Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  That too drove his friends mad.

  “I say, just out of idle curiosity, mind you,” Cavendish started in a casual manner, “who is the lady this year?”

  “Yes, Helmsley, do tell,” Warton drawled. “Who is this year’s lucky miss?”

  “I cannot believe you would ask such a thing. A gentleman never reveals the name of a lady under such circumstances.” Helmsley shook his head in a mock mournful manner. “Besides”—an altogether ungentlemanly grin flashed across his face—“there’s more than a week until the ball.”

  Oliver chuckled. “So there is no lady as of yet.”

  “Ah, but there will be, old friend.” Helmsley paused. “Would you care to make a small wager on it?”

  Oliver shook his head. “No.”

  “We might as well throw our money into the streets,” Warton added wryly. “If nothing else, you do have our confidence.”

  Helmsley laughed. “And on that note I shall bid you all a good day. Christmas is but a week away and I have a great deal to accomplish between then and now.”

  “Go, then.” Warton waved him off. “And take that nauseating good cheer with you.”

  Helmsley laughed again, the friends made their farewells and a moment later he was off, the faint whistle of a Christmas carol lingering in his wake.

  “I do wonder, though”—Warton studied Helmsley’s retreating figure thoughtfully—“exactly what would happen if Helmsley did find a woman who met all his qualifications.”

  “A woman with spirit to challenge his mind.” Oliver chuckled. “I daresay such a woman would have no end of other qualities Helmsley might not find as enchanting.”

  “In my experience, spirited women tend to be stubborn and single-minded. And not overly concerned with propriety. Not at all the type of woman who could be a duchess. Of course, he might well enjoy that.” Cavendish thought for a moment. “Or”—He grinned—“she would drive him mad.”

  It was a delightful thought.

  For a long moment, the trio was silent.

  “It’s really rather a pity…” Warton began.

  “Precisely what I was thinking,” Oliver said slowly.

  Warton’s brow furrowed. “Of course, no one in particular comes to mind.”

  “No one he hasn’t met.” Oliver shook his head. “Therefore it would have to be someone entirely unknown.”

  “It would be the least we could do—”

  “In the name of friendship and in the spirit of the season—”

  “What?” Confusion rang in Cavendish’s voice. “What is the least we can do in the name of friendship and the spirit of the season?”

  “Why, give Helmsley precisely what he wants, of course.” Oliver grinned. “The woman of his dreams.”

  “It’s a brilliant idea.” Warton heaved a resigned sigh. “It’s a shame we can’t do something about it.”

  “I do have a cousin who should be arriving from Italy any day now,” Oliver said slowly.

  “A cousin?” Warton brightened. “Is she the type of woman to appeal to Helmsley?”

  “I have no idea.” Oliver thought for a moment. “My mother corresponds with her regularly, but we haven’t seen her for years. My recollection of her is of a somewhat plump, freckled, red-haired, quiet creature. Not an especially attractive child, but pleasant enough in nature, as I remember.”

  “Perhaps she’s changed?” Cavendish said.

  “Perhaps. She’s five-and-twenty now—”

  “And not yet married?” Cavendish asked.

  “No. Indeed, her father’s displeasure at her failure to wed is the one item Mother has repeatedly mentioned in regards to my cousin’s letters.”

  “Not wed at five-and-twenty?” Cavendish winced. “That’s a bad sign.”

  “I doubt she would serve our purposes.” Oliver shrugged. Fiona’s letter announcing her imminent arrival was brief and contained no sense of the young lady’s character. Or why she had decided to return to England after nearly a decade. Of course, her father had died several months ago and perhaps she simply wanted to at last return home. “Besides, I would hesitate to offer up a family member in this cause.”

  “Pity. I should love, just once, to see Helmsley head over heels for a woman who is precisely what he claims he wants. It would be the quintessential Christmas gift.” A slow grin grew on Warton’s face. “And it would indeed drive him mad.”

  Chapter One

  Six days later…

  “What am I to do, Oliver?” Miss Fiona Fairchild paced the width of her cousin’s parlor and ignored the amused, or perhaps bemused, expression on his face.

  Fiona and her sisters had arrived at Oliver’s home a scant hour ago accompanied by the Contessa Orsetti, who had graciously agreed to chaperone them on their journey from Italy. She was traveling to England anyway and said it was certainly no bother. Aunt Edwina had greeted the party with an enthusiasm that quite warmed Fiona’s heart and provided a significant measure of relief as well. For one thing, Aunt Edwina was thankfully nothing like the contessa, who could be both overbearing and presumptuous. For another, her aunt and cousin had had very little warning as to their arrival and it had been more than a dozen years since they’d last seen one another. After sending the contessa on her way, Aunt Edwina had spirited the younger girls off to settle them in their accommodations. Fiona had preferred to wait in the parlor for Cousin Oliver to return home.

  His greeting had been just as warm as his mother’s, but Fiona had had no time for idle pleasantries. In truth, she had no time to waste at all. She had a crisis of immense proportions confronting her and Oliver might well be her only salvation.

  “I refuse to marry a man I’ve never seen, let alone met, and an American at that. He would probably wish to live in his own country and I have spent far too many years away from England already. This is my home and I have missed it more than I can say.”

  Oliver leaned casually against the fireplace mantel and studied her. “But you are not averse to marriage in and of itself?”

  “Of course not. I wish to marry. Whatever would I do if I did not marry? I am rather a good match, you know.” She turned to him and ticked the points off on her fingers. “I am of good family. I can run a household. I am an excellent hostess. I speak three languages fluently and several others adequately. And the mirror tells me, as have any number of suitors, that I am pretty as well.”

  “You are not as…round and speckled as you were as a child,” Oliver murmured. “You have turned out nicely. Quite nicely.”

  “Surprisingly so.” She grinned with the satisfaction of a woman who was indeed pleased with the way she’d turned out. “Thank you, cousin.” Her smile vanished. “What am I to do?”

  Oliver’s brows drew together. “I cannot believe Uncle Alfred would leave you in such a position.”

  “He was, unfortunately, doing what he thought was best for me. He had encouraged me to marry for years before he fell ill.”

  “I assume there were offers?” Oliver’s gaze traveled over her in an appreciative manner.

  She was well aware of precisely what he saw: a figure no longer plump but curved and appealingly lush, hair that had deepened from a bright, almost orange color to a rich mahogany, intelligent green eyes that tilted upward slightly at the corners and a porcelain complexion marred only by an annoying smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose that men oddly enough seemed to find enchanting. Fiona Fairchild had become a true beauty and she well knew it. Why, hadn’t men compared her to a Renaissance painting?

  Still, she could be as ugly as sin, for all it mattered.

  “Yes, of course.” She waved away his comment. “Aside from the aforementioned attributes, I am heir to a significant fortune. At least I was. When Father realized he would not recover…” A wave of sadness passed through her and she ignored it. She had mourned for her father upon his death nearly four months ago, and would mourn and miss him for the rest of her days, but at the moment she had the pressing mat
ter of how to resolve the circumstances he had left her in to consider. “He took matters into his own hands.

  “In spite of his urgings, Father felt my failure to wed was in part his fault. It wasn’t, of course. I simply never met a man with whom I should wish to spend the rest of my days.” She shrugged. “You must understand that after my stepmother died, I took over her duties in regards to running the household, acting as Father’s hostess and helping with my stepsisters.”

  “There are three, aren’t there? And two are twins?”

  Fiona nodded. “And I could not care for them more than if they were my own flesh and blood, which in itself compounds my dilemma. Father knew if I had only myself to consider I would never marry a man I had not met.”

  “What would you do with your life, then?” Oliver asked mildly. “I cannot see you becoming a governess.”

  “Nor can I.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or a lady’s companion or anything else of that nature. I would probably do exactly what I have done.”

  “Throw yourself on the mercy of your closest living relative?” He grinned.

  “Most certainly.” She flashed him a blinding smile. “You and dear Aunt Edwina would never abandon me and throw me into the streets. Still, I—or rather we—cannot impose on your hospitality forever.”

  “You are certainly welcome to do so. I daresay my mother is beside herself at the idea of having four young women under her wing. She has long bemoaned the fact that she had no daughters and only one son who has not yet done his duty and provided her with a daughter-in-law.”

  Fiona laughed. “That does seem to be a constant theme in her letters.” She sobered and shook her head. “Regardless, we cannot live here for the rest of our days as…as poor relations.”

  “You most definitely can,” Oliver said staunchly. “You are the closest thing I have to a sister.”

  “Oliver—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “However, I can understand how you would not wish to be”—he rolled his gaze toward the ceiling—“poor relations, although Mother and I would certainly never think of you as such. Now…” Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. Uncle Alfred left the bulk of his fortune to you, primarily in the form of a dowry, with substantial amounts also set aside for each of your stepsisters to provide for their dowries.”

  Fiona nodded.

  Oliver studied her. “He left nothing for you to live on? To maintain a household, that sort of thing?”

  “A minimal amount for household expenditures, mostly in the hands of his solicitor, only enough to provide for expenses until such time as my”—it was hard not to choke on the word—“intended arrived from America. Father knew if he left too great an amount at my disposal I would find a way to elude this marriage he has arranged. He was right, of course.” She resumed her pacing. “Once I learned of the terms of his estate, I used everything I could get my hands on plus what little I had saved to pay for our passage here. I can assure you, from now until the day I die I shall have a tidy surplus of cash hidden in my mattress for unforeseen circumstances.”

  “In the event you once again have to flee a foreign country to avoid an unwanted marriage?” Oliver’s voice was serious but there was an amused twinkle in his eye.

  She ignored it. “Exactly. Which reminds me.” She paused, clasped her hands behind her back and adopted a casual tone. “I should mention, as most of that money was intended for household expenses, there might perhaps be an unpaid account, a creditor or two who might take it upon themselves to follow us—”

  Oliver raised a brow. “All the way from Florence?”

  She waved dismissively. “Expenses might have been a bit more than father anticipated. Honestly, Oliver, you needn’t look at me that way. Death is not an inexpensive proposition, you know. Mourning clothes for four young women do not come cheaply—”

  He frowned. “Your clothing does not appear suitable for mourning.”

  “That too was Father’s doing. He stipulated mourning clothes for no more than three months, as he did not feel black was attractive on young women. I suspect he did not wish for me to meet my future”—she wrinkled her nose—“husband looking like an overblown, red-haired crow. It was most thoughtful of him.” She cast Oliver a rueful glance. “I look dreadful in black.”

  “I doubt that,” he murmured.

  “At any rate, about expenses,” she continued, “you have no idea the number of people who felt compelled to call on us for weeks and months afterward and offer their sympathy, all of whom expected refreshment. Burying Father and all that entailed was quite costly.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Fiona sighed.

  Oliver’s father had died when he was a boy and the very idea of someone else controlling his finances, whether from this world or beyond the grave, was foreign to him. And why shouldn’t it be? He was a man and in control of his own destiny. Fiona liked being female and considered herself quite accomplished in feminine skills and wiles. Still, at moments like this, it was most frustrating not to have the power accorded a man in this world. Especially when one’s own monarch was a woman.

  “It’s all right here.” She moved to the valise she had placed on a side table, opened it, and pulled out a copy of her father’s will. “All the unpleasant details.” She handed it to Oliver. “Father’s solicitor in Florence says there is nothing I can do about it. And two others I consulted agree. While there is no particular deadline involved, I think it would be best if, at the very least, I was betrothed to someone else before my intended—I forget his name—arrives from America—”

  “America? He’s not in Italy, then?”

  “No.” She pushed her hair away from her face. She hadn’t taken the time since her arrival to tidy up and no doubt she was a bit disheveled in appearance. Not at all her usual manner, but it was of scarce concern at the moment. “Perhaps I am not telling this properly. It is somewhat complicated.”

  “Perhaps,” Oliver said wryly.

  “Very well, then.” She paused for a moment to get her thoughts in order. “When Father realized he would not recover, he changed his will, dividing his fortune among the four of us in the form of dowries, with a larger portion allocated to me so that I might provide for the others, and a minimal amount set aside to provide for expenses until such time as I wed. None of us get anything beyond that until I marry. Even if Genevieve, Arabella and Sophia wished to marry, all of whom are of an eligible age to do so, although Belle and Sophie are only seventeen, which I think is entirely too young, and they are a bit flighty—”

  “The point?”

  “The point is…” She paused. This part was especially upsetting and still difficult to believe. “That even if my sisters wed, they will not receive their dowries unless, or until, I am married. Their futures are entirely dependent upon my actions.”

  “Can your father do that?” Oliver glanced at the papers in his hand then back to her. “Is it legal, I mean? To compel you to marry?”

  “My father was a clever man with a heretofore unknown diabolical streak.” She narrowed her gaze. “He’s not forcing me to do anything. It is entirely my choice. If I want my inheritance, and the means to a good marriage for my sisters, I shall marry. Until I do, be that a month or ten years from now, the money remains firmly in an account of trust administered by his London solicitors.”

  “So if you don’t wed, your sisters don’t get their dowries either?” Oliver said slowly.

  “Exactly.”

  His gaze met hers. “Your father was really quite determined, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed he was.”

  “And where does this American fit in?” He moved to a writing desk, spread the will before him and stared at the papers.

  Fiona followed him. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but we spent nearly four years residing in Paris before we moved to Florence. In addition to his diplomatic duties for the queen, Father had a fair number of investmen
ts and business associates from various parts of the world. Whatshisname’s father—whose name also escapes my memory—was among them. He was in Italy last year and he and Father renewed their acquaintance.” She peered over his shoulder at the will and suspicion hardened her voice. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this wasn’t when the two of them hatched this scheme to merge their families with a marriage between their offspring.”

  Oliver scanned the papers. “Hold on a moment. I see where you are required to marry ’a suitable gentleman of good character and financial means’ but nothing that specifically requires you to marry this whatever-his-name-is.”

  “I’ve already noted that and it may well be my means of escape.” She paused and sent a silent request for forgiveness toward the heavens and her father, although, given his final acts, she wasn’t entirely certain her prayer was aimed in the right direction. “Apparently Father was too ill to realize that was a rather large flaw in his grand scheme. It is also where you come in.”

  Oliver raised a brow. “Me?”

  “Yes, well.” She searched for the right words. As much as this had seemed like an excellent plan when it first came to mind, at the moment it seemed nothing less than stupid. She drew a deep breath. “I need you to find me a husband.”

  Oliver’s head jerked up and he stared at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. “What do you mean, a husband?”

  “You know, a husband. You know what a husband is, you’ve obviously avoided becoming one long enough to know what it is.” She waved impatiently. “Someone suitable, of good character and so forth and so on. Preferably someone not on his last legs, and I would prefer that he was handsome with a pleasant nature—a sense of humor would be nice as well—but the quality I need most is willing, because I need him as quickly as possible. The moment Whatshisname arrives in Florence, his beast of a father will tell him I’ve fled and he’ll be right on my heels.”

  Oliver continued to stare as if one of her heads had actively started drooling. “Have you considered the possibility that Whatshisname might not want to marry you?”