The oddest thought struck him: Was this what became of men who lived too long alone? Who did precisely what they wanted to do, when they wished to do it? Who had nothing and no one to consider save themselves and their own desires?
Men who waited until it was too late to pursue the one thing, the one person, who would make their lives complete? Men who were, in truth, too stupid or too stubborn or simply too blind to recognize the truth when they saw it? When it stepped out of the shadows and into their lives?
Would this, then, be his fate? Would he grow old sitting at this desk writing stories that no one cared to read? Would he find passion only in the collection of objects? Would his greatest enthusiasm be for accumulation of curiosities?
At once the library that a moment ago had held a promise of secret adventure seemed now cold and bereft. Apromise still, perhaps, but of adventure alone, without accompaniment, companionship…love.
A chill tripped up his spine and he rose to his feet. Here, in the dimly lit library in the overstuffed house, he could easily believe in fate and destiny. He could believe as well that the actions taken in the upcoming days would set the course for the rest of his days.
And he could wonder if those days would be spent alone.
Chapter Eleven
Five days later, practically an eternity if one were concerned that the object of one’s affection did not return said affection, but no time at all if one were convinced, or at the very least hopeful, that the aforementioned object needed time to acknowledge his own feelings. Especially if one subscribed to the old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder and firmly refused to so much as consider the considerably older maxim that decreed out of sight, out of mind…
“It’s rather startling, isn’t it?” Fiona said, as much to herself as to Jonathon. “In a lovely sort of way, that is.”
She sat at the table in the library where they had done much of their work together, paging through the preliminary version of A Fair Surrender that Jonathon had just presented with a flourish and a satisfied smile. “My drawings and your words.”
“To see your work upon a printed page is quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.” Jonathon shook his head. “It’s most remarkable.”
“It’s quite wonderful. The book, that is.”
“Not yet, but it will be. Remember, this is just a sample so that we may begin taking subscriptions. Even so, all of the twenty-eight drawings we decided—”
“Twenty-eight?” She raised a brow. “When did we decide to use twenty-eight drawings instead of all thirty-seven?”
“Admittedly, I decided.” He shrugged apologetically. “I am sorry, but the story, as well as the production of the book itself in terms of cost and artistic arrangement, worked best with just twenty-eight of your drawings. Do understand, I selected them with an eye toward the quality of the work as well as the story and believe I made the best choices possible. Not that they were not all exceptional, of course,” he added quickly.
“I see.”
“I probably should have sent a note to you explaining what I was about, but, given the time constraints, and I furthermore did feel certain you would concur—”
“As indeed I do.” She smiled up at him.
He frowned suspiciously. “You do?”
“I most certainly do.” She nodded. “I trust your judgment implicitly in this particular endeavor. First of all, Oliver says you have a talent for making investments that prove profitable.”
“Never of this nature,” he said under his breath.
“Nonetheless, you still possess experience and knowledge that I do not. Besides, you are investing a great deal of your own money.” She ran her fingers lightly over the book in front of her. “This is most impressive.”
The book itself was larger than a normal volume, folio-sized, with a red leather cover and A Fair Surrender emblazoned in gilt encircled by embossed leaves and flowers and fruits, reminiscent of the various seasons of the year.
The frontispiece was a printed version of the cover, precisely the same with the exception of the title. Here, under A Fair Surrender, was written A Mythical Tale of Seduction and by Anonymous. The rest of the volume was arranged so that a section of prose, no more than a few lines per page, preceded a lithographic copy of a drawing.
“It must have cost a small fortune to have this produced so quickly,” she murmured.
“But well worth it nonetheless,” Jonathon said firmly.
She turned to the first page and read aloud. “In those days long ago, when the world was young and man had not yet stepped a foot upon it, there lived two brothers who between them ruled the skies and the winds and the very earth itself. And still, it was not enough.” She glanced up at him and smiled. “Oh, Jonathon, I like it. A great deal.”
“Do you? Good.” He chuckled in a wry manner. “I rather like it a great deal myself.”
“This is your book as much as mine, you know. Which is yet another reason to trust your decisions.” She rose to her feet and moved around the table. She stopped before him, a shade too close for the sake of propriety but well within reach should someone decide to kiss someone else. Fiona beamed up at him. “Beyond that, I am certain that you would never do anything that was not in my best interest.”
“No,” he said staunchly, “of course not. Never.”
Her gaze met his and they stared at one another and she wanted nothing more than to fling herself into his embrace. Or for him to take her into his arms. What was the man waiting for?
It had been six very long days since she’d last seen him, and as much as she was confident he had a certain amount of affection for her, if not at least the beginnings of love, it had been decidedly difficult to wait for him to make an appearance and, hopefully, come to his senses. She’d never been a patient person and now that she’d realized he was the only man in the world for her it had been a daily struggle not to hire a carriage and go after him bodily. Indeed she had gone so far as to find his new address and precise directions from Oliver’s house to his. That she’d managed to restrain herself was due entirely to the residue of good breeding that decreed proper ladies did not appear on a single gentleman’s doorstep unaccompanied. Of course, properly bred ladies did not propose seduction, or surrender, or even marriage.
Regardless, if he had not appeared today, she had planned to go to him. The news she’d just received demanded it.
Her gaze searched his, her voice soft and inviting. “You will rescue me after all, won’t you, Jonathon?”
“I shall certainly do my best.” His tone was firm, businesslike, almost impersonal, definitely reserved. Precisely as it had been from the moment he’d walked in the door. He didn’t step away, but his manner put distance between them nonetheless.
Her confidence faltered. Was she wrong about his feelings? Was she reading something into his behavior that only existed because she wished it to? Her heart twisted at the thought.
“We have already received several subscriptions, merely on Sir Ephraim’s recommendation to”—he paused—“collectors of unusual books.”
“Collectors?”
“Gentlemen who have nothing better in their lives than the accumulation of objects.” His voice was light, but his eyes were oddly somber. “Acquisition is a substitute, I should think, for something more important.”
“For what?” She held her breath.
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I have no idea, nor does it matter. Suffice it to say, such gentlemen usually have money to squander and I suspect they will make up the bulk of our orders.”
“We shall have to hope there are a great many of them, then,” she said slowly. “And hope as well that they place those orders as quickly as possible.”
“I daresay we shall have some funds in hand by next week.” He cast her a pleasant, if impersonal, smile.
She studied him with a rising sense of panic. When she’d last seen him he’d been confused and unsure. Now he was cool and re
mote, not at all the Jonathon she’d come to know and to love. It was as if he had indeed reached some sort of conclusion about his life and about her place in it. And not the conclusion she’d wanted.
This was not at all as she had planned. By this point he was supposed to be taking her into his arms. Begging her forgiveness for his hesitation up to now. Vowing his undying love. Urging to her marry him. They hadn’t been with one another for six days. Six full days! Time that she’d hoped would help him see what was right in front of him. Help him sort out his feelings, feelings that she’d been certain were of a lasting and permanent nature. Feelings of love!
Could he possibly have spent all this time staring at her drawings and writing about the erotic quests of Summer and Winter without coming to acknowledge his feelings for her? Or at the very least his obvious desire? Why, the man wasn’t even flirting. And there was no suggestion of desire in his eye.
Something was dreadfully, dreadfully amiss. Had he decided he didn’t care for her at all? Surely she would not have been wrong about what she’d seen in his eyes? Felt in his arms? The fire that had leapt between them when they’d kissed?
Of course, if she was wrong she certainly had nothing to lose.
She stepped back, squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. “Jonathon—Lord Helmsley—might I ask you a question?”
“In the interest of furthering our friendship.” The slightest hint of a smile played on his lips.
“No,” she said coolly, “in the interest of clarification.”
“Very well,” he said cautiously.
She clasped her hands behind her back and paced the room. “Do you truly believe I will be able to raise the money I need from this book for my sister’s dowries?”
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“And you believe I shall have something by next week?”
“I do.”
She glanced at him. “How much?”
“A considerable amount, I should think.”
“How considerable?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I am confident—”
“Enough to provide for all three of my sisters as well as provide independence for myself?” Her voice was as hard and businesslike as his had been, but then this was no time for subtleties.
“I am confident about the ultimate success of this venture, but I daresay—”
She stopped, folded her arms over her chest and pinned his gaze with hers. “Do you think I am of strong character, my lord?”
He snorted. “Absolutely.”
“Resolute, determined?” She narrowed her eyes. “Stubborn?”
He nodded slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I fear I have deceived you.”
He started. “What?”
“My strength of character, determination, stubbornness and all those other qualities that are of questionable virtue in terms of how society views proper young ladies—”
“Nonsense. Why, every woman in my family has very much the same—”
“Which is all very well and good if one is an Effington with wealth and power and societal connections and not virtually alone in the world with no fortune and the fate of one’s sisters in one’s hands!” she snapped.
His eyes widened. “I did not mean to imply—”
“Probably not.” She waved away his words in a dismissive manner. “Regardless, I do not have the resources the women in your family do. In addition, I fear my strength of character is”—she searched for the right word—“limited.”
“What do you mean, limited?” Caution sounded in his voice.
“I mean, my lord, at a certain point my strength fails. In truth, while I do try not to be, I am a very weak person. I do not relish the idea of poverty for myself and I will not condemn my sisters to it.”
“But the book will eventually provide—”
“Eventually is no longer a possibility!” She drew a calming breath. “I received a letter yesterday. Whatshisname—Mr. Sinclair—will arrive within the week.”
“And you shall have funds from the orders of the book within the week,” he said firmly.
She shook her head. “It will not be enough.”
“It will be enough to give you the time to find a husband of your own choosing.”
“I found a husband of my own choosing.” Her gaze caught his and they stared at one another for a long moment.
“I will not allow you to marry a man you do not wish to wed,” he said quietly.
“Why not?” She held her breath. “What possible difference could it make to you?”
“I have long been friends with your cousin and I was under the impression you and I had forged a friendship of sorts as well. I would not want to see any friend of mine marry where she did not wish to do so.”
“How do you propose to prevent it?”
“I…” He stepped toward her and her heart leapt. Then he blew a long breath. “I shall give you the money you would receive if you married. All of it. In advance, if you will, of sales of the book.”
She stared in disbelief. “You would do that?”
He nodded. “I owe you that much. I did agree to marry you, even if I thought it was…well…no need to go into that.”
“No need indeed. I am quite tired of hearing about it.” Anger swelled within her. “You are that eager to get me out of your life that you would pay a fortune to do so?”
“No, not at all.” He shook his head. “I am not the least bit eager. I have quite enjoyed the time we have spent together. More than I can say. It’s simply that I feel a certain responsibility, an obligation, as it were—”
“An obligation?” Her voice rose. “And you would pay dearly to alleviate yourself of it? To assuage your conscience? Your guilt?”
“No, no, that’s not at all what I mean.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I do feel a responsibility, but I don’t feel at all guilty. Well, perhaps a bit, but—”
“I don’t want your money, and furthermore, I don’t want you.” She pointed to the door with a hand that was kept from trembling only by sheer will. “Get out!”
“Fiona—”
“At the moment, my lord, this is my home, my sanctuary, as it were, and I do not want you here.” Her voice was cold and hard and it was all she could do to keep it steady. She wanted to scream or cry or both. “It would be best if you took your leave.”
“Fiona.” Her own anguish sounded in his voice. He stepped toward her. “I don’t want this to—”
“I don’t care what you want, I want you to go!” She whirled around, grabbed the book off of the table and thrust it at him. “And take this with you. I don’t want to see it or you ever again!”
He took the book reluctantly, as if he weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, and stared at her. “Surely you don’t mean that.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” She snatched the book out of his hands and hugged it close to her. “It’s my book and it shall serve as a…a…”
“A what?” His blue eyes burned with intensity. “What shall it serve as?”
“A warning.” She raised her chin. “Against false hopes and raised expectations and men who make promises they do not intend to keep.”
He sucked in a sharp breath as though he had just been slapped. Regret washed through her for him and for herself.
“Now, please, go.”
“As you wish.” He turned toward the door, then turned back as though he wished to say something more. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and strode out the door.
No! The word screamed inside her head and she started after him. She was nearly to the door when the realization of what had just happened slammed into her and snatched her breath away.
What had she done? This wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end at all. At this point they were supposed to be well on their way to living the rest of their days happily together. But she couldn’t make him love her any more than she could force him to marry he
r. And she’d been so certain….
No, she was certain. She couldn’t be wrong about this, about him. And surely Jonathon would never let her marry the American or anyone else. Or let her walk out of his life forever.
She had no idea what to do now, but she had to do something. Perhaps she needed assistance from someone who had far more experience with men than she had. Someone who had more experience with this man in particular. It was not yet too late. Jonathon Effington was the love of her life and Fiona refused to give up on him.
And until she was Mrs. Whatshisname there was hope.
Jonathon stalked down the sidewalk, his carriage following at a discreet distance, and noted that once again he was walking through the streets after yet another tumultuous meeting with Fiona. If nothing else, the woman was certainly keeping him fit.
What on earth had just happened?
Jonathon had spent the last few days doing nothing but staring at drawings of naked people or the newly produced copies of drawings of naked people. Her drawings of naked people. Or writing about the desire of two randy gods to possess lovely, nubile nymphs. Or begging favors from Sir Ephraim and paying exorbitant prices to craftsmen to work endless hours to get this blasted book produced. And every moment she’d been there in the back of his mind. Even when he’d slept he’d dreamt of her.
How had it gone so horribly wrong? This was not at all what he’d planned when he’d arrived with the copy of A Fair Surrender under his arm. He had thought she would be delighted with the book, and indeed she had been. He had further thought she’d show her delight with an expression of affection which he would then return, which would lead in turn to all sorts of interesting developments that he had thought he was prepared and even eager for.
That it hadn’t happened that way at all was entirely his fault. From the moment he’d walked into the room and she’d smiled at him and, worse, when she’d gazed up at him with those luminous green eyes of hers, claiming to trust him implicitly with his absurd plan to rescue her. And believing, truly believing, that he would do so. Never had a woman looked at him like that. As though he were indeed her knight, her savior, her love. Her fate.
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