“You do?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She paused. “Although desire is appropriate as well. Let me think.” She tapped the end of her pen on her lower lip. “What about Desire of the Gods?”
“Acceptable, I suppose.” His gaze followed the movement of her pen. It was extremely distracting. No doubt deliberately. “As you say, desire is an appropriate word. For our purposes.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She ran the end of the pen along her lip and his stomach twisted. Fiona’s skill at flirtation was as polished as Jonathon’s. How very interesting. “But perhaps even better would be…temptation?”
And most effective. He swallowed hard. “Temptation?”
“For our purposes, that is.”
“Yes, yes, our purposes.”
“Temptation too is an excellent word. Although upon further consideration I must admit that I agree with you.” She reached forward across the table and tapped the end of her pen on his chest. “As to the merits of surrender, that is.”
Enough, however, was enough. His writing might lack, but in the fine art of flirtation he was an expert. He caught her hand. “In the title?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“As in The Surrender of the Seasons?”
She met his gaze directly. “Or A Nymph’s Surrender.”
“Surrender to the Gods.”
She nodded. “A Divine Surrender.”
“Better yet”—he took the pen from her hand and tossed it aside—“A Fair Surrender.”
“A Fair Surrender?”
How far would she allow this game to go? How far would he permit it? He pulled her hand to his lips, his gaze locked on hers. “A Very Fair Surrender.”
“My lord.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. “I think—”
“Miss Fairchild, throughout all of this you have been candid and honest with me.”
“Yes?” Her voice had a breathless quality.
“I have not been similarly so with you, in regards to your proposal of marriage, that is. I should like to remedy that now.” He lightly kissed the palm of her hand and she shivered beneath his touch. “I should like to be completely honest.”
“You would?”
“I would indeed, and in all honesty, I must tell you…” His gaze drifted to her lips and back to her eyes. “A woman has never caused me to lose sleep before.”
“Never?”
“Never.” He shook his head. “I have been unable to think of anything except you.” “You haven’t?”
“You are in my thoughts day and night.”
“Oh, my,” she murmured, staring in what might be disbelief or simply surprise.
“You have muddled my mind, Miss Fairchild. You have confused my senses.” He kept hold of her hand and moved toward the end of the table, drawing her along with him, Fiona on one side, Jonathon on the other. “I have never been befuddled in my life until now.”
“Never?”
They reached the end of the table and he stepped toward her. “Not that I can recall.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice didn’t so much as waver, but there was a definite touch of confusion in her eyes. Good. It was her turn to be confused. “Perhaps your memory is faulty?”
“My memory is excellent.” He smiled down at her in a slow and leisurely manner.
“Well, then…” She squared her shoulders, stepped closer to him and looked into his eyes. “Do you intend to do something about it? Your befuddlement, that is?”
“Oh, I do, Miss Fairchild.” He pulled her into his arms. “I do indeed.”
“Perhaps,” she said slowly and with a great deal of reluctance, “this would be the proper moment, in the interest of friendship and getting better acquainted and your well-being—”
“My well-being?”
“Our well-being, then, to ask a question.”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken”—he bent and
kissed the side of her neck just below her ear—“you already have.”
She shuddered. “Have I?”
“You asked what I intended to do about my befuddlement.” He ran his lips along the line of her jaw.
She sucked in a hard breath. “And did you answer?”
“Not entirely.” His lips murmured over her skin. “But what I intend to do right now is kiss you.”
“I suspected as much.” Her breath was shallow. “And did you have a question for me?”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
“I said there would be no more kissing. I don’t think—oh, my, that’s very nice.”
“I thought so.” He smiled against her neck.
“Still, it’s not the wisest course.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Answer my question,” he fairly growled. “Do you want me to kiss y—”
“Yes.” Fiona stared up at him, an odd mix of determination and desire in her eyes. “Yes, I do. I think it might well be the only way to ease this—”
“Miss Fairchild.” He pulled her firmly against him. “Kissing you will not ease anything.” He brushed his lips over hers. “But it will be most delightful.”
He pressed his lips harder to hers. For a moment she was still. Then her body relaxed against his, an odd sort of sigh whispered through her and her mouth opened to his.
Abruptly she pulled away. “This is a dreadful mistake, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” he said solemnly.
She studied him as if to gauge his sincerity, then nodded. “As long as you know.”
She grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him back to her, kissing him with an eagerness that did indeed speak of desire and temptation and seduction and surrender and…
He pulled away and stared at her. “Upon further thought, I might not know. Why is it a mistake? Other than the obvious impropriety.”
“Because one kiss with you, Jonathon Effington”—she wrapped her arms around him and smiled—“is not nearly enough.” She pulled his head to hers, and pressed her lips hard against his.
Her body molded to his and he gathered her closer against him. Her lips were soft and warm and just the nicest bit demanding. And there was a heady scent about her, that of sun and spring and all sorts of delights. He could easily lose himself in the feel of her mouth on his, the heat between his body and hers, the anticipation surging with the blood in his veins….
One kiss is not nearly enough.
Not for her and definitely not for him. He had known it from the moment they’d met. One kiss was simply the beginning, a prelude, a prologue….
Good Lord, what was he doing? What was he thinking? Or rather, he wasn’t thinking, at least not with his head. There could be no more kisses or anything else, regardless of how tempting, unless he was prepared to do the honorable thing and marry her. And he wasn’t.
He’d become far and away too involved with this woman. Why, they’d become well acquainted and one would think that alone would be enough to quell any surges of lust. But if anything, their fledgling friendship had only intensified more intimate feelings. However subtly it had happened, this woman had worked her way into his life. She dominated his thoughts, if not other parts of his body.
And it would end badly. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. How could it end otherwise?
He might well break her heart. He had never broken a heart before and the idea was not appealing.
Or she might break his. That held no appeal either. He had seen his friends in the throes of a broken heart and it was to be avoided.
He pulled away. “Fiona, I think—”
“Did you hear that?” Her brow furrowed. “Voices in the entryway?”
“No, I didn’t hear a thing.” Save the thudding of his own heart. “Fiona—”
Abruptly she stepped out of his arms, turned toward the table, grabbed the pages they had written along with her drawings and stashed them all in the portfolio. She moved quickly to her seat, put them on the chair and promptly sat on
them, the wide skirt of her gown providing an effective hiding place.
She folded her hands on the table and smiled up at him in a polite and formal manner as if they had not just been in each other’s arms. “You were saying, my lord?”
He stared in confusion. “I was saying…what are you—”
Without warning the barely open door swung wide and a trio of exuberant young ladies swept into the room in a flurry of chatter and cold air from the out-of-doors. All three were much the same in appearance, although one was a few inches taller.
“We’re back,” the first said brightly, her hat dangling from her hand. She caught sight of Jonathon and pulled up short. “You must be Lord Helmsley.”
“The Lord Helmsley?” the tallest said with the raise of an arched brow.
The third narrowed her eyes. “The same Lord Helmsley who agreed to marry Fiona and then thought better—”
Fiona stood. “Is Aunt Edwina with you?”
The girl who had just spoken shrugged, pulled off her bonnet and patted her hair. “She is conferring with the cook about supper.”
“Good.” Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, took the portfolio from the seat behind her and tossed it on the table. “My lord, I don’t believe you have met my sisters.”
“I have not had the pleasure,” he murmured, although pleasure might not be the right word. Given the way they stared at him, ordeal might be more appropriate.
Fiona’s sisters studied him as if he were a specimen under glass. A specimen they found lacking in some manner, like an insect missing a leg or a moth with a mangled wing. An ugly moth.
There was, however, nothing lacking in these three as far as he could see. They were all lovely, with dark hair and dark eyes and, as well as he could tell given they were still clad in cloaks, as fair in figure as their older sister. The two shorter girls were obviously twins, although the taller sister looked as much like the others as to give the appearance of triplets. Oliver’s assessment of them was correct: These three would have no problem finding suitable husbands.
Jonathon glanced at Fiona. “Are they armed?”
Fiona laughed. “Only with their wits.” She waved a hand at the girls. “My lord, I should like to present my sisters. My oldest sister, Miss Genevieve Fairchild.”
The taller girl stepped forward and extended her hand. “My lord.”
Jonathon took her gloved hand, raised it to his mouth and lightly brushed his lips across it. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fairchild.”
“No doubt,” she murmured, and met his gaze firmly. At once he realized Genevieve Fairchild would be as obstinate as her older sister one day if she was not already.
“And my youngest sisters, Miss Sophia Fairchild and Miss Arabella Fairchild.”
One, he wasn’t sure which, offered her hand. He took it and again brushed a quick kiss across it. “Miss Fairchild.”
“Arabella.” Arabella Fairchild smiled in a slow and surprisingly seductive manner. It was apparent that flirtation was as natural to this young woman as her next breath. Fiona would have her hands full keeping this sister from scandal. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you at last, my lord.”
He released her, turned to the remaining sister and took her hand. “Therefore you must be Sophia.”
“Indeed I must, my lord.” Sophia studied him curiously. “We have heard a great deal about you.”
“Oh?” He slanted a quick glance at Fiona. “Good or bad?”
Sophia grinned. “Both.”
“I see.” He chuckled. “At least it’s not all bad.”
“It would be better if you had kept to your word,” Genevieve said with a pleasant smile as if she were commenting on nothing more significant than the weather. She removed her hat and began pulling off her gloves. “I’m referring of course to your agreement to marry Fiona.”
“Indeed it would be better.” Sophia nodded. “Then she would not be forced to marry—” She glanced at her twin.
“Mr. Sinclair,” Arabella said.
Jonathon glanced at Fiona. “Who?”
“Whatshisname,” Fiona said.
“The American. Yes, of course.” He addressed the younger girls. “Surely your sister explained to you that my agreement to marry was a—”
“Yes, yes, we know all that.” Genevieve waved off his comment. “You thought she was an actress or something of that nature. A player in a farce.”
“Even so, we think you should not have reneged on your promise.” Arabella crossed her arms over her chest. “You quite had our hopes up, you know. Now we are all devastated, distraught—”
“And shocked as well.” Sophia shook her head. “Yours were not the actions of an honorable man. We expected much more from a friend of Cousin Oliver’s and the son of a duke.”
“I say, that’s not fair.” Indignation sounded in his voice. He glanced at Fiona. She smiled but didn’t come to his defense. Obviously he would get no rescue from that quarter. Not that he needed it. He did, after all, have sisters of his own and was therefore not completely unaccustomed to the emotional outbursts of young women. He addressed the younger girls in a firm manner. “It was a misunderstanding and I freely admit, it was completely on my part. I am doing what I can to make amends.”
“You mean with this book of Fiona’s drawings?” Genevieve cast a skeptical glance at the portfolio on the table.
“The book that will no doubt be the downfall of us all?” Sophia asked. “The cause of a scandal of immense proportions?”
“We shall all be ruined. None of us will ever marry.” Arabella shook her head mournfully. “We might as well fling ourselves off a cliff right now.”
Fiona smothered a laugh.
“No one will fling anyone off anything,” he snapped, and glared at Fiona. “You told them? About the book?”
“Of course I told them.” She huffed. “It is their futures at risk as well as mine.”
He cast a stern look at each in turn. “I do hope each of you understands the importance of secrecy.”
“We understand full well exactly what is at stake.” Genevieve fixed him with a cool gaze. “Do you?”
“Indeed I do. Miss Fairchild.” He met Genevieve’s gaze directly. “I have every confidence this endeavor will be successful and generate the funds your sister needs to provide for all of you without having to resort to a marriage she doesn’t want to—” He glanced at Arabella.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she murmured.
“To Mr. Sinclair or anyone else.” He directed his gaze to Sophia. “Furthermore, there will be no scandal as long as each and every one of us keeps all knowledge of this venture to ourselves. And not just for the present but forever. I am arranging for all aspects of publication to remain anonymous and as long as each of us keeps this secret there will be no need for concern.”
He turned to Arabella. “No one will be ruined, therefore there will be no need to fling yourself off a cliff. You shall all find suitable matches and be deliriously happy for the rest of your days.” He narrowed his gaze. “And if God is just, you shall all have daughters.”
Three sets of dark eyes glared at him with distrust and probably dislike. And why not? In many ways he held their fate in his hand. And this too was his own fault.
“He’s not nearly as nice as she said he was,” Arabella muttered.
“That’s quite enough,” Fiona said firmly. “Now that you have made Lord Helmsley’s acquaintance, and no doubt his day as well, I’m sure you have any number of things you need to attend to elsewhere.”
“Yes, of course.” Genevieve nodded.
Sophia drew a deep breath and cast him a polite smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
“A pleasure,” Arabella murmured.
The girls started toward the door, then Genevieve paused and looked back at him. “You have a great deal of confidence, my lord.” Genevieve considered him thoughtfully. “I hope it is not misplaced.”
“I assure you, Miss Fairchild,” he said coo
lly, “it is not.”
She cast him a last look and a moment later the sisters took their leave.
A muffled laugh sounded behind him.
He turned and eyed Fiona with annoyance. “You could have come to my defense.”
Fiona shook her head. “I could have, but it would not have been nearly as much fun. Nor would it have been what you deserved. Now”—she started toward him—“where were we?”
“Where were we?” Caution edged his voice. He knew precisely where they’d been.
“I believe we were interrupted.”
“We do need to get back to it.” He stepped to the table in a brisk manner and opened the portfolio. “I believe we had just agreed upon a title.”
She laughed. “Indeed we had, but that’s not what I was referring to.”
“I know what you were referring to, Miss Fairchild.” He squared his shoulders and adopted a no-nonsense attitude. “However, I feel it is in your best interest that this sort of thing not happen.”
“This sort of thing?” She raised a brow. “In my best interest?”
“In our best interest, then.” He blew a long breath. “Miss Fairchild—Fiona—allowing our…our baser instincts free rein can only lead to ruin.”
“Ruin?” she said thoughtfully, as if the word were new to her.
“Yes.”
“My ruin?”
He scoffed. “Certainly not mine.”
“I see.” Her brows drew together and she considered him for a moment. “Then, as you are already ruined—”
“I would not use the term ruined. After all, I am a man, and therefore subject to different standards. Men cannot be ruined.”
“Yes, of course. What was I thinking? As I was saying, if it is my ruin at stake, then whether or not this ‘sort of thing,’ as you put it, does indeed happen should be my decision and mine alone.” She cast him a measuring look. “Would you agree?”
“Definitely.” He nodded with relief. And what choice was there, really? The woman wanted marriage and he didn’t. It would be difficult to keep his distance as long as they continued to work together, but that would have to change. He would see to it.
Let It Be Love Page 17