portfolio and ravish her right here in the doorway. “That I very much like and I think is most appropriate…”

“What?” He could barely croak out the word.

“A Fair Surrender.” She brushed her lips lightly across his. He jerked back and smacked his head against the door. She winced in sympathy although he could have sworn he saw at least the hint of a stifled smile, and stepped back.

“Good.” He drew a relieved breath and edged along the door. “Excellent.A Fair Surrender it is, then. It’s perfect. For our purposes, that is. Good day, Miss Fairchild.” He straightened, nodded and took his leave using every bit of self-determination he could muster not to look as if he were fleeing. Which, of course, he was.

Jonathon didn’t breathe normally again until he was safely on the street and well away from irresistible women with ruin on their lovely minds. It was cold and a chill breeze caught at his coat, but he relished it. The crisp air cleared his head and helped him to think and Lord knows he had a great deal to think about. He signaled to his driver that he wished to walk and started down the street, his carriage following at a discreet distance.

Damn the woman anyway. What on earth had possessed her to make such an offer? And it wasn’t even an offer as much as it was a declaration. An announcement. Why, she’d given him no choice in the matter whatsoever. She’d made her decision and that was that. It was a good thing for her that Jonathon was descended from generations of Effingtons who were made of sterner stuff than to allow a woman to sacrifice her virtue no matter how willing or eager she may be. And what in the name of all that’s holy was wrong with him? His step slowed. Fiona Fairchild’s virtue was no doubt intact, but she had definitely been kissed before and had definitely kissed back. The woman was no stranger to flirtation. By God, she was five-and-twenty and as skilled at flirtation as Jonathon himself!

Fiona was beautiful and willing and a mature adult by anyone’s standards. The question wasn’t so much what had possessed Fiona to suggest what she had, but why Jonathon had rejected it.

And more, why the answer to that scared the hell out of him.

Fiona stared at the doorway and smiled with the sort of satisfaction that would surely send her to hell for her sins. One should never feel satisfaction at the distress of others, and Jonathon was most certainly distressed. Still—her smile widened—hell might well be worth it. It was, she supposed, a test of sorts, although she had not intended it as such. Indeed, her intention had been seduction or even surrender. Hers or his, it scarcely mattered. No man had ever made her feel this sort of stomach-wrenching, breath-holding, sharp, aching need before. It was at once exciting and terrifying. She’d never known lust, but she knew with a certainty that came from somewhere deep inside that this feeling that gripped her was more than simple desire of the flesh. Intense and irresistible and inevitable, she wondered if it had lingered in the back of her mind, or rather her heart, since the first time she’d seen him all those years ago.

But this was decidedly different. Then he was a dashing figure on the far side of a ballroom, a charming rogue with a willing lady in his arms and of no more substance really than a figure in a romantic novel. Now she knew Jonathon Effington as a man who was amusing when he wished to be and even more when he didn’t. He was intelligent and gracious, with a good heart. In spite of his refusal to honor his agreement to marry, he was an honorable man. He had indeed become her friend and she suspected she could not now live her life without him.

Surely this was love and not merely passion triggered by the brush of his hand or the warmth of his lips on hers or the dimple in his cheek and the sound of his laughter? Regardless, she did indeed want him and all that wanting him entailed. As for the consequences, well, she might not have considered them at length but she’d meant everything she’d said about the lure of money and beauty. If indeed she did have to marry simply to comply with the terms of her father’s will, so be it. At least she would have known the joy of being in the arms of the man she loved first.

The man she loved. No, there really wasn’t any doubt. She loved Jonathon Effington now and probably always had.

It was however, more than apparent that the ever-confident Lord Helmsley was fraught with doubt as well as confusion. Why else, then, had he fled like a frightened rabbit? He could have laughed off her offer, turned it into an amusing moment and gently but firmly declined. She was, after all, the cousin of his very good friend, reason enough to reject her advances. And surely he’d declined intimate proposals before without turning into a babbling idiot?

She laughed aloud. Jonathon was not at all the type of man to babble. That alone was an excellent indication that what he felt for her went well beyond anything he’d known before. It could be lust, she supposed, although she suspected he was no stranger to lust and probably handled it with far more skill than he’d shown today.

Whether he yet realized it or not, the feelings that held him in their grasp might well be more profound than lust, or at least not lust alone.

Fiona drew a deep breath and sent a quick prayer heavenward. Dear Lord, let it be love.

Ten

The next day, upon the occasion of the wedding of Lady Elizabeth Langley and Sir Nicholas Collingsworth, Effington House buzzed with talk of undying love and the inevitability of fate. Discussion either most delightful or decidedly uncomfortable, depending upon one’s marital status, gender, and state of confusion…

The intention had been that of a small affair with only family and friends present. But there was nothing small when it came to an Effington celebration. Even a hastily called wedding with immediate family in attendance, those already in London and those who would travel here by whatever means possible regardless of the winter weather, grew to rather impressive proportions given the number of aunts, uncles, cousins and their varied and assorted spouses and children. Jonathon estimated the crowd at somewhere between sixty and one hundred, too large for the wedding breakfast to be held anywhere but the ballroom.
Small , when it came to an Effington gathering, was relative. There was nothing the family liked better than a reason to celebrate, although most had been at the Christmas Ball just last week. Still, that was a far cry from marking the entry and acceptance of a new member of the family.

Jonathon stood off to the side of the room beside a large potted palm which provided a concealment of sorts, not a true sanctuary but enough to offer a momentary respite from the need to be charming and gracious, as was his duty as the future duke, to each and every relative in attendance, and offered as well the ability to observe the proceedings without being drawn into the fray. It was all blessedly festive even if Jonathon was not in an especially festive mood. Regardless, he was making an effort to set aside his own turmoil about virtually everything regarding men and women: lust, love, marriage, friendship. Still, those thoughts—or rather, thoughts of Fiona—lingered in his mind. It was as if the blasted woman had taken up residence there and refused to leave. It was most disconcerting.

“One would think this was your wedding, and not one in which you’d had a choice in the matter either, given the expression on your face.” Thomas Effington, the Duke of Roxborough, handed his oldest child, and only son, a glass of champagne and sipped at his own. “Would you care to share what is on your mind?”

Jonathon took a grateful drink. “I fear my thoughts are not especially conducive to a celebration of this nature.” His gaze strayed to his sister Lizzie, and her new husband, Jonathon’s old friend, Nicholas. “But they well deserve to celebrate and I wish them every happiness.”

The newly wed couple stood amid a cluster of well-wishers, each with a glass of champagne in hand, matching expressions of happiness and the occasional exchange of glances secret and intimate. They had decided upon this course, marriage and the rest of their days together, at the Christmas Ball when they had at long last resolved their differences and admitted their true feelings for one another. The sheer speed of their nuptials would cause no end of gossip, although Jonathon would wager neither Lizzie nor Nicholas nor anyone else in the family would care. In truth, this union was ten years past due and never had the joining of two people seemed so right.

“Do you believe in fate?” Jonathon said, more to himself than to his father. “Destiny? That sort of thing.”

“In what context? The fate of nations?” His gaze followed his son’s. “Or people?”

“It seems to me that Lizzie and Nicholas were always meant to be together. Destined for one another, as it were.” Jonathon glanced at his father. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“In this case”—the duke nodded—“yes, I believe it is.”

“But they didn’t realize it, did they? Ten years ago when Nicholas went off to America and left Lizzie to marry someone else.”

“We cannot always see what is right in front of us.” The elder Effington chuckled. “Especially when it comes to matters of the heart. It often takes longer than anyone would suspect to see the obvious.” He paused for a moment. “Did you know when I first met your mother I was charged with the responsibility of shepherding her and two of her sisters through their first season?”

Jonathon raised a brow. “No, I didn’t.”

“Your sisters have probably heard the story, although I daresay it’s not the kind of romantic nonsense one relates to a son.” The duke scanned the room until his gaze settled on his wife. The Duchess of Roxborough wore her years well. Even to Jonathon’s eyes she was still a fine figure of a woman. A smile curved his father’s lips. “I wanted nothing more than to find her a suitable husband.”

“Was a will involved?” Jonathon said under his breath.

“A will?” The duke shook his head. “No, I simply wished to get her off my hands and out of my life.”

Jonathon looked at his father in surprise. “It wasn’t love from the moment you met, then? I had always assumed, given the obvious affection between the two of you, that you knew from the very first that she was the woman for you.”

“Oh, I think I did know, I simply didn’t accept it. But I had no desire to marry at that point. Certainly I knew it was my duty, but I was having far too good a time of it to wish to be shackled to a wife.” He glanced at his son. “I daresay you understand that.”

“Somewhat.” Jonathon smiled weakly.

“Marianne Shelton was everything I had ever wanted in a woman, in a wife, but I was too stubborn to acknowledge it. It took nearly losing her to bring me to my senses. And then it required a far-fetched and nearly disastrous scheme or two to bring her to hers.” He grinned. “Plus one of my poems.”

Jonathon winced. “You wrote her a poem? And she married you anyway?”

“Difficult to believe, I know.” The duke cast his son a wry glance. “It’s the sentiment that’s important, my boy, much more than the execution.”

“Thank God,” Jonathon murmured.

“Thank God indeed.” His father laughed. “So…” He studied his son. “Who is she?”

Jonathon started guiltily. “Who is who?”

“The woman who has put that look upon your face.”