Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “I really haven’t shown many people my work.”

  “Then we shall be doubly honored,” Jonathon said in a gallant manner.

  She glanced from one man to the other. Certainly, at this point if she couldn’t trust them she couldn’t trust anyone at all. Besides, she was probably just being silly. “Very well.”

  “Excellent.” Oliver beamed. He opened the door and practically pushed her into the hall, closing the door behind her. Apparently she wasn’t the only one a bit undone by her situation.

  Fiona found a passing maid and sent her to fetch the portfolio. She turned to go back into the parlor, then decided instead to wait by the stairs. Besides, she could use a moment to herself. Whatever Oliver had in mind, she hoped it was a good idea. No, a lucrative idea. She certainly needed one.

  It was all Jonathon’s fault. If he was a man of his word…

  No. She sank down on a bench by the stairway. As much as she wanted to, she really couldn’t blame him for this. It was entirely her own fault. She should have married long ago. She’d had more than a few proposals through the years. And several of them quite acceptable. Men who were handsome and charming and wealthy. She would have done well to have wed any of them, but she’d just never felt the kind of affection that she’d wanted to feel for the man she would spend the rest of her days with. She’d liked them, most of them, but she’d never found anyone who made her heart leap and her toes tingle and all those things that she’d heard came along with love.

  The closest she’d ever come to anything approaching those sorts of feelings was the brief infatuation she’d had at the tender age of seventeen with Jonathon Effington, a man she’d never even spoken to at the time. Now that she had, now that she’d been in his arms, it was rather shocking to realize he might well be the one man for her. Certainly there was something wonderful in the pit of her stomach and even perhaps in her heart when he’d kissed her. Not that it mattered. As much as she thought she could easily fall in love with him and thought as well, given the look in his eye, he could fall in love with her, there was simply not enough time.

  And indeed, wasn’t time at the very heart of her problem? Hadn’t she always thought there would be enough time to meet the right man? To fall in love? To marry? But there was always another grand ball, another spring outing, another flirtation, another day or week or month planned, and she’d been having entirely too much fun to worry about the distant future.

  Without warning it had seemed nineteen had turned to two-and-twenty, and two-and-twenty had turned to five-and-twenty. And her father had died and had left in his wake a means to force her to do what he’d never forced her to do when he’d been alive. Because he too had believed in love. And love, for his daughter, was precisely why he had made the arrangements that he had.

  Not that she didn’t intend to do everything possible to thwart those arrangements.

  Regardless of whatever scheme Oliver had in mind, her only real options were to marry a man she had no desire to wed or to force marriage to a man who had no wish to marry her. As dreadful as it sounded, it would be better to take her chances with Whatshisname. At least he was probably willing to marry.

  Of course, she had no intention of letting Jonathon know that yet. Aside from her anger, she’d been surprisingly disappointed. Perhaps even hurt. She shouldn’t have been, of course, it made no sense at all. But nothing about her life at the moment made a great deal of sense. And the very least Jonathon deserved for reneging on his agreement was uncertainty about his own fate for as long as possible.

  The maid appeared with her drawings and Fiona returned to the parlor.

  Oliver and Jonathon were engaged in an earnest discussion, probably about her, each with glass in hand. She would wager it wasn’t sherry. They cast her similar guilty looks.

  “Let’s see these, then, shall we?” Oliver said in an all-too-jovial manner.

  “I am looking forward to it.” Jonathon’s eagerness matched his friend’s. They were definitely plotting something. She sent a quick prayer toward the heavens to save her from the plots and plans of well-meaning men.

  She started to hand over the portfolios, then abruptly realized what a poor idea it was and groaned to herself. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, she never would have forgotten the need to take certain precautions. She held the collection close against her chest. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. I’m not at all used to letting anyone see my work.”

  “This is not the time for modesty, Fiona,” Oliver said firmly. “Your drawings could provide your salvation.”

  “I doubt that,” she muttered, then drew a deep breath. “Very well, but you should know, my work might not be precisely what you are expecting.”

  Jonathon and Oliver traded glances.

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful.” Jonathon moved to her and practically snatched the portfolio from her hands. “We’re quite looking forward to seeing it.”

  “Indeed we are.” Oliver briskly led Jonathon to a large game table in the far corner of the room, leaving Fiona to trail behind them.

  The men opened the portfolio and started paging through it.

  “Very nice,” Jonathon murmured.

  “Not bad at all,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “Rather good, really.”

  “Thank you,” Fiona said, more to herself than to them. They were paying her no heed at the moment anyway. This would be an excellent time to make her escape. She casually inched toward the door. Still, taking her leave now would be the height of cowardice. She blew a resigned breath and stayed where she was—halfway between the men and the door—and noted for future reference that she could easily be out the door before anyone could stop her.

  “I like this one….”

  She could tell exactly where they were in her drawings by their comments; innocuous and complimentary right now, they were probably still paging through the landscapes in the first section of the portfolio. Next in order would be a series of still lifes, followed by studies of faces and hands, mostly those of her sisters. At this point, anyone who happened upon her portfolio uninvited would probably grow bored. If not, the next group of drawings, details of various works of Renaissance masters, might well dissuade the casual viewer from further perusal. However, if one was made of sterner stuff and continued, one would find her drawings of ancient sculptures. She did so like the way light played on the intricately carved folds and creases of the marble and enjoyed capturing it with pen and pencil. After that…

  A noticeable silence fell over the far end of the room.

  She braced herself.

  A long, low whistle came from one of the men. Jonathon, she thought.

  Oliver turned away from the table and cleared his throat. “Fiona?”

  She adopted an innocent tone. “Yes?”

  “Are these drawings from…” Oliver paused as if he couldn’t find the right word or it was simply too painful to say aloud.

  “Life?” Jonathon tossed the word over his shoulder and continued to lean over the table to study her drawings. She really preferred that he didn’t.

  “When you say life,” she said slowly, “what precisely do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. “I mean are these drawings of real people?”

  “Models, I should think,” Jonathon murmured.

  “Real nonetheless.” Oliver studied her. “Well?”

  “Of course they are,” she said in a lofty manner. “One cannot create art if one cannot work from life. Art imitates or enhances life.”

  “These scarcely need enhancement,” Jonathon said under his breath. “Clothing, perhaps, but—”

  “That’s quite enough, thank you.” Fiona crossed the room, stepped between the two men and began collecting the drawings that were now scattered across the table. “I knew I should never have shown you my work.”

  “Did your father know about these?” Oliver asked in a tone every bit as condemning as any father’
s could ever be.

  “Father knew full well of my studies.” She snatched a drawing from Jonathon’s hands. He cast her a wicked grin. She ignored it.

  “Surely Uncle Alfred did not condone the drawing of naked people by his oldest daughter?”

  “I daresay Father would not have condoned the drawing of naked people, or indeed acknowledge that beneath their clothing people in general are naked,” she said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Father was not of an artistic nature.”

  Jonathon chuckled. “I’d wager he didn’t know.”

  “He didn’t know?” Oliver stared. “He never asked to see your work? Never wished to check on your progress? Never wanted to see if you were cavorting with naked women and men?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Oliver, there was no cavorting.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing. They posed. I drew them. That’s all.”

  “Good God, old man, you sound like my father.” Jonathon turned back to the stack of drawings and pulled several out to array across the table. “Besides, I don’t think they look like they’re cavorting.”

  “Oh, just look at them.” Oliver huffed. “They’re…they’re…they’re smiling!”

  “Not all of them. A few are quite pensive.” Fiona paused. “I suppose some do look happy enough.”

  “Of course they look happy.” Jonathon studied the nudes. “They’re naked.” He glanced at her in a most considering manner. “I know I tend to be extremely happy when I’m naked.”

  She didn’t intend to, but without thinking she cast him one of her most flirtatious smiles. “Do you?”

  “Indeed I do.” Jonathon’s gaze met hers in a look that could only be described as intimate, and a delightful shiver passed through her.

  “Stop that at once! There will be no happiness here!” Oliver glared. “And you have not answered my question, cousin. About your father’s knowledge of your activities?”

  “Father considered art of little importance and therefore considered my studies to be of little importance as well. They were an indulgence on his part. I neither disagreed with him nor did I mind.” Her gaze roamed over the drawings. In spite of their admittedly embarrassing nature, she was proud of them. “His attitude allowed me a relative amount of freedom.”

  Jonathon choked back a laugh.

  Oliver groaned. “But Fiona, to have drawn naked people you have to have seen naked people.”

  “It does generally prove necessary to do so.” Again she gathered together the drawings.

  “Have you no shame, Fiona?” Jonathon’s voice was serious, but it was obvious he found throwing her words back at her along with Oliver’s shock and her own discomfort most amusing.

  She glanced up at him. “I see nothing to be ashamed of. All modesty aside, I think my work is very good.”

  He smiled down at her. “I quite agree. It’s most impressive.”

  “But they’re naked!” Shock colored Oliver’s face. “I demand an explanation.”

  “Do you?” She stared at him in surprise. Admittedly she did not know her cousin all that well, but in their acquaintance thus far he certainly hadn’t struck her as the kind of man who would be prudish about things like this. She’d thought he might be surprised by her drawings, but not to this extent. “Why?”

  “Why? Because…because…they’re naked!” Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “And because as head of the family, it is my duty to make certain you avoid activities that would compromise you in any way.”

  She studied him for a moment and realized there were some things about her life before now that might be best to keep from him. Pity she hadn’t managed to cull the more surprising drawings from the portfolio before she’d handed it over, but she did have a great deal on her mind.

  Fiona sighed in surrender. “Very well, Oliver. For years I have studied art with an Englishwoman, a Mrs. Kincaid, a very talented artist now living in Italy. A free thinker as well, I believe you would call her. During the course of my studies, it was only logical to progress from pears in a bowl to people.”

  Oliver groaned. “Naked people.”

  “Probably naked pears as well.” Jonathon leaned toward Fiona and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t seem to mind fruit without clothes.”

  “This is not the least bit funny.” Oliver glared at his friend.

  “No, of course not.” Jonathon struggled to look appropriately somber.

  “You really needn’t be concerned about this, Oliver,” Fiona said quickly. “There were several of us who took lessons from Mrs. Kincaid and we all agreed it would be best if the subject of our work remained—”

  “Unexposed?” Jonathon offered helpfully.

  She raised a brow. “Not precisely as I would have phrased it, but yes. We agreed it might be something of a problem if the subject of our work became public knowledge. Besides”—she shrugged—“we were all the daughters of prominent foreign fathers, none of us Italian, and none of us planned ever to have to earn our keep. It was indeed simply a pastime.” She looked at Oliver. “Surely you’re not suggesting this is how I make my fortune?”

  “Certainly not now!” Outrage colored Oliver’s voice.

  “Why not now?” Jonathon said.

  “Because it’s not what we were…well, the idea was…” Oliver waved at the drawings. “Perhaps some of these, but—”

  “What idea?” Fiona asked.

  “Look at these, Oliver.” Jonathon quickly organized the drawings into stacks.

  Fiona frowned. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Patience, my dear.” He flashed her a quick smile. “As I was saying, in this pile are her landscapes. Fair enough in terms of technique, but not especially inspired. Here are her still lifes.” He rested his hand on the second stack. “Once again, she draws a fine apple and very nice bowl, but there’s nothing particularly special about them. Now”—he shuffled the papers—“in this stack are her drawings of details of well-known works. Copied, I would suspect, at the Academia galleries?” He looked at her. “Uffizi or Pitti?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought as much.” He turned back to her drawings. “In these you see, well, something special, the beginnings of life, as it were. Of course, it could be that she is simply an excellent copyist.”

  Oliver eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about art?”

  “My dear Norcroft, I have no exhaustive knowledge on any one subject in particular. However, I do know a little about a great number of things.” Jonathon sighed in an overly dramatic manner. “It’s a curse.” He turned his attention back to the drawings. “Now pay attention. Here, when she draws the statues, you can practically feel the smooth texture of the marble.”

  “Do you really think so?” Fiona looked up at him. She was not used to extensive flattery. Mrs. Kincaid had always said she had a talent granted to her by God and wasn’t it a pity she would never use it for anything worthwhile. Her sisters had seen some of her drawings through the years and, while complimentary, had never been overly interested. Indeed, with the exception of other students, no one had seen Fiona’s work.

  “I do.” Jonathon nodded firmly, then directed his attention back to her drawings. “Up to this point her work is good but not extraordinarily so. However, look at her studies of hands and faces.” He glanced at her. “Your sisters, I presume?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought so.” He looked at Oliver. “Are you following me thus far?”

  “I am managing to struggle along,” Oliver snapped.

  “Good.” Jonathon nodded. “It’s when she begins drawing from life that her work starts to have a life of its own. You can see it in the faces of her sisters and the drawings of their hands, but when she draws entire figures…” He shuffled through the sheets and pulled out a study of a reclining man. “The very lines on the page seem alive. There’s a depth here that is lacking in her renderings of inanimate objects. You can almost feel the warmth of their bodies. They look a
s if they might move at any moment. Indeed, you wonder if you stare at them long enough you might not see them breathe.”

  “You see all that?” Fiona stared. She was flattered, of course, but wasn’t entirely sure she believed him.

  “Yes, I do.” Jonathon met her gaze directly. “I think they’re quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you.” The loveliest feeling of warmth washed through her, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if it was due to his appreciation of her work or appreciation of an entirely different sort that shone in his blue eyes.

  “They might well be the best naked people ever drawn in the history of the world, but they are still naked people.” Oliver glared. “And the drawing of them, why, even the discussion of them, is scandalous.”

  “Oliver, it’s art.” Fiona sighed. “Not obscenity.”

  “No, they’re not the least bit obscene.” Jonathon’s gaze met Oliver’s. “Fiona’s drawings are some of the finest I’ve ever seen in or out of galleries and museums. And I think we should capitalize on what she does best.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “Naked people?”

  Jonathon shrugged. “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, capitalize?” Fiona asked.

  They ignored her.

  Oliver shook his head. “Think of the scandal.”

  “There would be no scandal if no one knows the name of the artist.” A persuasive note sounded in Jonathon’s voice.

  “Even so…” Oliver shook his head.

  “Come now, Oliver,” Jonathon said. “It was a good idea a few minutes ago and I think it’s even better now.”

  “A few minutes ago we were talking about innocent artistic dabbling, not…not”—Oliver waved at the table—“these.”

  “What idea?” Fiona glanced from one man to the next. “Do you honestly believe people will pay for my drawings?”

  “Not just for your drawings.” Oliver threw up his hands in surrender. “But for your drawings coupled with a story.”

  She shook her head. “I am no writer.”

  “Then this is indeed your lucky day.” Jonathon grinned. “Because I am.”