Free Let It Be Love by Victoria Alexander

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