Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “Once was quite enough.” She patted the dog in an absent manner and the creature rested his head on her lap, although his gaze never left Jonathon. “Besides, I rather cherish the unique understanding you and I have cultivated through the years.”

  He smiled. “Friends who have shared a bed on occasion?”

  “You do realize that will come to an end when you marry?” Her gaze met his. “Not our friendship, we will always be friends, but the rest of it.”

  “Of course.” Judith may well be a bit freer with her favors than other women of his acquaintance, but she did not involve herself with married men and to his knowledge never had. “I should hate to lose your friendship.” Jonathon smiled even as he realized there were few women alive who would tolerate the kind of friendship he and Judith had shared.

  She studied him for a long moment. “Don’t you think it rather significant that you are asking for advice in the first place?”

  “No.” He drew his brows together and tried to think of the last time he had asked for advice about a woman and failed. “Do you?”

  “Absolutely. You have never lacked in confidence and you have certainly never asked for my assistance regarding whatever lady had captured your attention at the moment.”

  “This is different,” he said staunchly.

  “Oh?”

  “She is different.” He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain.

  “She scarcely seems different to me. Oh, her circumstances are certainly unique enough, but”—Judith waved aimlessly—“I daresay she’s no different than any young woman seeking a husband. A bit more desperate, perhaps, but really no different. Women marry all the time to improve their financial circumstances.” She sat up abruptly, the dog scrambling to keep from sliding onto the floor. “I should meet her as soon as possible. Especially if she really is different. I certainly can’t give you proper advice without meeting your Miss Fairchild.”

  Nonetheless, Jonathon wasn’t at all sure a meeting between Judith and Fiona was advisable, regardless of how he might or might not feel about Fiona. Or Judith either, for that matter. “Judith, I’m not sure—”

  “I shall send Norcroft a note at once.” She scooped the dog up in her arms, got to her feet and swept across the room. Jonathon could have sworn the animal cast him a threatening look as they passed.

  “Judith…” He trailed after her.

  “I shall make certain he brings Miss Fairchild to the Twelfth Night Ball.” Judith placed the dog in a basket festooned with lace and ribbons and seated herself before a small desk. “I shall send her an invitation as well.” She glanced at Jonathon. “You don’t think she’ll be offended, do you? To be invited so late, that is. The other invitations went out weeks ago.”

  “Not at all,” Jonathon said weakly. Certainly he and Oliver had every intention of bringing Fiona to Judith’s ball, but Jonathon had never imagined the two of them actually meeting.

  “You know, this is the first ball I’ve had in town in years.” Judith pulled out a sheet of paper from a writing box on the desk, then dipped a pen into an ornate inkwell. “I do usually prefer intimate parties at my house in the country, but sometimes one just feels the need for a large, extravagant event even if for no real reason.”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  “It’s been ten years since my husband died. A full decade that I have been a widow.” She paused in an almost wistful manner. “I have had a great deal of fun.”

  Jonathon stared. As much as they were friends and had been for a number of years, he wasn’t sure he had ever heard her mention her late husband before. Or sound the least bit wistful.

  “I should take my leave.” He edged toward the door. “Miss Fairchild and I are to continue our work this morning.”

  “Jonathon.” Judith set down her pen and swiveled in the chair to face him. “You’ve come for my advice, so here it is. Take the opportunity this book scheme affords you to become better acquainted with this woman.”

  “Better acquainted?” He shook his head. “She will not allow—”

  “I am talking about friendship.” She blew an exasperated breath. “Offer her the hand of friendship. Surely you can do so without flirtation of any kind?”

  At once the image of a brilliant smile and irresistible green eyes flashed through his mind.

  “Well, for heaven’s sakes, do at least try to suppress that natural inclination of yours to be charming.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “She has said she could fall in love with you. You cannot allow that if you cannot return her affection.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “However, I should point out some of the very best relationships between men and women that I’ve ever witnessed result from a shared friendship as well as love. Make friends with her and along the way explore your own feelings.”

  He blew a long breath. “I don’t know what my feelings are.”

  “Therein lies the need for exploration as well as the problem. Jonathon.” Her tone sobered and she met his gaze directly. “If she is indeed what you have always wanted, you can ill afford to let her go. That might be the greatest mistake of your life.”

  “And if she isn’t?”

  “Then you have lost nothing.”

  “I suppose.” He cast her a firm look. “I assume you will keep everything we have discussed entirely confidential.”

  Her eyes widened. “My dear Jonathon, I have kept better secrets than this for you.” She paused. “As you have kept for me.”

  He grinned. “You do have some interesting secrets.”

  “As do you. Well, perhaps not quite as interesting,” she said wryly, then shook her head. “You do realize if she finds out that you are providing the money that she believes is being earned by the sale of your book, she may never forgive you. From what you have told me, it sounds as if she has a great deal of pride. Women with pride do not take well to what they might perceive as charity.”

  “She won’t find out,” he said firmly. “I will make certain of that. Only Norcroft and I will ever be privy to this scheme.”

  “And myself, of course.”

  “Yes, but you know how to keep a secret.”

  “I do indeed, when necessary. Oh, and Jonathon.” She tapped the end of her pen thoughtfully against her bottom lip. “I must confess you have piqued my curiosity. When you have this handful of books printed”—she smiled in an altogether wicked way—“reserve a copy for me.”

  “…her body was lush and ripe and the first rays of his brother Sun turned her flesh to gold. Winter wanted her…”

  Jonathon paused to find the right words. “With a need that ached in his loins.”

  “Ached in his loins,” Fiona murmured, her head bent over the page she scribbled his words on. “That’s very good, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Miss Fairchild,” he said in the polite yet pleasant tone he had adopted from the moment they had begun their work here in Oliver’s library an hour or so ago.

  He had given Judith’s advice a great deal of thought on the carriage ride here and had decided to follow it. Why not? She was right about his not doing anything to encourage Fiona’s feelings. And right as well about his need to determine exactly how he felt about her. As for making friends, that too made a certain amount of sense.

  Still, it would be easier to consider friendship if words like loins and flesh and ache could be avoided, since, in his mind, they naturally led to words including lust and desire and…Fiona.

  She glanced up at him. “And?”

  “And?”

  Fiona didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by any of it. He could have been dictating children’s stories, for all the effect it seemed to have on her.

  “And what is the next line?”

  “The next line?” Good God, he could barely remember his own name, let alone come up with a next line. And wasn’t it exceptionally warm in here? He drew a steadying breath. “The next line.”

  “Yes, the next line. The
following sentence. What comes after ached in his loins.” Her tone was cool and unruffled. “Do you have a next line?”

  If she was not affected by all this talk of need and aching, he was certainly not going to let her know he was. “Of course.” He thought for a moment. “She paid him no heed. As if she had no knowledge of his presence.”

  “Good, good,” she said under her breath, writing down every word, her gaze on her work. “Go on.”

  The late morning sun slanted in through the window and her hair glowed a dark copper color in the light. As if she were indeed touched by the sun itself. “No knowledge of his gaze upon her porcelain skin.” She looked like an ancient enchantress recording spells of magic and potions of love to be used to enthrall a knight or a lord or the son of a duke. “Of the desire coursing through his—”

  “Can skin be porcelain and golden at the same time?” she said abruptly.

  “What?” The question rudely jerked him back to here and now.

  “Can skin be porcelain and golden at the same time?” she said again, somewhat slower, as if his intelligence were such that she needed to make a special effort to make certain he understood, and frowned at the paper in front of her. “It seems to me porcelain evokes a very cool feeling, while golden brings to mind something considerably warmer.”

  He stared at her in disbelief, all thoughts of irresistible magic wielded by bronze-haired goddesses at once vanquished by irritation.

  “Well?” She looked up at him. “Which is it? Porcelain or golden?”

  “It’s both.”

  She shook her head. “It can’t be both.”

  “It most certainly can if I say it can. It’s…it’s literary license. It’s fiction. I am the author. I can do whatever I want.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I wish this particular nymph to have skin that is both porcelain and golden, she shall have skin that is both porcelain and golden. Write it down.”

  “Very well.” She shrugged and turned her attention back to the paper and said under her breath, “But it makes no sense.”

  He watched her write and suspicion washed through him. “Are you writing what I said?”

  She cast him a pleasant smile. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I changed it.” She looked down at the paper. “It now reads: no knowledge of his covetous gaze upon the warmth of her skin.”

  “I never said covetous.”

  “No, but you should have. I like it. Next sentence, please.”

  “If you are not going to write precisely what I say, then perhaps I should be the one doing the writing.”

  “Would you?” She rose to her feet. “Then I can be the one to pace the room and mutter under my breath and occasionally groan in the throes of creative despair.” She fluttered her lashes and smiled in an overly sweet manner.

  He stared at her and without warning annoyance was swept away by absurdity. He struggled to keep a grin from his face. “Creative despair?”

  She raised a brow.

  He laughed. “Am I being ridiculous, then?”

  “You are being…” She smiled slowly, a genuine smile this time. “Most amusing.”

  “Am I?” He chuckled. “I do not intend to be.”

  “Nonetheless you are.” She studied him for a moment. “Is this how you always write?”

  “I don’t think so. I do on occasion pace when trying to think of the proper phrase or word, but I am fairly certain I do not groan in the throes of creative despair.” He shrugged. “Although I might. I have never had a witness to my writing before, nor have I ever attempted to dictate a story.”

  “Do you think Mr. Dickens groans and mutters and paces?”

  “No.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “I think Mr. Dickens’s genius is such that he simply touches pen to paper and the words flow unimpeded.”

  She laughed. “Surely not. I would think he struggles every bit as much as you do.”

  “Possibly, but I would wager his struggles are tempered by the sure and certain knowledge that the world is waiting with breathless anticipation for his next work.” Jonathon grimaced. “The world is neither waiting for my words nor does it know I exist.”

  “Perhaps someday.”

  “Perhaps.” He shook his head. “Although I seem to have a better gift for investment than for writing, at least in terms of success. I have yet to sell a single story, whereas my investment ventures have thus far proven profitable.”

  “Will this venture prove profitable?” The question echoed in her eyes.

  “I shall make certain of it, Miss Fairchild.” He met her gaze with a confident smile.

  “I am most appreciative, my lord,” she said softly.

  For a long moment her gaze locked with his. His smile faded. The green of her eyes deepened with something he couldn’t quite place. Something wonderful. The moment between them stretched and lengthened. The oddest sensation of tension, electric and compelling and not the least bit what he had ever felt for a friend, crackled in the air between them. He wanted to move toward her, sweep her into his arms, his bed, his life. Kiss her until they were both senseless with—

  She cleared her throat. “Shall we continue, then?”

  “Good God, yes,” he murmured.

  A charming blush tinged her cheeks. “With the story?”

  “The story.” He drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course, the story. Where were we?”

  She pulled her gaze from his, sat down in her chair and picked up the pen. “The last line was: no knowledge of his covetous gaze upon the warmth of her skin.”

  “Covetous.” He snorted.

  She ignored him. “Then I believe you started to say something about coursing desire?”

  “Desire?” Dear Lord, not desire. “Coursing desire, you say?”

  “Or possibly desire coursing. I did not quite get it down. I was concerned with covetous at the time.”

  “Very well, then.” He clenched his jaw, firmly thrust aside all desirous thoughts of Fiona, covetous or otherwise, and forced himself to concentrate on the desires of Winter as regards whatever nymph he had in his sights. “What nymph is this again?”

  She shuffled through the papers on the table. “April, I think.”

  “April.” He thought for a moment. “No knowledge of his covetous gaze upon the warmth of her skin…” He glanced at Fiona.

  She smiled down at the paper in an annoyingly satisfied manner.

  He continued. “No knowledge of the desire coursing through his veins. Surging in his blood. Grasping him—no—gripping him with a fire that demanded quenching. He could…take her. Yes, that’s good.” Very good, in fact. Far better than covetous. “Or rather, should take her. Now. As was his due, without—”

  “Wait!” Fiona wrote frantically. “You are going entirely too fast.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What came after surging through his blood?”

  “Gripping him with a fire that demanded quenching.”

  “Gripping him with a fire,” she repeated as she wrote, “that demanded quenching.”

  “He should take her now as was his due—Good Lord, Miss Fairchild!” He stared at her. “Don’t you find this difficult?”

  “Not if you slow down,” she muttered

  “I didn’t mean the dictation.” He huffed. “I meant the topic. Don’t you find this embarrassing?”

  “Not at all, my lord.” She glanced up at him. “Do you?”

  “Well, yes, somewhat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not used to discussing topics of this nature with properly bred young women.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Why, he sounded as stuffy as his father.

  “Really?” She sat back in her chair. “Who do you discuss topics of this nature with?”

  “What?”

  “You said you were not used to discussing such topics with properly bred young women. Who do you discuss such things with?”

  “Why…” he sputt
ered. “I don’t!”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that, then, before we began this project,” she said primly. “I believe it was your idea.”

  He glared at her. “This doesn’t bother you at all, does it?”

  “What, my lord?” She blew an exasperated breath, set her pen down and looked up at him. “The words we are using or the fact that you are wasting a great deal of our time being uncomfortable at their use?”

  He gritted his teeth. “The first.”

  “No, of course not. They are simply words, after all. I am an artist and you are a writer. You tell your stories with words, I tell mine with pen and charcoal.” She shrugged. “The words you use have no more effect on me than the subjects of my drawings.”

  He raised a brow. “Naked men?”

  “And women.” She studied him for a moment. “You are more shocked than you originally let on about my work, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all,” he said staunchly, then paused. “Admittedly, I might be more surprised the better I get to know you—”

  She laughed. “I do not seem like the type of woman who would draw nude figures?”

  “In many ways, Miss Fairchild, you seem like the type of woman who would do almost anything that struck her fancy,” he said wryly. “But I also think you have certain boundaries of behavior you will not breach.”

  “Oh?”

  “For example, I am fairly certain you will not trick a man into marriage, nor will you force a man to wed who does not wish to.”

  “I wouldn’t wager on that.” A warning sounded in her voice.

  “I would.” He grinned. “Shall we say a hundred pounds?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She scoffed. “If you lost, you would lose far more than money, you would lose your freedom.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll wager my freedom. And if I won, what would I win?”

  She laughed. “But you could never win. You are betting on my behavior. On something that I would or would not do. Something that I have full control over. It is a fool’s wager.”

  “I have been called a fool on more than one occasion.” He wagged his brows wickedly. “What do you have to wager that would be comparable to my freedom?”