Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “Probably.”

  A moment later they had rejoined the dancers as smoothly as if they had never been away. Once again, in his arms, with the music filling her senses, it was impossible to think of anything but the memory of his lips on hers and the promise of tomorrow to come.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that night, or rather early the next morning, in the hour shortly before dawn when any civilized person of a respectable nature would be long abed and fast asleep, and any person whose level of civilization, as well as respectability, would not meet the high standards set by those who prefer slumber to something of a more strenuous nature in their beds would just be arriving home. Still others might well be in their beds in an attempt to be of a virtuous nature in anticipation of not being the least bit virtuous at a future date…

  “Bloody hell.” Jonathon threw off the covers, leapt out of bed and promptly smashed his knee on something unseen. He felt blindly around for his robe, stubbed his toe and bashed his elbow on yet another invisible object.

  Damn it all, this room was awkward enough to navigate when fully lit. Now, in the dark of night, it was a death trap. Edwards would no doubt find him here in the morning felled by some curiosity or objet d’art or unidentified oversized something, ornately carved by native artisans living in the upper regions of the Himalayas! He could see Edwards now, staring down at Jonathon’s prone body, twisted and mangled on the floor, and hear the butler murmuring how this could have been avoided had his lordship simply listened to Edwards in the first place.

  The butler had encouraged him to take the bedchamber vacated by Sir Nicholas. That particular room, per Nicholas’s wishes, was scarcely furnished at all, at least when compared to every other room in the house. Jonathon, however, liked living in the chaotic jungle that best described his new home. Except—he banged his hip on something sharp—at this particular moment when the appeal of an overstuffed house diminished substantially. He stumbled his way in the general direction of a dresser aided by the faint starlight that drifted in between the crack of the window drapes, and suspected he had reached his goal when he smacked into something large and solid with surprisingly painful protruding knobs.

  “Damnation.” He sucked in a hard breath and groped for the matches and lamp he knew were here somewhere. Something crashed to the floor beside him and he ignored it. His fingers found the matches, he struck one, located the lamp and at last had light.

  Good. He was covered in bruises just from crossing this one room. He’d probably kill himself if he attempted to make his way down the stairs without light. He shrugged on the robe he hadn’t been able to find a moment ago, grabbed the lamp and headed for the library.

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep. Indeed, he’d been home for several hours and had had no trouble sleeping and sleeping quite well until now. His rest was no doubt the result of finally having come to grips with his feelings for Fiona and, beyond that, finally doing something about it.

  He started down the stairs and ignored the fact that he really hadn’t done anything of substance. Oh, certainly he had apologized, told her he wished to call on her formally and he had definitely indicated his intentions were of a permanent nature, although he had never actually mentioned marriage. Or love. For that matter, he really hadn’t said much of anything, although he had planned on doing so. Hadn’t he?

  Circumstances had simply interfered, that was all. After he and Fiona had returned to the ballroom, they’d had no further opportunity for private discussion. They had managed only one more dance together and, given Fiona’s popularity, even that was difficult to arrange. It wasn’t simply that she was in demand, but the contessa had her beady little eyes fixed firmly on Jonathon’s every move. Even Lady Norcroft appeared to watch Jonathon’s activities closely. It had been most annoying. Did no one trust him at all? Or did they simply not trust him with Fiona? In which case, their caution was, admittedly, somewhat justified.

  Still, while he hadn’t had the chance to take her in his arms again or kiss her with the thoroughness she deserved, every time their gazes met across the room something intense and special and exciting passed between them. It was a palpable sense of anticipation, of promise, and Jonathon was amazed that everyone who looked at them did not note it. Or perhaps that was precisely why Fiona’s aunt and the contessa had kept a close eye on him. Certainly Oliver, Warton and Cavendish had each commented, following Jonathon’s return from the conservatory, on how he no longer appeared as miserable as he had previously. Indeed, he’d seemed positively jovial.

  Jonathon reached the bottom of the curved stairway and turned in the direction of the library, moving a bit more cautiously given the tendency of the clutter in the house to reach out and attack him without provocation. Perhaps he should do something about the place before he brought a wife here.

  A wife? Fiona?

  Odd, the idea of a wife—no—the idea of Fiona as his wife no longer filled him with fear. Well, not as much fear. Obviously there was still some apprehension otherwise he wouldn’t have hesitated to pour out his feelings, declare his love, ask for her hand and all that. Of course, he was well on his way to doing just that, or something close to that, when they had been so abruptly interrupted by the contessa and her son. Bernardo. Jonathon snorted in disdain and pushed open the door to the library. He could see why Fiona had no interest in him.

  He opened the door to the library, held the lamp high to give him as much light as possible to avoid any further collisions and made his way to the desk.

  Although, upon further reflection, Fiona hadn’t actually said she had no interest in the count. In fact, she hadn’t really said much about him at all. Oh, she’d commented on his arrogance and she had seemed relieved to leave his presence, but that could well be the natural reluctance of any woman to have a new lover come face to face with an old. Not that there was any evidence that the count had ever meant anything to her, although Orsetti was certainly overly affectionate toward her. And Jonathon was not her lover. Yet. Although she had offered him the opportunity and she was five-and-twenty and well versed in the art of flirtation and incredibly desirable and not the least bit shy or hesitant about what she wanted….

  Blast and damnation, did she share a past with Bernardo?

  That was the question that had yanked him from a sound sleep. That and the continuing sense that he had seen the count somewhere before. And he had a horrible suspicion that he might well know where.

  Her portfolio lay on the desk. He sat down and flipped it open. Quickly he paged through the drawings, looking for those depicting naked men. He found the drawing he was seeking and stared. Shock washed through him. He got up from the desk and quickly lit every lamp in the room until the library was ablaze with light. He returned to his seat and studied the drawing for a long moment.

  He was right. He’d seen that face before. As for the body, had he seen that as well? Clothed, of course, but still, given the figure’s height and build…He cursed under his breath. Companion indeed.

  And more to the point, whose companion?

  Fiona straightened her shoulders, lifted the knocker on Jonathon’s front door and let it fall. This was the most improper thing she had ever done. She’d never gone to a man’s house before, uninvited and unaccompanied. But Jonathon had been about to make all sorts of lovely promises and declarations. Who knew what might have happened had they not been so abruptly interrupted last night? And she was far too impatient to wait until he formally called on her for that conversation to continue. Besides, she had a legitimate purpose above and beyond simply wanting to see Jonathon here this morning.

  She shifted the brown-paper-wrapped copy of A Fair Surrender under her arm and tapped her foot impatiently. Legitimate or not, most people would not view her visit as anything other than scandalous, precisely why she was here at such an early hour of the day.

  It had been a late evening for all of them. Her sisters had not yet gone to bed when she and Oliver and Aunt Edwina h
ad returned home, and Fiona was confident everyone in the household was now still asleep, with the exception of the servants. With any luck at all, her absence would not be noticed for hours. That she had managed to slip out the door undetected and then find a hired carriage was something of a miracle in and of itself. But waiting now for the door to open might be the most hazardous part of this entire endeavor.

  She raised her hand to knock again and the door abruptly opened. An older gentleman with a carefully nondescript expression, obviously a butler, stared at her coolly.

  She favored him with a pleasant smile. “Good day. I wish to see Lord Helmsley, if you please.”

  “Who might I say is calling, miss?” the butler said without a moment of hesitation, as if it were not uncommon for young women to appear unannounced at Jonathon’s door in the early hours of the morning.

  To appear or to depart?

  She brushed the thought aside. “Miss Fairchild.”

  “Of course, miss.” A flicker of curiosity flashed in his eyes, but he was too well trained to show more than that. He ushered her into the foyer and took her cloak and hat. “I will inform his lordship of your arrival.” He nodded and vanished into the shadows on the far side of a curved staircase.

  She drew a deep breath. At least it appeared Jonathon was already up and about and the butler would not have to dislodge him from a sound sleep. From his bed. The image of rousing him from his sleep, or his bed, struck her, and it seemed a pity she could not do so personally. Yet.

  “If you will follow me, miss.” The butler reappeared out of nowhere and she started. Heat flashed up her face, although the man couldn’t possibly know what she had been thinking.

  “His lordship is in the library.”

  “Where else?” she murmured, and trailed after the servant to a door a scant few feet from the foyer.

  The butler opened the door and stood aside to let her pass. She stepped into the library and wondered if she had been brought to the right room. If perhaps the older gentleman had been confused. This didn’t look the least bit like a library.

  “Come in,” Jonathon’s voice sounded from somewhere deeper in the labyrinth of assorted statuary and towering furnishings and ornately carved items of every sort and description.

  “Good Lord, Jonathon, what on earth is this place?” The door closed behind her and she jumped. Not that she had anything to fear. Still, who knew what was lurking in the unseen depths of the room?

  “It’s my library.” Indignation sounded in Jonathon’s voice.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Fiona stepped forward cautiously. Directly over her head were crossed spears held by enormous Nubian statues. It was the sort of thing one might see at an ancient palace. “Really, what is it?”

  “It’s my library,” he said again.

  “It doesn’t look like a library.”

  His head appeared from behind a post or column or something of that nature with any number of other carved heads upon it. Depending on the light, a human head would probably blend right into the carvings. “There are books.”

  She snorted in disbelief. “Where?”

  “On the shelves.”

  “And the shelves are?”

  He sighed with annoyance. “Along the wall.”

  “Yes, of course. There must be walls…somewhere,” she said under her breath, and moved carefully along what would be a pathway in a garden. Here it was simply a space between clutter, scarcely wide enough to walk through without her skirts catching on either side.

  The place was fascinating, though, even if it was too overwhelming to take in all at once. Fiona suspected if she tried, her head might well burst. It would take years just to see everything in this one room alone. She hadn’t really paid any attention in the foyer but wondered now if the rest of the house was like this.

  “It looks like a museum,” she murmured, catching sight of an odd-looking stuffed beast she could not identify. “Without the labels or placards, that sort of thing. Although you could certainly use labels or placards or…” Jonathon came fully into view and Fiona stared. “You’re not dressed!”

  “On the contrary, my dear, I am dressed. I have on silk trousers, a shirt and a dressing gown. I am simply not properly attired for callers, as I was not expecting company.” He raised a brow. “It is exceptionally early for a call, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I thought it was better to come at this time of day when my visit was less likely to be noted and commented upon.” She studied him for a long moment. “In truth, I’m surprised to find you awake so early. It’s scarcely past dawn.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He glared at her as if she were to blame.

  Something was definitely amiss here. She handed him the book. “I thought, as we are going ahead with the book, you would need this.”

  “Ah yes, A Fair Surrender.” He practically snatched the volume from her hands and tossed it on the desk, the only relatively empty space in the room. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes.” Of course there was something else. There were any number of something elses, but right now the most important one was, what had happened since last night?

  Annoyance rose within her. She had done nothing whatsoever to warrant this treatment, with the possible exception of paying an improper call at an early hour. And she had thought he would rather like her unexpected arrival. “I wish to discuss…” Her gaze fell on the paper-wrapped book lying on top of her portfolio. “The lithographs.”

  “What about them?” he snapped.

  “I had a concern about their quality.” Her tone matched his. “Given the speed with which they were produced.”

  He waved away her comment. “Their quality is excellent. You can scarcely tell the originals from the prints.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She scoffed. “There’s a huge difference between my drawings and your copies.”

  “Do you really think so?” He stared at her. “Perhaps we should compare them directly?”

  “Excellent idea,” she said sharply.

  She stepped around the desk, brushing past him in the process. What a shame it was that here they were together, alone, with one of them scarcely dressed and the other trying to resist the temptation said lack of clothing presented, and all they could do was snipe at one another. It certainly wasn’t her fault, she hadn’t come here to argue with him. She had no idea what had possessed the man, but she was not about to allow him to run roughshod over her just because he was in a foul mood for some inexplicable reason.

  She unwrapped the book, flipped it open, then drew her drawings out of the portfolio. She turned to the first lithograph, found the corresponding drawing and laid them side by side. “There. Now do you see what I’m talking about?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “I see no discernible difference.”

  In point of fact, the differences were mere quibbles, more attributable to the quality of the different paper than anything else. The lithographers had done a very good job, particularly if one considered the speed with which they had worked. Fiona had thought so from the moment she’d seen the sample copy. Still, she’d had to say something when he’d asked if there was anything else.

  “Perhaps you should look at these, then.” She selected another lithograph and the appropriate drawing. Again there was no real difference, but she didn’t want him asking, or demanding, that she leave before she discovered what had upset him. “Well?”

  “Again, I see no problem whatsoever.” He considered her for a moment. “However, we should examine the rest of the lithographs and compare them to the originals.” He flipped through the book to one of her drawings of male nudes, then found the original and laid them in front of her. “Do you see a problem?”

  She looked at them for a moment, then sighed. “Not really.”

  “Look again,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She drew her brows together and stared at him. His gaze was intense and more than a little angry. What on earth did he have to be a
ngry about?

  “Very well.” She huffed and returned her attention to the pictures before her.

  She really didn’t see any significant differences. The lines of the bodies were comparable, the variations in intensity of shading and hues were similar, the facial expressions were almost exact…

  She froze and stared at the drawings before her. How could she possibly have forgotten about this?

  “Well?” His voice was curt.

  She forced a casual note to her voice. “I see no difference at all.”

  “Neither do I.” His jaw clenched. “What I do see is a distinct similarity to someone I have recently met.”

  “Really?” She widened her eyes innocently. Under most circumstances, Fiona truly believed honesty was the best course. This, however, was not one of those circumstances. “I don’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not the tiniest bit.”

  “Come, now, Fiona.” Jonathon’s eyes narrowed. “This gentleman doesn’t remind you of someone you know?”

  “Not that I recall,” she said blithely.

  “He doesn’t bear a resemblance to…Count Orsetti?”

  “Oh, in passing I suppose there’s a vague resemblance.” She glanced at the drawings. “Only in that they are both Italian. Dark in coloring. Rather handsome—”

  “This looks exactly like Orsetti.” He smacked his hand on top of the drawing. “This is Orsetti! You drew Orsetti! Naked!”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She huffed. “I most certainly did not.”

  “Is that or is that not Orsetti?”

  “No.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  He stared in disbelief. “That is not Orsetti’s naked body on that page?”

  “It absolutely is not,” she said in a lofty manner.

  “It certainly looks like him.”

  “You’ve seen Orsetti without clothing, then?” she asked in an overly pleasant manner.”