Let It Be Love (31 page)

“The contessa wished to see the conservatory,” Judith said to Fiona. “And, as I was to meet you here, I brought her with me.”

“And better yet”—the contessa reached out and squeezed one of Fiona’s hands in a conspiratorial manner—“I am not alone. You will be so pleased.” She turned and called to someone behind her.

“Bernardo!”

Fiona groaned to herself. Not Bernardo, Count Orsetti. The last thing she wanted at this particular moment, when she and Jonathon were finally coming to an understanding of sorts, was this particular unexpected encounter. For a moment she considered the possibility of escape, but as the only exit she was aware of would take her past the contessa and her son, she rejected that. Nor did she think there was really anywhere to hide in the conservatory.

“Signorina Fairchild! Bella, bellissimo Fiona!”

Count Orsetti practically shoved his mother aside in his haste to get to Fiona, although the contessa didn’t seem to mind. He strode to Fiona, grabbed her hands and lifted them to his lips, all the while murmuring in a steady stream of Italian how he had missed her and how beautiful her eyes were and how her hair looked like molten sunlight. Fiona was fairly certain Jonathon did not speak Italian, but then again she would have wagered he couldn’t tell an orchid from a daisy either. She shot him a quick glance. Jonathon might not speak the language, but it was clear from the look on his face that he understood full well what the count was saying. Judith smiled in an innocent manner, but there was a wicked gleam in her eye. At once Fiona realized that somehow Judith knew exactly what the count’s reaction would be when he saw Fiona again. And knew as well exactly how Jonathon would respond.

“English, if you please, Count.” Fiona favored him with a pleasant but not overly affectionate smile and firmly pulled her hands from his. “As we are in England now.”

“As you wish.” He smiled in a tolerant manner as if her refusal to share in the intimacy of a language they alone might speak were not a rejection but a bond between them. It was a reminder of the man’s overwhelming arrogance and as irritating now as the last time she’d seen him. “I am most delighted to find you here. I had not looked forward at all to my stay in London, but when I arrived and my mother informed me she had accompanied you here”—his grin broadened with a confidence that came from truly believing that every woman in the world was waiting to swoon at his feet or fall into his bed—“I felt God Himself was smiling down upon me once again.”

“And yet you made no effort to call on her,” Judith murmured.

“An oversight.” Orsetti shrugged. “And one that is so easily corrected.”

“Indeed.” The contessa nodded in eager encouragement of her son. “Bernardo should make arrangements at once to call on—”

“Forgive me, Contessa, but”—Jonathon’s gaze met Fiona’s—“I did promise Miss Fairchild’s aunt that we would be gone only a few minutes.” He held out his arm to her. “Shall we, Miss Fairchild?”

“Yes, of course,” Fiona said with relief, and took his arm. She had no desire to be trapped with the count and his mother, both of whom had long ago decided she would make Bernardo an excellent wife. The mother because of Fiona’s societal connections, the son because Fiona would look good on his arm. As much as she now needed a husband, she had no desire for this one.

“I would be happy to escort Signorina Fairchild back to her aunt.” Orsetti bowed in a grand manner. “It would be my great pleasure.”

“Nonetheless, at the moment Miss Fairchild is my responsibility,” Jonathon said pleasantly.

“How very odd you English are.” Orsetti studied Jonathon curiously. “I would never consider a beautiful woman as a responsibility.”

Jonathon shrugged casually. “That explains a great deal.”

It was all most polite and civilized, but underneath the veneer of proper behavior there was the definite feel of something primal. Not unlike jungle beasts ready to fight over a mate. Fiona had always rather liked having men fight over her and under other circumstances it would have been most amusing, but she would prefer to keep Jonathon far away from Orsetti. He was a man who had never been able to take no for an answer regardless of how many times she had said just that and how often she had made her disinterest in him clear.

“Lord Helmsley, please do escort Miss Fairchild back to the ballroom,” Judith said smoothly. “Count Orsetti has obviously forgotten that he wished for me to show him my orchids. I should be quite disappointed if he did not allow me that pleasure.” Judith gazed up at Orsetti in a most provocative manner that had nothing whatsoever to do with orchids.

“As would I, Lady Chester.” Orsetti grinned down at Judith, immediately distracted from the pursuit of one woman to the intrigue offered by another.

“Yes, yes.” The contessa huffed. “Show us the flowers.”

Fiona nudged Jonathon and lowered her voice. “Perhaps we should…”

“Excellent idea.” Jonathon nodded and quickly walked her back the way they’d come. They didn’t say a word until they were safely in the corridor with the door to the greenhouse firmly closed behind them.

“You have an admirer in the count,” Jonathon said slowly. “He is quite a handsome man.”

“Indeed he is, and he well knows it.” She stared at him thoughtfully. “Are you jealous, then?”

“Don’t be absurd. I have never been jealous.” Jonathon’s brows drew together in surprise. “Good God, I believe I am jealous.”

“How perfectly wonderful of you.” Fiona glanced up and down the corridor and then, before he could protest, leaned close and kissed him quickly. “I can’t recall the last time I’ve been so flattered.” She took his arm and they started back to the ballroom.

He chuckled. “Surely men have had cause to be jealous before?”

“Perhaps.” She met his gaze. “But it was never of any real significance, as I never particularly cared before.” They reached the ballroom entry and the screen of palms and paused. His gaze caught hers, and what he might see in her eyes scarcely mattered, given what she saw in his.

“And do you care now?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and knew that at that instant a promise, unspoken yet there all the same, had been made.

A slow smile spread across his face and a sense of absolute happiness blossomed within her. Like a flower never before seen. He pulled his gaze from hers, cautiously looked around the palms, then held out his arms. “Might I have the remainder of this dance, Miss Fairchild?”

“I should be delighted, my lord.” She beamed at him and stepped into his arms.

“Do remind me to thank Judith for her forethought in the placement of these trees so close to the perimeter of the dance floor. It was exceptionally clever of her.”

“And most convenient as well.”

“I fully intend to call on you tomorrow, you know.” His gaze bored into hers. “Will I have to compete with other gentlemen for your attention?”

“Perhaps.” She grinned. “It will do you a world of good to have to do so.”

“I doubt it. I don’t like this business of jealousy one bit, although I suspect I can bear it. For now.” His hand tightened on hers. “I should prefer not to encounter Orsetti, however. I don’t like the man.”

She widened her eyes in an innocent manner. “And is there a reason for that?”

“I can think of one very good reason.”

She laughed.

“But it is the oddest thing, Fiona,” he said, preparing to step back onto the dance floor. “I know I have never met the man, yet I have the distinct feeling I have seen him somewhere before.”

“Probably no more than a passing resemblance to someone else,” she said lightly.

“Probably.”

A moment later they had rejoined the dancers as smoothly as if they had never been away. Once again, in his arms, with the music filling her senses, it was impossible to think of anything but the memory of his lips on hers and the promise of tomorrow to come.

Thirteen

Later that night, or rather early the next morning, in the hour shortly before dawn when any civilized person of a respectable nature would be long abed and fast asleep, and any person whose level of civilization, as well as respectability, would not meet the high standards set by those who prefer slumber to something of a more strenuous nature in their beds would just be arriving home. Still others might well be in their beds in an attempt to be of a virtuous nature in anticipation of not being the least bit virtuous at a future date…

“Bloody hell.” Jonathon threw off the covers, leapt out of bed and promptly smashed his knee on something unseen. He felt blindly around for his robe, stubbed his toe and bashed his elbow on yet another invisible object.

Damn it all, this room was awkward enough to navigate when fully lit. Now, in the dark of night, it was a death trap. Edwards would no doubt find him here in the morning felled by some curiosity or objet d’art or unidentified oversizedsomething, ornately carved by native artisans living in the upper regions of the Himalayas! He could see Edwards now, staring down at Jonathon’s prone body, twisted and mangled on the floor, and hear the butler murmuring how this could have been avoided had his lordship simply listened to Edwards in the first place.

The butler had encouraged him to take the bedchamber vacated by Sir Nicholas. That particular room, per Nicholas’s wishes, was scarcely furnished at all, at least when compared to every other room in the house. Jonathon, however, liked living in the chaotic jungle that best described his new home. Except—he banged his hip on something sharp—at this particular moment when the appeal of an overstuffed house diminished substantially. He stumbled his way in the general direction of a dresser aided by the faint starlight that drifted in between the crack of the window drapes, and suspected he had reached his goal when he smacked into something large and solid with surprisingly painful protruding knobs.

“Damnation.” He sucked in a hard breath and groped for the matches and lamp he knew were here somewhere. Something crashed to the floor beside him and he ignored it. His fingers found the matches, he struck one, located the lamp and at last had light.

Good. He was covered in bruises just from crossing this one room. He’d probably kill himself if he attempted to make his way down the stairs without light. He shrugged on the robe he hadn’t been able to find a moment ago, grabbed the lamp and headed for the library. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep. Indeed, he’d been home for several hours and had had no trouble sleeping and sleeping quite well until now. His rest was no doubt the result of finally having come to grips with his feelings for Fiona and, beyond that, finally doing something about it. He started down the stairs and ignored the fact that he really hadn’t done anything of substance. Oh, certainly he had apologized, told her he wished to call on her formally and he had definitely indicated his intentions were of a permanent nature, although he had never actually mentioned marriage. Or love. For that matter, he really hadn’t said much of anything, although he had planned on doing so. Hadn’t he?

Circumstances had simply interfered, that was all. After he and Fiona had returned to the ballroom, they’d had no further opportunity for private discussion. They had managed only one more dance together and, given Fiona’s popularity, even that was difficult to arrange. It wasn’t simply that she was in demand, but the contessa had her beady little eyes fixed firmly on Jonathon’s every move. Even Lady Norcroft appeared to watch Jonathon’s activities closely. It had been most annoying. Did no one trust him at all? Or did they simply not trust him with Fiona? In which case, their caution was, admittedly, somewhat justified.

Still, while he hadn’t had the chance to take her in his arms again or kiss her with the thoroughness she deserved, every time their gazes met across the room something intense and special and exciting passed between them. It was a palpable sense of anticipation, of promise, and Jonathon was amazed that everyone who looked at them did not note it. Or perhaps that was precisely why Fiona’s aunt and the contessa had kept a close eye on him. Certainly Oliver, Warton and Cavendish had each commented, following Jonathon’s return from the conservatory, on how he no longer appeared as miserable as he had previously. Indeed, he’d seemed positively jovial.

Jonathon reached the bottom of the curved stairway and turned in the direction of the library, moving a bit more cautiously given the tendency of the clutter in the house to reach out and attack him without provocation. Perhaps he should do something about the place before he brought a wife here. A wife? Fiona?

Odd, the idea of a wife—no—the idea of Fiona as his wife no longer filled him with fear. Well, not as much fear. Obviously there was still some apprehension otherwise he wouldn’t have hesitated to pour out his feelings, declare his love, ask for her hand and all that. Of course, he was well on his way to doing just that, or something close to that, when they had been so abruptly interrupted by the contessa and her son.Bernardo . Jonathon snorted in disdain and pushed open the door to the library. He could see why Fiona had no interest in him.

He opened the door to the library, held the lamp high to give him as much light as possible to avoid any further collisions and made his way to the desk.

Although, upon further reflection, Fiona hadn’t actually
said she had no interest in the count. In fact, she hadn’t really said much about him at all. Oh, she’d commented on his arrogance and she had seemed relieved to leave his presence, but that could well be the natural reluctance of any woman to have a new lover come face to face with an old. Not that there was any evidence that the count had ever meant anything to her, although Orsetti was certainly overly affectionate toward her. And Jonathon was not her lover. Yet. Although she had offered him the opportunity and she was five-and-twenty and well versed in the art of flirtation and incredibly desirable and not the least bit shy or hesitant about what she wanted…. Blast and damnation, did she share a past with
Bernardo ?