Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “My virtue,” she said without pause.

  “Yes, well…” He tried and failed to keep the surprise from his voice. “That is comparable.”

  She laughed. “Now I have truly shocked you.” She leaned toward him. “Is it because of what I am willing to bet in a wager that I cannot lose? Or is it simply because I have said the word virtue aloud?”

  “You have said naked aloud.” His tone was dry. “Not to mention coursing desire and”—he shook his head in a mournful manner—“covetous.”

  She heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Oh, dear, I am shocking.”

  “Yes, you are, and I find it quite charming.” He grinned. “But you’re right, such a wager as we’ve discussed would be nothing short of stupid on my part. And I agree, only a fool would engage in such a gamble knowing he cannot possibly win.”

  “And you are no fool.”

  “I try not to be.” He studied her for a moment. “Miss Fairchild.” Jonathon pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “Would you like to be friends?”

  She narrowed her eyes in obvious suspicion. “What do you mean, friends?”

  “I mean friends. Comrades. Something more than acquaintances and less than…Well, you know what friends are.”

  “Certainly, but—”

  “We are going to be spending a great deal of time together. Given our conversation yesterday regarding any potential feelings you could develop toward me”—Jonathon winced to himself; this was most awkward not only because of the possibility that she might feel something for him, but because of his confusion toward her—“and my own…reluctance regarding marriage, it seems that friendship would be the safest course for us both. You have informed me in no uncertain terms that you do not wish for any sort of flirtation on my part, and I must tell you it’s damnably hard to avoid.”

  “Imagine that,” she murmured.

  “You’re quite lovely, Miss Fairchild, and clever and amusing, and I find I enjoy your company, but…” He blew a long breath. “I feel things are most unsettled between us. I hope that if we can at least be friends—”

  “Agreed.”

  “—then perhaps our work together would not—”

  “I said I agree.”

  He drew his brows together. “You agree?”

  “On friendship between us.” She nodded. “I think it’s an excellent idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Even I am aware that your efforts to suppress your obviously natural inclination toward flirtation are most difficult for you. Indeed, today you have seemed like a thread stretched to the breaking point.”

  “I have?”

  She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “And it’s apparent the subject matter we are dealing with is not helping.”

  “You could say that,” he said under his breath.

  “Therefore, in the interest of friendship and your well-being, I propose we divide our time.” She thought for a moment. “We could write a bit, finish a few pages—as much as you can bear—”

  “See here, Miss Fairchild.” Indignation rang in his voice. “I daresay I can hold up—”

  “—then we’ll stop,” she continued without pause, “and spend some time getting to know one another. Perhaps we could each ask the other a question about something we are curious about.” She glanced at him. “Nothing too personal, of course.”

  “However, some personal questions are allowed. Among friends, that is,” he added quickly.

  “I suppose. I daresay we can decide on a question-by-question basis.”

  “Excellent.” He sat back and beamed at her. “Would you like to go first? With a question, that is?”

  “I think I prefer that you go first,” she said slowly. “I cannot think of a question at the moment and I do hate to squander the opportunity.”

  “Very well.” He waved at the drawings strewn across the table. “How did all this come about? You said you went from pears to people. Surely there was more to it than that?”

  “It was”—she thought for a moment—“a natural progression, I would say. I began my studies with Mrs. Kincaid years ago. Eleanora Kincaid is a wonderful artist, although I daresay no one has ever heard of her and probably never will. She left England as a young woman and supplements the commissions she receives for portraits and murals and the like with art lessons. At first we drew still lifes and landscapes and that sort of thing. Then we started going to museums and galleries to study works of the great masters. She encouraged us to draw what we saw there including ancient Roman and Greek sculptures.” She glanced at him. “You realize most of them are not clothed?”

  “I do realize that, although they are also made of stone and cool to the touch.”

  “Quite, and therefore not much of a challenge, really.” She nodded. “We studied anatomy from books as well as statues, but eventually it wasn’t enough and we needed to draw from life, from living, breathing people.” She leaned toward him. “It’s quite a different thing, you know, to copy what you see in a book or render an inanimate figure made of marble to drawing a living being.” She grinned. “They have a tendency to move. It’s most awkward.”

  “No doubt.”

  “At any rate, a few years ago, Mrs. Kincaid decided, for purposes of improvement and challenge, that it was time to move on to something more demanding and she hired models to pose for us.”

  “Female and male models?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Just women at first. I believe it’s rather difficult to find men to pose naked in front of a group of young women.”

  “I can well imagine,” he murmured. “I would certainly find it embarrassing, to say the least.”

  “Really? But it was simply a task for which they were well compensated. There was nothing at all personal about it. On their side or on ours.”

  “Nonetheless, I would never…” He shook his head. “I can’t even envision…”

  “Can’t you?” She looked at him as if assessing his qualifications to pose nude. “What a shame.”

  He huffed. “Miss Fairchild, if you think I am the type of man to shed my clothes in the name of art—”

  She laughed. “I didn’t think that at all. However, as a writer, I would think you would well be able to imagine how a man in that position, surrounded by young women, all staring dispassionately at him as if he were nothing more than an object, might feel. Or how he might respond.”

  At once the image of her gazing dispassionately at his nude body popped into his head. He wasn’t at all sure he liked the idea of her—or any woman, for that matter, but her in particular—gazing at his naked form in a dispassionate manner. If Fiona were ever to look upon him when he was unclothed, he did hope that she would have some sort of passionate response. Lord knows he would, if the situation were reversed.

  Without warning the image changed to include her in a similar state of undress.

  “Well?”

  “I do have a rather vivid imagination,” he muttered.

  “I thought as much.” She chuckled. “As I was saying, it is difficult to find male models. However, Mrs. Kincaid was never long without male companionship—”

  “Miss Fairchild!”

  “Have I shocked you again?” She stared at him in disbelief. “I had no idea you were so easily shocked.”

  “I’m not.” He paused. “Usually.”

  “Are you shocked at what I know or what I say?”

  “Both.” He sighed. “Neither. My apologies, do continue.”

  “There’s really not much more to say.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Kincaid convinced her…companion to pose. After they were no longer”—she flashed him a quick teasing look—“companions, she persuaded her new companion to do so as well.”

  “Were you not embarrassed by all these”—he grimaced—“companions? These naked companions.”

  “No,” she said blithely. “After all, they weren’t my companions.”

  He tried and failed to stifle a gasp.

 
; “I am sorry.” She laughed. “I couldn’t resist that. You are great fun to shock.”

  “I am glad you’re enjoying it.”

  “Oh, I am.” She grinned, then her expression sobered. “I do admit it was a bit uncomfortable in the beginning, but eventually one looks at a naked body very much as one looks at a vase or a piece of fruit. The work itself becomes more…alive, I think, than the subject.” Her brows drew together thoughtfully. “You should understand, this was a very small group of students. Seven of us altogether and not one under the age of twenty. We were all great friends and the subject of this aspect of our work was our secret. Some of us were more talented than others, some better with charcoal, others with paint, but we each took what we did quite seriously. Although none of us expected ever to have to earn our own living.” She smiled wryly. “My friends would be as shocked as you to learn of this project.”

  “They won’t. No one will. Ever,” he said staunchly ignoring the fact that just today he had told Judith, but Judith was an expert at the keeping of secrets. “Anonymity is crucial. Besides”—he grinned—“if seven women can keep the subject of their work secret for years, we can surely do no less.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “I do appreciate your efforts with this, you know.”

  “It’s entirely my pleasure.”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  “Is that an official question?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “It seems the least I can do to help a friend in your situation.”

  “Are we friends already, then?”

  “Somewhat, I hope. In truth, Miss Fairchild, I have never had a woman—a woman aside from my sisters, that is—ask me for help in any sort of endeavor of this serious a nature. Which is precisely what you did when you asked me to marry you.” He met her gaze directly. “You were completely candid with me and I regret that I was not as forthright with you. Apologies alone do not seem sufficient to rectify my error in judgment. I feel a certain obligation to help you avoid the fate you so very much wish to avoid. You asked for rescue and I did not provide it. I have long thought of myself as an honorable man and I am not proud of my refusal.”

  “I see.” Her gaze searched his. “And if my fate cannot be avoided? If we cannot earn the funding I require? If I see no other choice but to marry the man my father selected?”

  “You won’t,” he said firmly.

  “This all seems so very speculative to me.” She blew a long breath. “I have any number of doubts as to its success, whereas you are completely confident.”

  “I am indeed.” He nodded. It was easy to be confident, since he knew precisely where her funds would come from. Not that she would ever know. “Rest assured, Miss Fairchild, with this endeavor you will be rescued.”

  “I am fortunate, then, to have found a friend such as you.” She smiled and his stomach twisted.

  “I am the fortunate one.” At once he realized he did indeed feel fortunate.

  “Because you will at last see your work in print, even if anonymously?”

  “Yes, of course,” he murmured. Surely there was no other reason to feel as if he had just won an impressive wager? An immense lottery? The world itself? “That’s it.”

  “I thought so. Very well.” She drew a deep breath. “He should take her, now, as was his due.”

  “Indeed.” His gaze slipped to her lips.

  “And then?”

  Her words wrapped around him and without thought he leaned closer to her. “And then?”

  “What comes next?” Her voice was soft and so enticing.

  “Next?” He was close enough to kiss her. Surely a kiss, to seal a friendship, would be permissible?

  “The next line, my lord? We should get back to our work.” The corners of her lips tilted upward in a slight, vaguely smug smile, as if she knew precisely what he was thinking. She pointedly turned away from him and read from the page. “He should take her, now, as was his due.”

  As well he should. Jonathon pushed the errant thought from his head and got to his feet. “Of course. The next line.” He paced a few steps, then paused to study her, and smiled slowly.

  “And knew, in the manner in which all gods knew such things, she wished it as much as he.”

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, not nearly as early as the day before, but still earlier than one would have preferred if one had one’s choice, but then on occasion, one doesn’t…

  “There is nothing like a new gown to raise a girl’s spirits.” Aunt Edwina circled the stool Fiona stood on in her aunt’s parlor and studied the fabrics draped over the younger woman. She’d been in a tizzy of excitement ever since Lady Chester’s invitation for Fiona had arrived yesterday afternoon and had wasted no time in summoning her favorite dressmaker.

  Aunt Edwina fingered a length of copper-colored silk and glanced at the seamstress. “This will do beautifully, I think.”

  “I agree, madame.” Madame DuBois, a Frenchwoman and, according to Aunt Edwina, one of the best and costliest dressmakers in the city, scrutinized Fiona with an even more critical eye than her aunt. “It suits her coloring and complements both her hair and her eyes.”

  Madame DuBois’s entourage, consisting of a young man with a somewhat haughty demeanor and two women of indeterminate age, murmured their assent.

  “I really don’t need a new gown,” Fiona said halfheartedly, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Madame was right. The silk was beautiful in and of itself and it did look well on her. “I was scarcely at the Christmas ball for any time at all. I could certainly wear the gown I wore then, or I have any number of others that will suit.”

  “Nonsense. One can never have too many gowns.” Aunt Edwina’s gaze met Fiona’s in the mirror and her eyes twinkled. “Besides, it’s much more fun to dress you properly than to dress myself.”

  “Nonsense, my lady,” the Frenchwoman said staunchly. “You are a joy to dress. You have kept your figure and you do not look a day older than when we first met.”

  “Thank you, madame, and never fear you have not lost me as a client.” Aunt Edwin laughed. “But even you must admit it has been a number of years since a fabric flattered me, or, I should say, I flattered a fabric in the way my niece does.”

  All three women stared in the mirror.

  “She is indeed lovely, my lady.” Madame DuBois nodded. “It will be a privilege to create a gown that will enhance her beauty.”

  “There will be a great many eligible gentlemen at this ball.” Aunt Edwina and Madame DuBois exchanged meaningful glances in the mirror.

  “And she is not growing younger,” Madame DuBois said under her breath.

  “And she is standing right here,” Fiona muttered, not that anyone paid her any notice. She could be invisible, for all it mattered.

  She was not the least bit used to being ignored by a dressmaker. Indeed, Fiona had been in full control of such matters since her stepmother’s death. Still, it was lovely to leave every decision in Aunt Edwina’s capable hands. An odd pang of regret mingled with gratitude stabbed her. In truth, it was rather nice to have a mother again.

  “We only have a week.” Aunt Edwina frowned. “Will that be enough time?”

  Madame sniffed. “But of course.”

  Fiona suspected Madame could do just about anything she set her mind on if the price was right.

  “This is just the beginning, you know.” An eager light shone in Aunt Edwina’s eye. “She has three sisters I plan to sponsor this season.”

  Madame chuckled in a manner that would have been considered mercenary from anyone else. “I shall look forward to it. As for this one…” Madame circled Fiona slowly. “I think something to reveal the curve of the shoulders.” She paused and peered up at Fiona. “The freckles, are they everywhere?”

  Fiona sighed. “Just my nose.”

  “The sun, no doubt. She should take care.” Madame continued her perusal. “Pity the waist is not
smaller, but a snug bodice will make it seem so and push up the bosom as well.” Madame glanced at Aunt Edwina. “She has a good bosom. We must show it to advantage. Gentlemen love a generous bosom.”

  Aunt Edwina beamed as if she were somehow responsible for, and therefore proud of, the generous nature of Fiona’s bosom.

  Madame stepped back and nodded. “She will be as a princess. Heads will turn, my lady.”

  Aunt Edwina flashed Fiona a grin. “I do so love it when heads turn.”

  Madame signaled to her minions and without a sound save the swishing of the fabrics, the two women unwrapped the lengths of material from around Fiona and the young man extended his hand to help her down from the stool.

  Aunt Edwina accompanied the Frenchwoman to the door and Fiona heard snatches of conversation about designs and fittings and that sort of thing. She’d never noted before the endless details of arranging for things like the commission of a new gown. She’d simply taken care of it for herself and her sisters. It was delightful not to have to do so now. She already felt more than a little like a princess.

  Aunt Edwina swept back into the room. “Madame DuBois is a genius. You will indeed be exquisite. We shall find you a suitable husband in no time.”

  Fiona held her breath. If her sisters had told their aunt about her predicament she would have to throttle them all, individually or as a group. “A suitable husband?”

  “Yes, of course, my dear.” Aunt Edwina shook her head. “Why, even Madame Dubois noted that you are not quite as young as would be preferable for a quest of this nature. You’re what?” She cast her gaze over Fiona. “Six-and-twenty?”

  “Five-and-twenty.”

  “Oh, that’s much better.” Aunt Edwina breathed a sigh of relief. “There is something about five-and-twenty instead of six-and-twenty that does not sound nearly so…so…”

  “Old?” Fiona raised a brow.

  Aunt Edwina laughed. “I was going to say distressing. Not that you are distressed of course. I think you are carrying on bravely and I’m very proud.” She took Fiona’s hand and led her to a settee. “Come, my dear, and sit with me for a bit. We have not had the chance for a good chat since your arrival.”