He took a long sip of champagne and idly glanced at the engraved card in his hand: Miss Fiona Fairchild. Perhaps that was indeed her real name. No matter. He turned the card over and read the address written in a fine, firm hand. It was a house on Bedford Square. She certainly had picked a prestigious address. Didn’t Oliver live on Bedford Square? Indeed, this was his address. Of course, as he had arranged this scheme it only made sense….
The faintest sense of unease washed through him.
My sisters and I have been residing with my cousin and aunt. Surely that was part of the act? Although presenting a card with Oliver’s address written on it was going a bit far. After all, Jonathon would recognize the location immediately and the joke would be at an end. If it was a joke.
Of course it was a joke. It was just the kind of thing Norcroft and Warton and Cavendish would delight in. Why, Oliver didn’t even have a cousin. Did he? Jonathon racked his brain. Fiona had said her mother was the sister of an earl. If he remembered correctly, Oliver’s aunt was long dead and had been married to a diplomat of some sort. What was his name? Fargate? Fairfax? His breath caught.Fairchild?
Surely he was mistaken. It couldn’t possibly be…. Oliver would go to great lengths for a good joke, but he would never involve a member of his own family in something of this nature. Jonathon groaned aloud. Fiona Fairchild was the Earl of Norcroft’s cousin.
And Jonathon had just agreed to marry her.
Panic, pure and simple and overwhelming, gripped him. It was a mistake. A dreadful, dreadful mistake. Surely Fiona—Miss Fairchild—would understand that?And certainly Oliver would understand it as well?
Of course, if that ridiculous story she had spun was true, and right now he very much feared it was, the woman would not be inclined toward releasing him from his agreement. She was desperate to avoid an unwanted marriage. And while she had said he was not her perfect choice, she did seem to like him. At least if her kiss was any indication.
In spite of his declarations to his friends, he had no desire to wed anyone—perfect for him or not—at the moment. Why, he was still a young man. There were any number of things he wished to do before tying himself down with a wife and the accompanying responsibilities a wife and—God help him—children would entail. Oliver and the others were right. The very idea of imminent marriage—no matter how perfect the woman might be—was terrifying and chilled him to his very bones. Marriage was something one should approach slowly and with a fair amount of caution and reserve. Not something one should agree to when alone with a beautiful stranger and a bottle of champagne and a fervent belief that he was the victim of an elaborate hoax!
He started toward the door. He would certainly be the butt of the joke now and for the rest of his days if he did not find Fiona at once and stop her before she told anyone of their betrothal. Especially before she told Oliver or Oliver’s mother or—he groaned aloud—his own mother. Worse, he might be forced to actually marry her.
A heartbeat before he reached the door, it jerked open and he came face to face with his sister Lizzie, Lady Langley.
“Did you, by any chance, see anyone…someone…” He craned his neck to see around her.
“Someone?” Lizzie stepped past him into the library. “You mean a woman? Very pretty? Rather upset?”
“Yes,” he said eagerly. Although he wasn’t at all sure why Fiona would be described as upset. Indeed, she had had a charming smile on her face when she had left the library. Unless she had had second thoughts? His spirits lifted. Perhaps she had come to her senses about wedding any man she didn’t know, especially him. Or perhaps, as she had apparently avoided wedded bliss nearly as long as he had, the thought of marriage itself was as daunting to her as it was to him even if she had no other choice. But if Lizzie had seen Fiona in the corridor, he had an excellent chance of catching up with her.
“No.” Lizzie’s voice was cool, although there was the distinct possibility she would not tell him even if she’d seen Fiona. His sister was not at all tolerant of his Christmas Eve trysts.
“I see.” If Lizzie hadn’t seen her, Fiona had probably already returned to the ballroom.
“Have you seen Nicholas?” Lizzie said.
“Nicholas?” Jonathon murmured, still staring down the passageway as if to will Fiona’s return to the library by sheer desire alone. He might yet be able to find her among the crowd at the ball, although as he knew from past experience finding one lone female amid the revelers in the ballroom at the height of the evening was nearly impossible. Still, he could try.
“Yes,” she snapped. “Nicholas Collingsworth? Sir Nicholas? Your dear old friend?”
“Yes, of course.” Jonathon cast one last, longing look down the corridor, then slipped Fiona’s card into his waistcoat pocket.
Lizzie had problems of her own, and regardless of the circumstances Jonathon now found himself in, he owed his sister whatever assistance he could provide. While he was confident she would soon be happily wed, the least he could do was help her along that path. It was a debt long past due. He heaved a sigh and turned toward his sister.
“Well?” Lizzie said impatiently. “Have you seen him?”
“Briefly….”
By the time he finished with Lizzie and Nicholas, it might well be too late to find Fiona and clear up this misunderstanding tonight. He would have to call on her, and Oliver, as soon as possible. But between family festivities and obligations on Christmas Day tomorrow and Boxing Day after that, it would be at least two days before he could see her again.
Surely nothing irrevocable would happen in the span of a mere two days?
Three
One, two or three days later, depending on one’s point of view and level of desperation…
“Do you think he’s changed his mind?” Genevieve Fairchild’s offhand question hung idly in the air of the parlor Aunt Edwina—Lady Norcroft—had assigned to the sisters. Gen reclined on a chaise, her gaze remained fixed on the magazine she held in front of her, although she, and everyone else in the room, was acutely aware of the significance of the question, though no one had dared voice it aloud before now.
“It’s been two full days, three if you count today as well.”
“I don’t count today,” Fiona said, and continued to pace the floor just as she had done yesterday and the day before in those few, yet endless moments when holiday festivities had not compelled her attention. Aunt Edwina had taken advantage of having a full house to arrange all sorts of festive activities
It would have been a great deal of fun if Fiona hadn’t had the pressing matter of her impending marriage on her mind.
Sophia Fairchild looked up from her embroidery and traded knowing glances with her twin sister Arabella who sat writing at a ladies’ desk.
“I would count today, if I were you,” Belle said under her breath.
“Three days is a very long time,” Sophie murmured.
“Two days,” Fiona snapped. “It’s only been two days. And as one was Christmas and the other Boxing Day, they scarcely count at all. Why, a very good argument could be made that Lord Helmsley and I came to our agreement less than a full day ago.”
“If you want to delude yourself and live in a world peopled with fairies and elves and other creatures that don’t exist,” Gen said as if she were speaking more to herself than the others. Fiona stopped and glared at the younger woman. “I am not deluding myself. Lord Helmsley is a man of honor. He agreed to marry me—rather more quickly than I thought he would, but he agreed nonetheless. And I have every confidence that he will live up to his word.”
“Do you?” Gen tossed the magazine aside and sat up. “Then why haven’t you told Cousin Oliver of his lordship’s agreement?”
“I haven’t had the chance,” Fiona said staunchly.
“You’ve avoided him, is what you’ve done,” Belle said. “We’ve all noticed it.”
“I have not,” Fiona lied. Sophie snorted. “You most certainly have. And in increasingly creative ways.”
Belle jumped to her feet, hooked her thumbs in imaginary lapels and addressed her twin in a deep voice.
“Come, now, Cousin Fiona, do tell me what transpired between you and Lord Helmsley, as he is one of my dearest friends and you are a member of my family.”
“Oh, dear, Cousin Oliver”—Sophie’s voice was unnaturally high—“I would, but…” She rose, stretched out one hand toward her twin in a pleading manner and rested the back of the other on her forehead. “As much as I should like to tell you everything, I fear I must swoon now.”
Gen shifted out of her way and Sophie collapsed theatrically beside her onto the chaise.
“Poor, poor Fiona.” Gen patted her sister’s head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “She is such a fragile thing and bears such awesome responsibilities now that the girls are all alone in the world.”
“That is not the least bit amusing.” Fiona tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “I understand Sophie is supposed to be me and Belle is Oliver, but who, pray tell, are you?”
“Aunt Edwina, of course.” Gen clasped her hands under her chin and gazed heavenward. “Dear, courageous Fiona. Taking care of her orphaned sisters when she should be raising a family of her own.”
Gen grinned. “She thinks you’re wonderful.”
“She thinks I am one step away from permanent spinsterhood,” Fiona said wryly. It had not escaped Aunt Edwina’s notice that Fiona was five-and-twenty and unwed.
“Not for long, with any luck at all.” Sophie studied the older girl. “You’ve told Oliver about Father’s will. Why haven’t you told Aunt Edwina?”
“Aunt Edwina would have you married in less than a day.” Belle smiled smugly. “And to an excellent catch too, I would wager. I daresay she has any number of friends with eligible sons who would marry you without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“It shouldn’t be that difficult, really.” Belle surveyed Fiona with a critical eye. “Your age scarcely shows at all.”
“Thank you.” Fiona resisted the urge to snap and drew a deep breath. “I haven’t told Aunt Edwina because this situation is embarrassing and humiliating and I’d prefer that as few people know as necessary. Besides, I thought having Oliver’s assistance was preferable to his mother’s.”
“I can see that. Oliver is quite dashing.” Gen grinned in a wicked manner. “Rather a shame he’s a cousin.”
“Only by marriage.” An eager note sounded in Belle’s voice. “His aunt, Fiona’s mother, was Father’s first wife. And as Father adopted us when he married Mother, why, there’s no true blood connection at all.”
“I am very much aware of that,” Gen said thoughtfully.
“Well, put it out of your head right this moment.” Fiona cast a firm glance at each sister in turn. “Oliver is not a potential match for any of you. We need family here in London more than anything else. And he and his mother are all we have.”
“Pity,” Sophie murmured.
“Besides, Aunt Edwina is already talking about bringing you all out into society this spring.” Fiona adopted a casual manner. “Should any of you find a match before then, well, I should hate for you to miss a London season and all it entails.”
Gen glanced at her discarded magazine. “The gowns.”
“The parties,” Sophie added.
“The gentlemen.” Belle grinned.
Fiona sighed reluctantly. “It would be a pity to settle on Oliver before any of you have had the opportunity to see who else might be—”
“I would hate to disappoint Aunt Edwina.” Sophie struggled to sit up on the chaise. “She sees us all as the daughters she’s always wanted, and I for one quite like having a mother around, even if she’s not my own.”
“I think Mother would have liked Aunt Edwina’s plans for us, for a season and whatever else she has in mind.” Gen nodded. “Mother would have especially liked how much Aunt Edwina likes, well, us.”
The girls’ mother, Fiona’s stepmother, had died shortly after Fiona’s eighteenth birthday when Gen was ten and the twins barely nine years of age. The younger girls had spent much of their lives without a mother and even in the scant week they’d been in London, Aunt Edwina had proven to be a delightful substitute. She was thoughtful and wise and thus far hadspoiled them all in a manner only a woman who had long wanted daughters could do.
“And it’s not as if we were all Fiona’s age. Gen, Sophie and I have plenty of time to find suitable husbands.” Belle cast a pointed glance at Fiona. “Of course, just how suitable depends on whether or not we have a dowry.”
“I am well aware of that.” Fiona’s voice was grim.
“Perhaps you should pay a call on Lord Helmsley rather than waiting for him to call on you?” Gen said. Fiona shook her head. “It wouldn’t be all proper.”
“Proper?” Belle scoffed. “And it was proper to ask him to marry you in the first place?”
“You could bring Oliver with you and no one could complain about that.” Sophie leaned forward. “Of course, you would have to tell Oliver everything first.”
“It can’t be avoided, I suppose.” Fiona wasn’t sure why she was reluctant to tell Oliver what had transpired in the Effington House library.
It was entirely possible that she didn’t want Oliver, or anyone, to know that Jonathon Effington was more than likely the one man in all the world that she wouldn’t mind marrying under these circumstances, or any circumstance, for that matter. It sounded absurd, even to her, but there you had it. It was even more ridiculous when she considered that, in the nine years since she’d last seen him, she hadn’t given him more than an occasional passing thought—at least for the past eight years or so. Why, she had very nearly forgotten him altogether. And she had never considered him as a potential husband until Oliver had brought up his name.