“Not so much that she wouldn’t ask a total stranger to marry her,” he said sharply. Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “I daresay it was not easy for her.”
“Probably not.” Of course it hadn’t been easy for her. “My apologies.” If Jonathon hadn’t been such a fool and attributed every moment of hesitance or flash of unease in her eyes to acting—good acting, he amended—he would have seen that and realized the truth before it had been too late. “But it was all a misunderstanding. A dreadful, dreadful misunderstanding. Surely she will understand that?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Oliver said slowly. “You’re saying you asked my cousin to marry you—”
“Iagreed to marry her,” Jonathon amended. “She did all the asking.”
“Nonetheless, promises were made, were they not?”
“Well, yes, but only—”
“Then I would think you are obligated. Honor-bound.”
“Trapped is more like it.” Jonathon downed the rest of his whiskey. “Like a rat. No.” He smacked the glass down on a table and aimed an accusing finger at the other man. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess and it’s up to you to get me out.”
“I think not. Besides, I rather like the idea of you marrying my cousin. And the fault here, old friend, lies entirely with you. Jonathon.” Oliver studied him for a moment. “Did she lie to you? Or misrepresent herself in any way? Did she entice you or threaten you or do anything other than be perfectly honest with you?”
“She was damned enticing,” Jonathon snapped, then sighed. “But no, it was nothing like that. I suppose she was completely honest, but I didn’t know that.”
“And now you do.” Oliver grinned. “Welcome to the family.”
“No, Oliver.” Jonathon stared at his friend for a long time. “Regardless of howperfect she might be for me, I will not marry because of a mistake. I shall simply have to make her understand that I—”
“Make who understand what?” a feminine voice sounded from the entry. Oliver got to his feet. Jonathon braced himself and turned toward the doorway. His breath caught. Fiona Fairchild was every bit as lovely in the light of day as she was by gaslight. Fated for each other and all that.
Fate? Hah. Not if he had anything to say about it.
“Good day, Miss Fairchild.” Jonathon adopted his most formal manner.
“Jonathon.” She smiled and the room—the world—brightened around her. She sailed toward him with an ethereal grace as if her feet did not quite touch the floor. “I have looked forward to seeing you again.”
She extended her hand, but he seemed frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare. In the back of his mind he realized he was indeed an idiot who wanted nothing more at the moment than to melt at the feet of this goddess in a small stupid puddle of adoration and, yes, desire. Oliver nudged him with a sharp jab of the elbow.
“As have I,” Jonathon murmured, and took her hand. He raised it to his lips, his gaze fastened on hers, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to lose himself in the green of her eyes. It struck him that regardless of the awkward circumstances, he had indeed looked forward to seeing her again. Still, if he did not gather his wits about him, he would be wed before he knew it. He released her hand abruptly and stepped back. “I hope you are well, Miss Fairchild.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly at the overly polite note in his voice. “Quite well, thank you for asking. And you?”
“I’m well. As well. Thank you.” Jonathon winced to himself. He sounded like a blithering idiot. Of course, he felt like a blithering idiot. But how on earth did one tell a lovely young woman—or any woman, for that matter—that he had no intention of marrying her? Especially when he had already agreed to do so. And agreed with a fair amount of enthusiasm.
“The weather is exceptionally fine as well.” Oliver’s voice was thoughtful, but there was a definite spark of laughter in his eye. “Although I daresay it might snow. What say you, Helmsley, might it snow?”
“It might. It might indeed.” Jonathon nodded with relief. The weather was at least a safe topic. “The feel of snow is definitely in the air.”
Fiona looked from Jonathon to Oliver and back. “Make who understand what?”
“I must say, I find myself in rather a quandary at the moment.” Oliver shook his head. “Here one of my closest friends has asked for my assistance and, as he so gallantly put it, I do not have so many friends that I can afford to squander one. Although”—he fixed Jonathon with a wry glance—“I would dispute him on that point.” He wagged his eyebrows at Fiona. “People quite like me, you know.”
She laughed. “I have no doubt.”
“On the other hand, there is my cousin, one of the few blood relations I have in the world—excepting, of course, my mother, who scarcely ever needs anyone’s help in anything—who needs my assistance as well. I find my loyalties are quite divided. Therefore”—he started toward the door—“I shall do what any intelligent man in my position would do and leave the two of you alone to sort out whatever it is you need to sort out without me.” Oliver glanced back. “I shall, however, be within calling distance should either of you feel the need for rescue of any kind.” With that, Oliver took his leave. Fiona studied Jonathon carefully and he resisted the urge to shift from one foot to the other in the manner of a small child.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Fairchild—”
“Make who understand what?” she said for the third time in a tone considerably cooler than before.
“I believe we have something of a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m not entirely sure how to say this,” he said under his breath. “It’s really quite awkward.”
“It was awkward for me when last we spoke.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Apparently it’s your turn.”
“Apparently,” he muttered, then met her gaze directly. “I feel I should be perfectly honest with you.”
“As I have been with you.”
“Aha, but that’s precisely the problem,” Jonathon said quickly. “I didn’t know you were being honest.”
She raised a brow. “You didn’t? What did you think?”
“I thought…well…that is to say…” He drew a deep breath. “I thought you were an actress.”
“An actress?” She stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter. “An actress?”
“A very good actress,” he said quickly. It wouldn’t hurt to flatter her as much as possible.
“As good as, oh, say, Sarah Woolgar or Mary Ann Keeley?”
“Every bit as good.” He paused. “Perhaps even better.”
“What a relief.” She grinned. “I should hate for you to think I wasn’t very good at my chosen profession.”
“Oh, no, I thought you were excellent.” Relief washed through him. She was definitely amused and did not seem the least bit upset. This would be easier than he’d expected.
“I am a bit confused, though. Why did you think I was an actress?”
“Oh, any number of things led me to that conclusion. Erroneously, I might add.”
“You needn’t add that,” she said pleasantly. “But please go on.”
“First of all, you had taken Lady Chester’s place in the library.” He leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “This is just the sort of prank that she would find most amusing.”
Her eyes widened slightly in a most fetching manner. “Prank?”
“Yes, of course.” He chuckled. “And then you mentioned Oliver’s name and his assertion that you were my perfect match. You see, it was no more than a fortnight ago that he and the others—”
“The others?” Her words were measured.
“Warton and Cavendish. Decent enough chaps most of the time, although they do like a good joke on occasion.”
“Do they?”
“Indeed they do. Why, I can tell you things…” He caught himself. “No, that would be most inappropriate.”
“And we would hate to be inappropriate,” she murmured.
“At any rate, the last time we found ourselves talking about the inevitability of marriage—no more than a fortnight ago, I might add—I mentioned that I was not at all reluctant to wed. And when I found the woman who met all of my qualifications, I would marry her at once. The woman who was”—he cast her a pointed glance—“perfect for me. So you can see how when you presented yourself as the perfect potential bride, in Lady Chester’s place, bandying Oliver’s name about, well, you can certainly understand how I thought it was a hoax.”
“A hoax?” she said slowly.
“And a good one too, I might add.” He chuckled. “That nonsense about your inheritance and your sisters’ dowries being withheld until you marry. And your father arranging a marriage for you.”
“You thought that was nonsense?”
“I did at the time, and you have my apologies for that,” he said quickly. “Now I see I was mistaken.”
“Not entirely.” She blew a frustrated breath. “It isnonsense . Nonetheless, as absurd as it is, it is my life.”
She paused and her brow furrowed in thought. “Let me make certain I fully understand what you are trying to say.”
“Excellent.” He nodded eagerly.
“When we met in the library during the ball—when I took Lady Chester’s place—you thought I was an actress sent there by my cousin and your other friends.” She glanced at him. “Is that correct so far?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
“And you thought this because I appeared to be exactly what you had told them you wanted in a prospective bride?”
“Correct again.” She certainly seemed to have a grasp of the situation thus far. His hopes rose.
“Adding to this assumption was the admittedly absurd—but true nonetheless—circumstances I find myself in.”
“Yes, yes, go on.” She was clearly as clever as she was lovely. Precisely what he had indeed claimed he wanted in a future wife. He pushed the inconvenient thought aside.
“And all these erroneous assumptions on your part led you to the inescapable conclusion that I was part of a hoax perpetrated by your friends?”
“Exactly.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “So you see, when I agreed to marry you I was simply turning the tables on them. Going along with the joke, as it were.”
“So when you agreed to marry me, you were not”—she thought for a moment—“sincere?”
That didn’t sound at all good. “Although I wasn’t actuallyinsincere . Not in the truest sense of the word. As I said, I was going along with—”
“Did you or did you not mean it when you accepted my proposal?”
“Of course I didn’t mean it. It was a misunderstanding. Completely on my part,” he added quickly. “And I accept full responsibility. I am entirely to blame.”
“Then you concede I did not lie to you or mislead you or coerce you in any way?”
“Absolutely not,” he said staunchly.
“I was honest and entirely candid?”
“Without question.”
“Well, then, my Lord Helmsley—Jonathon—I believe in one respect you were right all along.” She cast him that brilliant smile, and for the briefest flicker of a moment he regretted that it was all a mistake. “The joke is indeed on you.”
Four
“On me?” Jonathon’s smile faltered. “What do you mean, the joke is on me?”
Fiona struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face. For one brief, shining moment when she had entered the parlor and Jonathon had gazed at her with the most wonderful look in his eyes—almost like a man in love—she had believed her troubles were at an end. Damn the man anyway. She should have known when it took him three days—counting today—to call on her. Now the world crashed down about her head. No. Her resolve hardened, she would not permit it to do so. Or rather, she would not permithim to do so.
She drew a deep breath. “You said I did not mislead you, indeed I was completely honest?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Therefore my proposal was issued in good faith?”
“I suppose, but…” He frowned. “Women are not supposed to issue proposals in the first place.”
“No, my lord, women are supposed to know their place in this world. They are supposed to do exactly as they are instructed by fathers or husbands or brothers in all matters up to and including when they should marry and to whom,” she said, a shade more sharply than she’d intended. “But I daresay a woman who was achallenge would not hesitate to take matters into her own hands, especially when it involved issues as important as proposals of marriage.”
He stared at her. “Perhaps, but—”
“And did you not want a challenge in this imaginary perfect bride of yours?”
“I might have said that, but—”
“Then consider yourself challenged, my lord!” Her restraint snapped and she whirled away from him. She spotted a decanter of sherry on a cabinet. Excellent. Spirits were certainly called for at the moment, at least to steady her nerves. Why, even her hands were shaking with anger. She stalked to the decanter, sloshed some of the sherry into a glass, drew a deep swallow, realized at that moment it wasn’t sherry, and promptly choked.
“I say, Miss Fairchild.” Jonathon stepped toward her. “Are you all right?”
“Quite,” she sputtered, and thrust out her hand to keep him away, although she wasn’t the least bit all right.
“Whiskey should really not be drunk that quickly if one is unused to it.”