It had seemed so easy when she and Oliver had come up with the idea of marriage to Jonathon. A simpleHere I am, my lord, the very woman you have always wanted, and oh, by the way, did I mention I have to marry as soon as possible? But once alone with Jonathon, it had been difficult to get the words out. In truth, it all felt unseemly and more than a little pathetic. Not to mention desperate. Certainly she was desperate, but still…
Now he was the only one she wanted and their meeting in the library only made her want him more. She had long wondered what it would be like to be the lady in the library with Jonathon Effington on Christmas Eve. Had wondered from the moment she had seen him in that very room nine years ago. She and her family were to embark for France a few days after Christmas Day, 1845. Her parents had been invited to the Effington Christmas Ball and even though Fiona had barely turned seventeen, she’d been allowed to attend because, as her stepmother had said, who knew how long it would be before Fiona had the chance to attend her next London ball?
The Christmas Eve event was everything Fiona had ever dreamed a grand ball would be. Decorations wrought from greens and ribbons festooned every nook and cranny. Music and laughter filled the air. Skilled dancers whirled about on the ballroom floor in an endlessly changing kaleidoscope of bright colors and flashing jewels. Lovely ladies in the latest French fashions flirted with dashing men in fine formal attire. But none was more dashing than the young Jonathon Effington. Fiona had seen Jonathon from across the room and he had quite taken her breath away. Upon later reflection she had realized that he wasn’t perhaps the handsomest gentleman there or the most charming, but there was something in his manner that was irresistible, as if he were surrounded by light. At least in her uncritical eyes. The man simply exuded life, and when he laughed, delightful shivers ran up her arm. It had taken her nearly an hour to work up the courage to approach him, if only to wish him a happy Christmas. In the year that followed, Fiona would grow nearly two inches in height and her plump figure would evolve into a much more attractive form. But on that Christmas Eve, Fiona was the first to admit she resembled nothing so much as an overripe Christmas plum. Still, with the desperate drama inherent in a girl of that age who has just seen the man who may well be the one true love of her life, the man she might never see again, she had to at least make his acquaintance. Or she would surely perish. She had just managed to nonchalantly edge away from her parents’ side when she saw Jonathon slip out of the ballroom. What could she do but follow him? After all, it was probably fate that she had been allowed to attend the ball in the first place and, even at seventeen, she knew one didn’t laugh in the face of fate. She watched him turn down a corridor, scurried after him, then peeked around a corner in time to see him accept a bottle and glasses from a servant and continue down the hallway. She’d ducked behind a potted palm just in time to avoid detection by the servant passing by her on his return to his duties. Fiona had then carefully made her way down the hall until she heard the unmistakable sound of feminine laughter coming from a half-opened door. She had flattened herself against the wall and cautiously peeked into the room.
Jonathon had been locked in a scandalous embrace with a lady. A woman of questionable morals, given the way she was embracing him back.
Fiona had stifled a gasp and jerked away from the door as if singed. Even today, the shock of that moment was as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. And even today, she had the good grace to blush at the memory of how she had peeked again, just to make certain, of course, that she had seen what she’d thought she’d seen, and then had returned to the ball in a most dejected state. She’d pined over Jonathon Effington for a time, but the excitement of travel and their new life in Paris eased her dismay. In truth, as the years passed, and her chubby figure had slimmed and her orange hair darkened and young men had actively sought her favors, why, she’d forgotten about Jonathon Effington altogether.
Until now.
“Yes, of course. That’s the thing to do.” Fiona squared her shoulders. “I shall tell Oliver of Lord Helmsley’s willingness to wed and we shall call on him together.”
“Good.” Gen nodded, then met her older sister’s gaze. “We are grateful that you are willing to do this for us, but—”
“But it doesn’t seem at all…right.” Belle sighed. “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your life in a marriage not of your choosing because Father was mad.”
Fiona gasped. “Arabella Fairchild!”
“Well, not mad, I suppose”—Belle shrugged—“but definitely not in his right mind. How could he have been to be willing to condemn his own child to a loveless marriage?”
“We haven’t talked about love, you know.” Sophie stepped closer and searched Fiona’s face. “Don’t you think about that? Don’t you want to marry a man you love? A man who will love you?”
“Of course I do, but…” Fiona paused to gather her thoughts. “I’ve had twenty-five years to fall in love and it hasn’t happened. If I had fallen in love and married, and indeed Father gave me every opportunity to do so, we would not be in this mess to begin with. At this point, I have no choice. And everything might well be for the best. Lord Helmsley is an excellent match. Besides…” She cast her sisters a weak smile. “If I have not had the occasion to fall in love by now, I daresay I never will.”
“Could you love Lord Helmsley?”
“In time, perhaps.” She had certainly fancied herself in love with him once long ago when she was very young and hadn’t known any better and hadn’t known him. Not that she knew him now, but at least they had spoken. And kissed. Which was really very nice, as he was exceptionally good at it. “I certainly do not find him objectionable in any way. He is quite dashing and charming and handsome enough—”
“Not that we would know,” Gen muttered. The sisters were still annoyed that they had not been allowed to attend the ball, but Aunt Edwina had insisted it would not do, as she had great plans for their debuts in the spring.
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” Fiona said firmly. “It’s decided, then. I shall find Oliver, tell him everything and together we shall pay a call on Lord Helmsley.”
She started toward the door, but Sophie caught her arm. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Gen stepped toward her. “Surely there’s another way. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“We could all find positions.” Belle closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “As maids.”
“You couldn’t,” Sophie murmured.
Fiona stared at her sisters. “Why this sudden concern? We have known for weeks that this day was coming.”
“Yes, but now that it has come, we feel dreadful about it.” Sincerity rang in Gen’s voice.
“Simply dreadful,” Belle echoed, her tone perhaps a shade less sincere than her sister’s. Skeptical eyes turned toward her and she huffed. “Well, we do, although admittedly I would not do well as a maid. And none of the rest of you would either.”
“We would make terrible maids.” Sophie sighed. “Still, it might be better than living with guilt for the rest of our lives.”
Fiona raised a brow. “I suspect you shall all manage to bravely carry on.” Once more she turned to leave. “As shall I.”
“Dear Lord, Oliver, tell me this is a joke,” Jonathon said the moment Oliver stepped into the parlor. Oliver stopped in midstride. “Very well. It’s a joke.”
“Thank God.” Relief washed through Jonathon and he collapsed in the nearest chair. “I thought surely it had to be some sort of hoax perpetrated by you and Warton and Cavendish, with an assisting hand from Judith as well. But then she gave me her card and it had your—”
“What’s a joke?” Oliver asked.
Jonathon’s stomach clenched. “Do you have a cousin by the name of Fiona Fairchild?”
Oliver stared for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Indeed I do.”
Jonathon groaned. “Then I am doomed.”
“Doomed?” Oliver raised an amused brow. “I gather this is in reference to your meeting with Fiona during the Christmas Ball?”
“How could you do that to me?” Jonathon glared. “I’m your friend. One of your oldest friends.” He narrowed his gaze. “And it seems to me you do not have that many that you can afford to squander one.”
Oliver laughed. “It went well, then?”
“You are not taking this at all seriously.”
Oliver stepped to the cabinet where he kept his liquor and withdrew glasses and a decanter of something—hopefully something potent. Jonathon needed potent at the moment.
“How can I, when I have no idea what transpired between you and my cousin. For all I know, it was your usual Christmas Eve romp.” Oliver glanced at him over his shoulder. “Although I would hope not. I have come to regard her more as a sister than a cousin and I find I have become somewhat protective.”
“They are not romps,” Jonathon muttered, although, in truth, on more than one occasion they could certainly have been called romps. Not that it mattered at the moment. He studied his friend. “She has not told you, then?”
“She’s not said a word.” Oliver filled the glasses. “In fact, every time I attempt to speak to her about it she changes the subject or makes an excuse to leave my presence or distracts me in some way.” Oliver crossed the room and handed Jonathon a glass. “She’s very good at distraction.”
At once the memory of a brilliant smile flashed through Jonathon’s mind. “I can see where she would be.” He took a sip, pleased to discover excellent Scottish whiskey of an appropriate quality and strength, and thought for a moment. “Then she’s made no claims? No irrevocable announcements?”
“Not a one.” Oliver settled in a chair that matched Jonathon’s and narrowed his eyes. “What kind of irrevocable announcement?”
Jonathon leaned closer to his friend. “I swear on the graves of every Effington that has come before me, I thought she was part of a hoax.” He jumped to his feet and paced the room, glass in hand. “I thought you and Warton and Cavendish had hired some woman—”
Oliver raised a brow.
“A beautiful woman,” Jonathon said quickly, as if the compliment to Oliver’s cousin would improve the situation. “An actress, probably.”
“You thought my cousin was an actress?”
“Anaccomplished actress. I thought she was very good.” Jonathon stared at his friend. “Is that ridiculous story true? About her father’s will?”
Oliver nodded.
“Are you certain? This isn’t some absurd plot on her part to trap me into marriage? I mean, I am considered quite a catch.”
“Immodestly so.” Oliver snorted. “But you’re not the only marriageable man in London with a good title and tidy fortune. Without any effort at all, I can name several. Why, Freddy Hartshorne’s prospects are every bit as good as yours and he would no doubt jump at the opportunity to wed a lady with Fiona’s lineage, not to mention her looks.”
“Come, now. Hartshorne is short, stubby and has hair redder than hers. They would have children who looked like carrots.” Jonathon waved away the comment. “Besides, he’s an idiot.”
“As, apparently, are you.” Oliver paused. “And it was not Fiona who thought of you. You were my idea.”
Jonathon groaned. “Why? Why would you do such a thing to me?”
“I was doing you a favor. My cousin is everything you claim to have ever wanted in a prospective wife.”
“She does seem to be,” Jonathon admitted in a grudging manner. Indeed, in the two days since their meeting he’d realized it had taken a lot of courage as well as determination for Fiona to approach him. The woman obviously had spirit. He took another sip of his whiskey. “But I don’t wish to be married.”
“You’ve said over and over again—”
“I lied.” Jonathon shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t realize myself that I’d lied until I came face to face with the truth of it. Face to face with marriage.” He resumed pacing. “I’m not ready for marriage, Oliver. Oh, I know it’s my duty and all that, but I’m still a young man—”
“You’re two-and-thirty.”
“Yes, but men can get married at any age. We’re not like women, we age better. I am certainly not the callow youth I was ten years ago.”
“Older but no wiser?”
“I thought I was wiser until now.”
“What exactly passed between you and my cousin?” Oliver said slowly. “Fiona’s silence led me to believe she might well have lost her nerve. Or that you rejected her out of hand.”
“Not exactly,” Jonathon murmured.
Oliver stared.
Jonathon blew a long breath. “I agreed to marry her.”
Oliver grinned and raised his glass to his friend. “Well done, old man. I must say, you had me worried for a few minutes there.”
“I wasn’t serious. I thought she, the whole thing, was a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know that now. But I didn’t know that at the time.” A hopeful note sounded in Jonathon’s voice.
“Therefore, I would think, since I agreed to wed under false pretenses as it were, my agreement would be invalid.”
Oliver stared in disbelief. “Do you forget you’re dealing with a woman who is trying to save her sisters from poverty?”
“You’re the head of the family, can’t you provide for them? Can’t they live with you?”
“As poor relations?” Oliver shook his head. “That is precisely what Fiona is trying to avoid. She has a fair amount of pride.”