Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “Summer has June, July and August and Winter has January, February and”—he frowned—“December?”

  “I definitely think of December as winter,” she said firmly. “The days are the shortest of the year and it’s invariably cold. Much more so than March.”

  “Very well, then, Winter and Summer each have the uncontested possession of three months apiece.” Jonathon moved to her side and studied the piles of drawings. “Should we have a god of Spring and Autumn as well?”

  “I don’t think so.” She drew her brows together. “The remaining months, or rather nymphs, the ones who would belong to Spring or Autumn if we had two additional gods—”

  “Perhaps they were vanquished by Winter and Summer because they were weak?”

  “Excellent. So those nymphs are now free and the object of constant struggle between Winter and Summer. It’s the loyalties, even the affection of those nymphs that is always in question.” She thought for a moment. “So it’s not really a face to face battle between Winter and Summer. It’s a competition, but it’s subtler than that. Each of the gods is always trying to convince one of the spring or autumn nymphs to join him.”

  “Through whatever means necessary. Trickery or bribery or…” He raised a brow. “Seduction?”

  “Definitely seduction, I should think.” She met his gaze firmly. “Don’t you?”

  “Seduction seems like the right way to proceed.” He stared down at her. “With gods and nymphs, that is.”

  At once she was aware of how very close they stood to one another. Side by side, their shoulders nearly touched, and she wondered why she hadn’t noticed his proximity before. Or was it the word seduction that made her so aware of him?

  “And nymphs, being what they are, can be very susceptible to”—she swallowed hard—“seduction.”

  “They are fickle creatures.” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips and back. “You can never count on a nymph to be truly faithful.”

  “One would be a fool to ever depend on a nymph.” How much more foolish to depend on a man? Especially one with broad shoulders and an infectious laugh and a wicked dimple in his cheek?

  “Is that it, then?” His voice was low and…seductive.

  “Is what what, then?” She stared into his blue eyes. Endless and oh, so inviting. He could say whatever he wished about their previous kisses not counting, but she could well recall the warmth of his lips on hers. The hard feel of his body pressed against hers.

  “All you have of the story?” He lowered his head closer to hers as if he were about to claim his kiss.

  It might be worth a hundred pounds to kiss him again. To feel the way his kiss weakened her limbs and made her blood pound and her head spin. Surely that was only because he was so very skilled at it.

  “No.” She fairly sighed the word.

  He stilled, his lips a bare breath from hers. “No?”

  “No.” She couldn’t quite hide the regret in her voice.

  He paused. “Are you sure?”

  “I am.” She shook her head slowly. “That’s not all to the story.”

  “The story?” Confusion crossed his face, then he winced and straightened. “Ah, yes, the story.”

  “The story.” She drew a deep breath and clasped her slightly unsteady hands together. The last thing she wished him to notice was that she wanted him to kiss her. More than she’d expected. “Well, it’s a myth.”

  “And?” His tone was abrupt and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Go on.”

  She studied him for a moment. Obviously, given his newly grumpy manner, he’d wanted to kiss her just as much as she’d wanted to kiss him. Possibility even more than he’d expected. She stifled a satisfied smile.

  “And myths, as we agreed earlier, are for the express purpose of explaining a facet of nature that had no understanding, at least to the ancients.” She gestured at the drawings spread across the table. “Our story explains precisely why those months between winter and summer, the seasons of spring and fall, are sometimes colder than expected and sometimes warmer.”

  His eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”

  “Come, now, Jonathon, you’re deliberately being obtuse. You understand exactly what I’m saying.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “When Winter is doing his best to seduce March, to keep her by his side, March is cold. But when Summer has flattered and cajoled and March is ready to fall into his waiting arms, March is much warmer than usual. When March is uncertain, torn between the two gods, we have storms. How severe depends on March’s emotions and the efforts of the gods to win her. The same applies to April, May, September, October and November.”

  He stared at her for a long silent moment.

  “Well? Say something.”

  He blew a long breath. “I owe you a hundred pounds.”

  The most delightful sense of accomplishment bubbled through her and she grinned. “I know.”

  “It’s really rather brilliant, Fiona.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She glanced at the drawings. “I think this is going to turn out far better than I ever expected. However…” She met his gaze. “I believe the develop ment of this story was more a joint effort than mine alone, therefore I cannot take your money.”

  “No.” He shook his head firmly. “I always pay off my debts.”

  “It was an outrageous wager in the first place. A hundred pounds against a kiss.”

  “Outrageous or not, I gave my word.”

  “You gave your word to marry me as well, yet you had little problem not living up to that promise.”

  “Because I thought it was all a—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, and I would much prefer not to hear it again.” She waved away his comment. “Very well, then. I will accept fifty pounds, but no more.”

  He raised a brow. “Half of the wager, then?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled slowly. “And do I get half a kiss?”

  “I’m not entirely sure I know what half a kiss is.”

  “Nor am I, but I’m certain together we can find out.”

  She stared at him. “Are you bent on flirtation with me, Jonathon?”

  “Why, I don’t know that I’m bent on it. It just seems rather natural to flirt—”

  “You have refused to marry me, yet you obviously wish to kiss me.” She leaned toward him. “Do you wish more than that?”

  His eyes widened. “More?”

  “More.” Without warning, something inside her snapped and anger gripped her. “Won’t one kiss lead to another? A second to a third and so on? Where do you wish it to end?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t wish it to end? Yet you don’t want it to lead to marriage.”

  “I didn’t really—”

  “I have seen your type of man before. You are handsome and charming and make no promises save those in your eyes.”

  “In my eyes?” Caution edged his voice. “My eyes aren’t saying a word.”

  “Hah! Even you don’t believe that!”

  He stared at her. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying that you, Lord Helmsley, are an outrageous flirt. And the question that I have is, to what purpose?” She stepped back and folded her arms over her chest. “You have no desire to marry me.”

  “I say, that’s not fair. That really has nothing to do with you. I have only recently learned I have no desire to marry anyone at the moment. You simply made me realize that.”

  Fiona stared in disbelief. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or crack her hand across his face. Either would be most satisfying.

  Jonathon winced. “I didn’t mean that exactly the way it sounded.”

  “How did you mean it?”

  “Fiona, you are intelligent and beautiful, and just from the brief time we have spent together I can certainly see you would not be meek and mild as a wife.” He ran his hand through his hair. “And I doubt that I have ever met any woman more suited to be a
duchess than you.”

  “Is it love you’re looking for, then?”

  “Quite frankly, I have never given love any serious consideration.” He blew a long breath. “My friends claim I have never been in love.”

  “Are they right?”

  “I didn’t think they were, but”—he shrugged in a helpless manner—“in truth, I don’t know.”

  “I see.” She drew a deep breath. “You need to understand I have no such hesitation about marriage. Regardless of whether this scheme of yours and Oliver’s is successful or not, I fully intend to marry one day. I hope to do so for…affection, possibly love, but even if I ultimately marry simply to settle my finances I shall do so with my honor intact.”

  His eyes widened. “Fiona, I never—”

  “Didn’t you?” She shook her head. “You look at me as if I am a morsel you wish to devour.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you.”

  “The problem is not that I’m offended! I am flattered and intrigued. Far too intrigued. And that, my lord, is the problem.”

  His mouth dropped open and he stared.

  She stepped very close to him and stared up into his eyes. “When you stand near me and gaze into my eyes with a look that says there is nothing you want so much in the world than to take me in your arms and kiss me, I want to kiss you back. I want everything those eyes of yours promise. And that is very, very dangerous to my life and my future.” She stepped back. “Therefore, there will be no more kisses waged. We shall work to put together this book with a cordiality tempered with formality. I am willing to be pleasant, but I prefer to be impersonal. This”—she gestured at the table—“will be difficult enough to do without panting over one another as if we were animals.”

  “May I say something?”

  “No. There is nothing more to say.” She brushed past him and collected her drawings and packed them into the portfolio. “We have done quite enough for today. I think we should start again tomorrow. We have the basis for our myth. Now we, or I should say you, as you are the writer, need to simply come up with the appropriate words.”

  She nodded sharply and started toward the door.

  “Fiona.”

  She braced herself and turned. “Miss Fairchild, please.”

  “As you wish.” He stared at her for a long moment. “You have my apologies for anything I have done that you feel is inappropriate.”

  “Do you believe in honesty, my lord?”

  He nodded. “Under most circumstances.”

  “Then know this.” For a moment she debated the merits of what she was about to say. Although, in truth, it scarcely mattered. “Like you, I do not think I have ever truly been in love before, and I very much fear I could easily fall in love with you. As you have no interest in marriage, that would only lead to the breaking of my heart and my ultimate ruin. I will not allow that. Now, then, I shall bid you good day.” She nodded, turned and swept from the room.

  “Fiona,” he called. “Miss Fairchild.”

  She ignored him, not pausing for so much as a single moment until she reached the relative safety of her own rooms.

  Fiona tossed aside the portfolio, then sank down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. What on earth had come over her? How could she have been so…sohonest?She certainly hadn’t planned on confessing anything at all, let alone how enticing she found him. Her plan, if indeed she’d had anything that approached an actual plan, was to spend time with him and charm him into…what? Marriage? Love?

  She had no idea. He confused her, as did the feelings he provoked in a way no man had ever confused her before. Lord knows she’d been involved in any number of flirtations and with men probably even better at it than him. Yet she’d never before been so tempted by a man. Never before even suspected surrender was a possibility. Never before so much as considered tossing away her future for the magic to be found in his arms or even, God help her, in his bed. Yet with Jonathon she wanted nothing more than to surrender to his charms. And had, in truth, wanted that, wanted him, from the moment she’d taken Lady Chester’s place in the library. Or perhaps from the moment she’d first seen him all those years ago.

  Nonetheless, she had her sisters to consider, and they would not be well served if Fiona indulged her desires. No, she needed a husband, not a lover.

  And if Jonathon was not interested in the first position, she was not about to grant him the second.

  Jonathon stared at the now-empty doorway.

  What exactly had he done to provoke that? Nothing the least bit out of the ordinary. Yes, he had flirted withher, but he flirted with every woman who was lovely and amusing. It was only natural that he would…

  He groaned to himself. He should have known better. Fiona wasn’t simply any woman. She was in a desperate position and had already asked him to marry her. He winced at the thought. And she had been rejected. His flirtation would only encourage any romantic inclinations she might have toward him. Why, she’d said she could easily fall in love with him.

  And couldn’t he fall in love with her just as easily? The unbidden thought flashed through his mind. It was absurd, of course. Ridiculous. Admittedly she provoked all sorts of unfamiliar emotions within him, but those were surely due to the odd situation they found themselves embroiled in and nothing more than that. Still, if his friends were right and he had never experienced a true passion of the heart, would he even know love when he found it?

  He needed advice and he needed it at once. Certainly he had two sisters he could turn to, but lust and desire and confusion were not exactly topics one discussed with one’s sisters. Nor did he wish to talk about such things with either of his parents, although he suspected both would understand. Oliver wasn’t a possibility either. He was Fiona’s cousin, after all, and had her best interests at heart. And neither Cavendish nor Wharton had ever been overly successful with women. Why, Jonathon would trust his own instincts before he would rely on advice from either of them. Besides, they’d probably find all this the height of amusement.

  No, he needed someone who could help him unravel the workings of the female mind, and for that, perhaps, only a female would do.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, far earlier than anyone with any sense would pay a call…

  “You woke me up at this ungodly hour to ask about love?” Judith, Lady Chester, lounged on the chaise in her bedchamber ensconced, more than attired, in some frilly pink confection of a dressing gown. She stared at Jonathon as though he had taken leave of his senses. The small, fluffy white beast that she claimed was a dog lay curled by her side and stared with nearly the very same expression. It was most disconcerting.

  Jonathon perched on the edge of a French armchair that was far too delicate for comfort. But then, nearly everything in Judith’s boudoir was far too delicate for anyone whose tastes were not distinctly feminine, with the possible exception of the fresh flowers, always unusual and interesting. Judith had a passion for flowers, and the more exotic and costly they were, the more she liked them. She fancied herself a bit of a gardener, although she had a complete staff to handle the more distasteful chores of actually planting and tending to plants.

  “It’s half past nine, which most people do not consider ungodly. Besides, I sent you a note last night advising you of my intention to call this morning.” Jonathon narrowed his eyes. “And I said nothing about love.”

  Judith yawned in a most indelicate manner. “It’s all about love, dear heart. All this man and woman nonsense. On occasion, it can also be about passion or lust or money, but for the most part it’s always about love. Or rather it’s always best when it’s about love.”

  He raised a brow. “I never imagined you to be such a romantic.”

  “I don’t know a woman who isn’t a romantic in one way or another.” She studied him for a moment. “Including your Miss Fairchild.”

  “She’s not my Miss Fairchild,” he said sharply.

  The fluffy creature picked up his head and
growled. His mistress smirked. “But you want her to be.”

  Frustration brought him to his feet and he paced the pastel-hued Aubusson carpet. “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Of course you don’t, you poor, poor stupid man.” Judith settled back on the chaise and watched him with far too much amusement in her eyes. “I should apologize to you, I suppose, for my part in this. But when Norcroft said his cousin very much wished to meet with you privately, I saw no real harm in it. And indeed, as I had had a much more interesting invitation for the evening—”

  He stopped and stared. “You weren’t at the ball, then?”

  “For a few moments.” She shrugged. “Long enough to establish…my wherabouts.”

  “What are you up to, Judith?”

  She laughed. “Nothing of any significance, I assure you. Or perhaps something of great importance. I have not yet decided. And it’s none of your concern.”

  “Nonetheless, I—”

  “Jonathon, the topic for discussion today is your life, not mine,” she said firmly. “Now, then, of all the men I have ever known, I would have chosen you least resistant to marriage. So why don’t you simply marry the girl?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I scarcely know her.”

  “My dear man, you can’t possibly ever know anyone, not truly, until you marry them. Until you share a life and a sense of permanence. Until you have the opportunity to complain about her spending and she has the chance to berate you about your bad habits and your equally bad companions.”

  “I would call neither my companions nor my habits bad,” he said loftily.

  She laughed. “You are scarcely perfect, my lord.”

  “I never claimed to be perfect.” He paused. “Although I am a good catch.”

  “And modest as well.”

  “Do stop it, Judith, and tell me what I am to do.”

  “You could have married me years ago.”

  He shot her a skeptical glance. “You have never been particularly interested in marriage.”