Free Let It Be Love by Victoria Alexander Page B

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.”
    “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