Let It Be Love (27 page)

“I am confident about the ultimate success of this venture, but I daresay—”

She stopped, folded her arms over her chest and pinned his gaze with hers. “Do you think I am of strong character, my lord?”

He snorted. “Absolutely.”

“Resolute, determined?” She narrowed her eyes. “Stubborn?”

He nodded slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I fear I have deceived you.”

He started. “What?”

“My strength of character, determination, stubbornness and all those other qualities that are of questionable virtue in terms of how society views proper young ladies—”

“Nonsense. Why, every woman in my family has very much the same—”

“Which is all very well and good if one is an Effington with wealth and power and societal connections and not virtually alone in the world with no fortune and the fate of one’s sisters in one’s hands!” she snapped.

His eyes widened. “I did not mean to imply—”

“Probably not.” She waved away his words in a dismissive manner. “Regardless, I do not have the resources the women in your family do. In addition, I fear my strength of character is”—she searched for the right word—“limited.”

“What do you mean, limited?” Caution sounded in his voice.

“I mean, my lord, at a certain point my strength fails. In truth, while I do try not to be, I am a very weak person. I do not relish the idea of poverty for myself and I will not condemn my sisters to it.”

“But the book will eventually provide—”

“Eventually is no longer a possibility!” She drew a calming breath. “I received a letter yesterday. Whatshisname—Mr. Sinclair—will arrive within the week.”

“And you shall have funds from the orders of the book within the week,” he said firmly. She shook her head. “It will not be enough.”

“It will be enough to give you the time to find a husband of your own choosing.”

“Ifound a husband of my own choosing.” Her gaze caught his and they stared at one another for a long moment.

“I will not allow you to marry a man you do not wish to wed,” he said quietly.

“Why not?” She held her breath. “What possible difference could it make to you?”

“I have long been friends with your cousin and I was under the impression you and I had forged a friendship of sorts as well. I would not want to see any friend of mine marry where she did not wish to do so.”

“How do you propose to prevent it?”

“I…” He stepped toward her and her heart leapt. Then he blew a long breath. “I shall give you the money you would receive if you married. All of it. In advance, if you will, of sales of the book.”

She stared in disbelief. “You would do that?”

He nodded. “I owe you that much. I did agree to marry you, even if I thought it was…well…no need to go into that.”

“No need indeed. I am quite tired of hearing about it.” Anger swelled within her. “You are that eager to get me out of your life that you would pay a fortune to do so?”

“No, not at all.” He shook his head. “I am not the least bit eager. I have quite enjoyed the time we have spent together. More than I can say. It’s simply that I feel a certain responsibility, an obligation, as it were—”

“An obligation?” Her voice rose. “And you would pay dearly to alleviate yourself of it? To assuage your conscience? Your guilt?”

“No, no, that’s not at all what I mean.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I do feel a responsibility, but I don’t feel at all guilty. Well, perhaps a bit, but—”

“I don’t want your money, and furthermore, I don’t want you.” She pointed to the door with a hand that was kept from trembling only by sheer will. “Get out!”

“Fiona—”

“At the moment, my lord, this is my home, my sanctuary, as it were, and I do not want you here.” Her voice was cold and hard and it was all she could do to keep it steady. She wanted to scream or cry or both. “It would be best if you took your leave.”

“Fiona.” Her own anguish sounded in his voice. He stepped toward her. “I don’t want this to—”

“I don’t care what you want, I want you to go!” She whirled around, grabbed the book off of the table and thrust it at him. “And take this with you. I don’t want to see it or you ever again!”

He took the book reluctantly, as if he weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, and stared at her. “Surely you don’t mean that.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” She snatched the book out of his hands and hugged it close to her. “It’s my book and it shall serve as a…a…”

“A what?” His blue eyes burned with intensity. “What shall it serve as?”

“A warning.” She raised her chin. “Against false hopes and raised expectations and men who make promises they do not intend to keep.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as though he had just been slapped. Regret washed through her for him and for herself.

“Now, please, go.”

“As you wish.” He turned toward the door, then turned back as though he wished to say something more. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and strode out the door. No!The word screamed inside her head and she started after him. She was nearly to the door when the realization of what had just happened slammed into her and snatched her breath away. What had she done? This wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end at all. At this point they were supposed to be well on their way to living the rest of their days happily together. But she couldn’t make him love her any more than she could force him to marry her. And she’d been so certain….

No, shewas certain. She couldn’t be wrong about this, about him. And surely Jonathon would never let her marry the American or anyone else. Or let her walk out of his life forever. She had no idea what to do now, but she had to do something. Perhaps she needed assistance from someone who had far more experience with men than she had. Someone who had more experience with this man in particular. It was not yet too late. Jonathon Effington was the love of her life and Fiona refused to give up on him.

And until she was Mrs. Whatshisname there was hope.

Jonathon stalked down the sidewalk, his carriage following at a discreet distance, and noted that once again he was walking through the streets after yet another tumultuous meeting with Fiona. If nothing else, the woman was certainly keeping him fit.

What on earth had just happened?

Jonathon had spent the last few days doing nothing but staring at drawings of naked people or the newly produced copies of drawings of naked people.Her drawings of naked people. Or writing about the desire of two randy gods to possess lovely, nubile nymphs. Or begging favors from Sir Ephraim and paying exorbitant prices to craftsmen to work endless hours to get this blasted book produced. And every moment she’d been there in the back of his mind. Even when he’d slept he’d dreamt of her. How had it gone so horribly wrong? This was not at all what he’d planned when he’d arrived with the copy ofA Fair Surrender under his arm. He had thought she would be delighted with the book, and indeed she had been. He had further thought she’d show her delight with an expression of affection which he would then return, which would lead in turn to all sorts of interesting developments that he had thought he was prepared and even eager for.

That it hadn’t happened that way at all was entirely his fault. From the moment he’d walked into the room and she’d smiled at him and, worse, when she’d gazed up at him with those luminous green eyes of hers, claiming to trust him implicitly with his absurd plan to rescue her. And believing, truly believing, that he would do so. Never had a woman looked at him like that. As though he were indeed her knight, her savior, her love. Her fate.

Without warning, something inside of him had snapped. At once he was completely overwhelmed and did what any drowning man would do when sinking beneath the waves. Plain and simple, he panicked. He had gasped for breath. He had clutched at anything that might provide salvation and had found it in, well, there was no other word for it but retreat.

He’d become cool, remote, reserved. He’d expressed his affection for her in terms of friendship. He groaned aloud.Friendship? And not primarily for her but for Oliver. Worse, he’d called her an obligation, a responsibility. What a dolt he was. What an idiot. What had come over him? He never used to be so stupid. Indeed he didn’t recall ever being stupid before meeting her. It was love, that’s what it was. Why, hadn’t he seen behavior every bit as stupid as his in every one of his friends on occasion? Especially Cavendish. No wonder they’d questioned his passion. It took passion to behave like an idiot.

Well, he knew passion now, by God. He’d found love and it was a dreadful, unpleasant thing. It was also too late. He had at last discovered what his father had discovered before him: the one woman in the world he could not live without. Pity he hadn’t realized it when they’d first met. It certainly would have saved a lot of trouble if he had agreed to marry her and then had actually done it. Now he was going to have to convince her that he wished to marry her. That she was not an obligation. That he loved her.

It wouldn’t be easy, given his behavior today. But it would be a challenge. And hadn’t he told his friends challenge was one of the qualities he had wished for in a wife? Fiona was indeed the perfect woman for him. She was everything he’d ever said he’d wanted. Everything he’d ever wished for. God help him. Or rather, God help them both.

Twelve

The next night, anyone who was anyone in London and a great number of those who aspired to be anyone but were, in truth, still not entirely of consequence, flocked to Lady Chester’s Twelfth Night Ball in hopes of being seen or seeing or for the simple, yet satisfying, purpose of being able to say one was there and thus elevate one’s position to that of anyone…

“She is not at all as I expected,” Warton said under his breath, his gaze firmly fixed on Fiona on the dance floor in the arms of yet another disgustingly eager gentleman. “Norcroft, you said your cousin was fat. With freckles.”

“I don’t believe I said fat,” Oliver murmured. “Plump, perhaps, but not fat.”

“She is plump in all the right places.” Cavendish too could not keep his gaze from Fiona. It was most annoying.

Jonathon gritted his teeth. Still, they were his friends, and loyal friends at that. No matter how irresistible they found Fiona, they would not act on the attraction. Unlike every other man in the room.

“Look at them. They are like wolves with the scent of fresh meat in their nostrils.” Disgust sounded in Jonathon’s voice.

“Lamb,” Warton said absently, then glanced at Jonathon and winced. “My apologies.”

“Accepted,” Jonathon muttered, and stared at Fiona and her current partner. Not that he, or anyone else, could tear his gaze away. Fiona Fairchild was a vision tonight, even lovelier, if possible, than when he’d first seen her. She looked like the goddess he had thought she was when he’d first met her in the library at Effington House. The copper tone of her gown matched the hue of her hair and he knew, even from this distance, the color would enhance the green of her eyes. Not that he could get close enough to see her eyes. From the moment Fiona, Oliver and Lady Norcroft had stepped foot in Judith’s ballroom, Fiona had been the center of attention for every male who could walk, run or stumble in her direction. One would think they had never seen a goddess before.

“So, have you thought of something? Some sort of plan?” Warton glanced at Jonathon. “Anything at all?”

“He has filled my house with roses,” Oliver said wryly. “My mother was most impressed, as were the younger Miss Fairchilds. Personally, I thought a dozen would have been more than sufficient. How many did you send?”

“One dozen for every month of the year,” Jonathon muttered. “It was symbolic.”

“And my idea, if you recall.” Cavendish grinned. “The roses, that is, not the symbolism. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who can resist roses. Especially not in a lavish, extravagant and obviously costly display. Women like knowing a great deal of money has been spent to please them.”

“It seems somewhat desperate to me,” Warton said mildly.

“Iam desperate,” Jonathon snapped, then looked at Oliver. “Did Fiona say anything to you? About the flowers or me, or anything at all?”

“With the exception of the ride here—and do keep in mind my mother was in the carriage with us, which does tend to inhibit discussion of certain matters somewhat—I have not had the opportunity to speak with my cousin about you.” Oliver tried and failed to hold back a grin. “Although my mother did think the roses were far more significant than Fiona’s offhand explanation of friendship and a shared interest in literature.”

“Is your mother on my side, then?” Jonathon brightened. Having the support of Fiona’s aunt certainly would not hurt his efforts.

“My mother is on the side of anyone who might be a potential husband for Fiona.”

Cavendish narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I thought last night you said your mother didn’t know about the stipulations of her brother-in-law’s will.”

“She doesn’t, but she is well aware that Fiona is five and-twenty.” Oliver shook his head. “That in and of itself is enough to send my mother hunting for prospective husbands. She has brought up the subject on almost a daily basis since my cousin’s arrival.”

“Which might serve me well,” Jonathon said thoughtfully.