Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  Chapter Five

  Fiona studied him for a long moment. A note of caution edged her voice. “Are you a good writer?”

  Oliver choked.

  Jonathon ignored him. “I like to think so.”

  “And do others think so as well?” she said slowly.

  “Not yet, but I’m confident that someday they will.” In truth, while no one had yet seen fit to publish his work, he had had some very encouraging letters of rejection.

  Fiona looked at her cousin. “So is this what the two of you were talking about when I left the room? Is this the idea you mentioned?”

  “More or less,” Oliver muttered. “Not that we had any idea that your drawings would be—”

  “Quite as wonderful as they are,” Jonathon said quickly. Fiona certainly did not need to hear another tirade from Oliver on the propriety of her work.

  “I’m not sure I understand.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You propose to write a story to go along with my drawings?”

  “Exactly. An illustrated book. Folio-sized, I think. Nicely bound, perhaps in leather. Designed to appeal to a…”

  He thought for a moment. “Select clientele. There’s quite a market for this sort of thing. A discreet market, but a market nonetheless. Naturally, it would be sold by subscription only and not made available to the general public.”

  Oliver groaned. “Good God.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting something of an obscene nature?”

  “Most decidedly not!” Indignation rang in Jonathon’s voice. “I am not talking about obscenity. I am talking about”—he picked up one of her sketches and waved it—“art.”

  “Art?” Suspicion sounded in her voice.

  “Art.” Jonathon nodded. “Magnificent, evocative and, yes, frankly, erotic.”

  “You think my drawings are…” She drew a deep breath. “Erotic?”

  Jonathon shrugged. “Well, they are smiling.”

  Oliver muttered something unintelligible.

  “Yes, but…” She pulled the sketch from his hand and scanned it as if looking for something he saw that she did not. “I don’t understand. They don’t look the least bit erotic to me. Most of these drawings are of individuals simply posed. I see nothing especially provocative about them.”

  “They’re naaakkkeddd.” Oliver drew the word out as if he could force understanding with emphasis.

  Jonathon paid him no mind and concentrated his attention on Fiona. “It’s not merely that they’re not clothed, although that certainly is significant. Nor is it that they’re well drawn, although that too is important. But these drawings are not those of Michelangelo or da Vinci—”

  She raised an indignant brow. “I never for a moment claimed my work was comparable—”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean…that is to say…” He ran his hand through his hair and searched for the right words. “What I meant was that your drawings are exciting in an erotic sort of way precisely because they were not drawn hundreds of years ago.” That was it, of course. “These are not renderings of long-dead Renaissance matrons or Italian nobles now moldering in their graves, but living breathing people you can conceivably pass on the street—”

  Oliver snorted. “Not on my street.”

  “—people you might converse with. People who are”—Jonathon thought for a moment—“accessible or attainable, I think.”

  “Real?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I see.” She considered the drawing thoughtfully. “And real makes them—”

  “Absolutely.” Jonathon’s voice was firm.

  Fiona’s gaze shifted from the drawing in her hand to Jonathon. “This might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Or the most brilliant.” Jonathon grinned.

  Fiona looked at her cousin. “Oliver?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose it could be brilliant,” Oliver admitted in a grudging manner. “And even lucrative.”

  Fiona considered the matter. “I assume this would be done anonymously?”

  “Most definitely,” Jonathon said. “Both the artist and the writer would remain nameless.”

  Fiona studied him. “And would I have any say in the story?”

  “In my story?” Jonathon shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know if that would—”

  “Without question,” Oliver said, and slanted Jonathon a pointed glance. “They are your drawings and it is your future. In fact, I think you should peruse every line, every word as it is written.”

  Jonathon pushed aside a twinge of irritation. No one had ever had a say in one of his stories. On the other hand, none of them had ever sold either. And in truth it scarcely mattered what he wrote, the end result would be the same.

  She met Jonathon’s gaze and smiled slowly. “Then will this…endeavor of ours require that we spend a great deal of time together?”

  He stared down into her green eyes. “Every minute, I should think, if we wish to accomplish this as quickly as possible.”

  “When should we begin?” Her voice was soft and full of promises that went well beyond art and literature.

  The oddest mix of desire and guilt stabbed him. “Tomorrow?”

  Her smile widened. “I shall look forward to it.”

  She gathered her drawings up into the portfolio, tied it, started toward the door, then turned back to him and offered her hand. “Until tomorrow, then?”

  He brushed his lips across her hand and gazed into her eyes. “Until tomorrow.”

  Fiona favored him with a final flash of her brilliant smile and left the room.

  Jonathon stared after her and wondered that he remembered to breathe. Spending every minute possible with Miss Fiona Fairchild had far more appeal than he had ever imagined.

  “If you do not take care, old friend, you’ll be wed before you know it,” Oliver said in a low voice directly behind him. “Whether you wish to be or not.”

  Jonathon scarcely heard him. Was Fiona indeed the perfect woman for him? The perfect wife? There was certainly something about her that held him spellbound. She was beautiful, of course, but he was not unused to beautiful women. But she was, as well, clever and determined and talented. And quite admirable. And to a man wishing to avoid marriage, probably very, very dangerous.

  Jonathon shook his head to clear it and turned to his friend. “Did you say something?”

  Oliver refilled their glasses. “I am head of the family, and as such she is my responsibility. Do keep that in mind. And keep in mind as well that I will not hesitate to demand marriage should there be anything whatsoever of a questionable nature.”

  Jonathon gasped in feigned dismay. “Are you saying you don’t trust me with your cousin?”

  “I wouldn’t trust you with a three-hundred-year-old great-aunt, let alone a beauty like Fiona.” Oliver handed him a glass. “Trust aside, this scheme of ours will never work.”

  “Of course it will work. It’s working so far.” Jonathon took a sip of the whiskey. “She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  “She’s not stupid.”

  “No, she’s not. It’s one of the things I rather like about her.”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Then you could simply marry her and we could end this farce.”

  Jonathon grinned. “Where would be the fun in that?”

  Oliver settled down in a chair and stared at his friend. “It’s a complicated plan. I don’t know if we can pull this off without her suspecting.”

  “Why would she suspect? You and I will handle all the details. And you’ve said it yourself: Fiona is desperate.” Jonathon aimed his glass at his friend. “Mark my words, she’ll be so grateful she’ll not question the success of it. In fact, I daresay success is the easiest part of it all.”

  Oliver grimaced. “The trick is in the details.”

  “And they will make or break this scheme.” Jonathon paced the room, drink in hand, trying to sort out said details. “Given the nature of her drawing
s, we should go with something simple. Classic. A retelling or reworking of a timeless story. A myth or legend, something of that nature. Greek or Roman, perhaps. No, better yet, an entirely new myth—”

  “Can you have an entirely new myth?”

  “Literary license.” Jonathon waved off the comment. “It should not take long to write the story. All we need is a few lines per page written so that her drawings become illustrations. Although she may need to draw a few more—”

  “From memory only,” Oliver said with a grim firmness.

  “Yes, yes, whatever.” Jonathon thought for a moment. “Once we have the story and the illustrations together, I shall ask Sir Ephraim to produce a handful of copies—”

  “Will he do that?”

  Sir Ephraim Cadwallender had been a close friend of Jonathon’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough, for as long as he could remember. Aside from their friendship, Sir Ephraim and the duke had been involved in various successful business ventures through the years and Sir Ephraim often credited Jonathon’s father with his own success.

  “Certainly.” Jonathon paused to sip his drink. “It might be costly, but it will be well worth it.

  “At any rate, we show Fiona the books. We tell her subscriptions have been quite impressive. Within a week or so we present her with a bank draft, from my accounts of course, as we want to keep her participation in this endeavor anonymous, that will be a start toward the money she needs for her sisters. Which means when this American appears she won’t have to marry, because she will be well on her way toward earning her own fortune.”

  “And as these books are to be sold privately,” Oliver said slowly, “Fiona will never know none were printed beyond those we show her and none were actually sold. Which also eliminates any possibility of scandal.”

  “Exactly.” Jonathon grinned. “It’s brilliant.”

  “It is clever.” Oliver studied him. “Are you prepared to support her for the rest of her days, then?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” He scoffed. “This is a temporary measure. We are simply providing Fiona with time. She is beautiful and charming and is indeed what any number of men would wish for in a wife. Now that she is back in London, and more amenable to marriage than she might have been in the past, I daresay she’ll be properly wed within a year. And her inheritance and that of her sisters will be released.”

  “Until then, you are willing to fund this endeavor?”

  “I am,” Jonathon said staunchly.

  “I had no idea you were so noble.”

  “I’m not. I’m practical. A breach-of-promise suit will cost me far more than this deception of ours. Besides”—he blew a long breath—“I feel very much responsible for her now. Regardless of whether I thought it was a joke or not, I did agree to marry her. She proposed to me in good faith and it was obviously a difficult thing for her to do.” He sank into the chair beside the other man’s. “No, Oliver, I owe her this.”

  “You do realize she’ll be furious if she learns the truth,” Oliver said mildly. “With both of us, but I suspect the full brunt of her wrath will be directed toward you.”

  Jonathon shuddered. “That’s a frightening prospect.”

  Still, it wasn’t the prospect of Fiona’s ire that scared him the most. The woman simply did things to him. In truth, she took his breath away in a manner that had nothing to do with her looks. As no woman had ever done before. And when he gazed into her green eyes or took her in his arms, the oddest feelings swept through him. It had bothered him since the moment they met on Christmas Eve. Desire he recognized, but there was something more, something intense that reached inside him and tied his stomach in knots and stuck in his throat. Something he’d never felt before. Something that perhaps caught at his heart.

  It was a silly idea. Accepting it meant he believed in all sorts of nonsense like love at first sight and fate. It was surely nothing more than the circumstances they found themselves in and that business of her being what he’d always wanted. Why, he barely knew the woman and he certainly wouldn’t consider marriage to anyone he’d had no more than a few conversations with. Even if she was what he’d always wanted, not that he knew what that was at this point. No, if she was the right woman for him, surely he would not be plagued with doubts and indecision and terror at the very mention of marriage.

  He’d never had doubts or indecision or terror about anything in his life. That he did so now was significant, but why it was significant eluded him, therefore it was best not to consider it at all. Even so, the question nagged at the back of his mind.

  “All things considered, I don’t think we should completely abandon the idea of finding Fiona a husband, without her knowledge, preferably.” Oliver’s voice was thoughtful. “Lady Chester’s Twelfth Night Ball is next week. We should take the opportunity to introduce her to as many eligible gentlemen as possible.” He chuckled. “We could have her wed by Easter.”

  “We cannot count on that,” Jonathon said quickly, and shook his head. “No, I think our original plan is best.”

  “But if she were to marry, there would be no need…” Oliver studied his friend curiously. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Not at all. I think our plan is sound and almost flawless.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.” Jonathon adopted a firm tone. “I assure you I am not having second thoughts about anything.”

  And for the moment, at least, Jonathon could almost believe it himself.

  “…and so”—Fiona drew a deep breath—“we’re going to write a book together.”

  “I knew Lord Helmsley would change his mind,” Belle said under her breath.

  “Doesn’t it take a long time to write a book?” Gen asked.

  “Why would he change his mind?” Sophie frowned. “Rather beastly of him, I would say.”

  Gen shook her head. “And you really don’t have all that much time if you’re going to avoid marriage to that American. What was his name?”

  “I have no idea.” Fiona shrugged. “Nor do I care.”

  Sophie brightened. “Shouldn’t Cousin Oliver challenge his lordship to a duel or something? For dishonoring you?”

  Fiona groaned. “I have not been dishonored.”

  “Daniel Sinclair,” Belle said.

  All eyes turned toward Belle.

  “The American. His name is Daniel Sinclair. I’m very good with names,” Belle said smugly. “Now, about this book?”

  Fiona stared at her sister for a moment longer. Gen was the most practical of the younger girls, Sophie the sweetest, but Belle was an ongoing enigma. Sometimes selfish, sometimes selfless, one never knew what she would come up with next. She was a constant source of surprise.

  “Yes, the book.” Fiona gathered her thoughts. “It’s not going to be a very long book, so I daresay it won’t take long to write. Lord Helmsley proposes to write a story to go along with my drawings. The book itself will consist mostly of my work.”

  Gen grimaced. “Oh, not those dreadfully boring pictures you do of hills and trees and streams and whatever else you stumble upon when out-of-doors?”

  “No—”

  “Or those dull, tedious drawings of grapes and candles and bowls and the occasional trussed chicken.” Belle shuddered. “I cannot imagine any kind of story worth the effort of reading that has anything whatsoever to do with trussed chickens.”

  “I rather like my still lifes.” Fiona huffed. “But no, those won’t be included either.”

  “Oh.” Sophie’s eyes widened. “Then this will involve the naughty pictures?”

  Fiona held her breath. “What naughty pictures?”

  Her sisters traded knowing glances and matching smiles.

  Gen crossed her arms over her chest. “The ones with the naked people.”

  Fiona groaned to herself but kept her expression impassive. “Those are simply drawings of statues and—”

  Belle snorted. “Hah! We’ve seen yo
ur drawings of statues and they are decidedly different from your drawings of naked people.”

  Sophie cast Fiona a pitying look. “We can certainly tell the difference, you know.” She paused, then added, “Even if we’ve never seen naked people cavorting—”

  “No one was cavorting!” Fiona gritted her teeth. By God, did everyone who looked at those pictures immediately think of cavorting and frolicking and possibly even drunken orgies with laughing dark-haired men with lone dimples and invitation in their eyes? At once she pushed the shocking thought from her mind.

  She drew a deep breath and faced her sisters. “You’ve been looking at my drawings.”

  “Indeed we have.” Gen grinned. “For several years now.”

  “But you’ve never shown any interest in my work.”

  “There’s nothing at all interesting about fruit.” Belle rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Or trees.”

  “We do rather like the ones of us, though. We think they’re very good.” Sophie cast her older sister a chastising look. “But you stopped showing any of your pictures to us long ago.”

  “I didn’t think you particularly cared.”

  “We didn’t, really, for the most part,” Belle said under her breath. “It was mostly fruit, after all.”

  “We were shocked, Fiona, at first.” Gen paused. “Then we decided, as it was part of your art studies, that it was probably acceptable.”

  “As long as no one knew,” Sophie added quickly. “Besides, we all agreed there was every possibility none of us would ever see naked people—”

  “Naked men in particular,” Belle pointed out.

  “—until we were married.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “If then.”

  Gen considered Fiona thoughtfully. “Can one really make one’s fortune writing a book?”

  Belle scoffed. “I daresay you can if it has naughty pictures in it.”

  “They’re not naughty, they’re art.” Sophie sniffed.

  “They’re naked,” Belle smirked. “Naked people drawn by artists who are famous and more often than not dead, hanging on the walls of a museum, are art. Pictures of naked people in a book are naughty.”