Every Christmas Eve, Jonathan Effington, the Marquess of
Helmsley, holds his own private celebration of the Season
in the family library with the lady of his choice. This
year, he's in for a little surprise. Rather than the lady
he was expecting, the beautiful Fiona Fairchild is waiting,
with an unusual proposal.
Fiona has been put in a difficult position, thanks to her
recently deceased father. At 25, she's nearly beyond
marriageable age. Fearing his beloved oldest daughter might
never wed, Fiona's father's will stipulates that in order
to receive her considerable inheritance, and for his
younger daughters to receive their dowries, Fiona must
marry the man he's picked out for her. Unwilling to marry a
man she's never met and an American at that, Fiona flees
Italy for England and the home of her cousin, Oliver, good
friend of Jonathan.
When Fiona proposes on Christmas Eve, Jonathan believes
she's an actress, taking part in an elaborate scheme
devised by his closest friends. Indeed, Fiona appears to
fit his requirements for a wife. Deciding to turn the
tables on his friends, Jonathan readily accepts her
proposal and seals their bargain with a kiss.
Jonathan is horrified to discover Fiona's proposal is
genuine and that he might indeed find himself married long
before he's prepared to say farewell to his bachelorhood.
Anxious to avoid what could be a fate worse than death,
Jonathan and Oliver come up with an elaborate scheme that
will solve everyone's problems.
Spending time together, Jonathan discovers he and Fiona
have more in common than he'd originally believed, and
almost too late, comes to realize that Fiona may indeed be
just the woman for him. Unfortunately, the arrival of
Daniel Sinclair, the American fiancé, may be the end of
Jonathan's future with Fiona. In need of funds for a
business venture, Daniel intends to marry Fiona.
LET IT BE LOVE is fantastic! Humorous, sensuous and
touching, it's a most excellent addition to Victoria
Alexander's Effington family saga. Jonathan is a strong
and sensitive hero, Fiona is his perfect foil. Jonathan's
friends and Fiona's three younger sisters offer many laugh-
out-loud moments. I hope there's a story for every one!
Dashing Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, has
had more than one lady willingly fall into his arms. But
he's so delicious none has ever complained at their
inevitable parting. And while Jonathon's no stranger to
passion of the flesh, his heart has remained untouched.
Until now...
At each Christmas Ball, Jonathon selects a delectable lady
to share the pleasures of the evening -- after all, it's a
holiday tradition! But he is shocked to discover that his
choice is replaced by an enchanting stranger who surprises
him with a proposal of marriage. Beautiful Fiona Fairchild
is desperate -- only a wedding will save her sisters and
her
inheritance. But Jonathon has no interest in marriage, and
what starts as a shocking proposal turns into a scandalous
proposition that might ruin them both...
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
December 1853
"We are a rather grim group today," Oliver Leighton,
the Earl of Norcroft, noted to no one in particular and
gazed idly at the usual gathering of his closest friends
in the lounge of their favorite club.
"What's not to be grim about?" Nigel Cavendish, son
of Viscount Cavendish, stared at the brandy in his
glass. "Life is moving at a remarkably fast clip. Yet
another year is drawing to an end. We are all another year
older and another step closer to the inevitable doom that
lies in wait for us all."
"I hate arriving in the middle of a conversation."
Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley and heir to
the Duke of Roxborough sank down in the lone unoccupied
chair and grinned at his friends. Today, as always,
Helmsley exuded jovial good spirits and an unrelentingly
cheerful nature that charmed men and women alike. It could
be most annoying. "Yet the expressions on all your faces
are as easy to read as the Morning Times. I gather doom is
in reference to the prospect of marriage?"
"What else would make grown men cower in such a
fashion?" Gideon Pearsall, Viscount Warton, drawled in the
cynical manner he had honed to a fine art.
"What else indeed," Cavendish muttered.
Helmsley raised an amused brow.
"Certainly, we have all accepted that is it our duty
to marry and provide an heir to our titles, estates,
fortunes, to carry on the family name and so forth but
acceptance and eagerness are two entirely different
matters. Marriage is a daunting prospect relished by no
sane member of the masculine gender." Warton signaled to
an ever vigilant waiter for another round of
refreshment. "And a prospect none of us will be able to
avoid much longer."
Warton alone among them had not avoided it entirely
but that was a subject that by unspoken agreement was not�
was never�to be discussed.
"I don't know that I still wish to avoid marriage,"
Helmsley said mildly.
"Of course not." Oliver snorted. "Precisely why we
have noted you loping down the aisle at breakneck speed."
Helmsley accepted a glass from the waiter. "I simply
haven't found the right woman yet."
"The right woman?" Warton rolled his gaze toward the
ceiling. "You mean the woman who will set your heart
aflame?"
"Not to mention your loins," Cavendish said.
"A woman who will challenge your mind," Oliver added
with an overly dramatic flourish. "As well as the rest of
you."
Helmsley's amused gaze slid around the circle. "Have
I mentioned this before then?"
"Each and every time the topic turns to potential
brides." Warton sighed. "Let us see if we can remember all
the requirements for the future Lady Helmsley. There are a
fair number if I recall."
"As well there should be," Helmsley said, his voice
firm. "My wife shall one day be the Duchess of Roxborough.
Such a position is not easy to fill."
"Nor is the position of perfect wife," Oliver said.
"Perfect is relative," Warton said, "the perception
of which is highly individual. I, for one, do not find his
qualifications culminate in perfection at all."
Helmsley raised his glass in a toast. "To whatever
passes for perfect then."
"Perfect?" Oliver snorted. "Your idea of perfect is
more in tune with what rational men would call difficult."
Warton heaved a long suffering sigh. "All that
spirited nature nonsense."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble to me," Cavendish said
darkly.
"It does doesn't it?" Helmsley frowned in a good
natured manner. "Was I drinking excessively at the time?"
"Probably." Warton shrugged. "Such discussions on the
relations between men and women and what we do and do not
desire generally come toward the end of a long evening of
excess. Usually after we have thoroughly dissected the
sorry state of contemporary politics and preceding the
inevitable pondering of the true meaning of existence in
the world."
"That does seem to require excessive drinking,"
Cavendish murmured.
"Although we must note, Helmsley's requirements do
not vary considerably whether he is inebriated or cold
sober. There is something to be said for consistency, I
suppose, or perhaps it's simply obstinacy." Oliver studied
his friend.
One wouldn't note his stubborn nature simply to look
at him. Jonathon Effington was an attractive sort, his
good looks accentuated by his confident friendly air. Add
to that his title, his prospects and his family wealth and
one could only wonder why he hadn't yet found the bride
who would perfectly fill his expectations. Certainly there
was no lack of eager candidates vying for the position of
the future Duchess of Roxborough. But Helmsley had long
ago made it clear he did not wish for the type of
submissive, well behaved, proper bride English society was
so adept at producing. He claimed such a wife would bore
him to tears and Oliver wasn't sure he wasn't right.
Still, Cavendish was right as well: such a wife would be a
great deal of trouble.
"As foolish as it sounds to the rest of us, Helmsley
has declared he does not wish for a wife who is overly
docile or blindly obedient." Oliver raised his glass to
his friend. "God have mercy on him."
"God had better," Warton said, "a woman of that
nature certainly wouldn't."
"I wouldn't mind blind obedience myself." Cavendish
paused for a moment as if debating the merits of
obedience, blind or otherwise. "A woman who would do
precisely as I wished, when I wished without asking
annoying questions. I should think that would be an
excellent quality in a wife. "Yes I quite like that." A
frown creased his brow. "Still, I should be willing to
sacrifice a certain amount of obedience for the sake of
appearance. She should definitely be pretty. I would not
like an ugly wife. And she should be of good family, of
course, with a respectable dowry."
"None of which is of true importance when one is
deciding upon a woman to spend the rest of one's life
with," Helmsley noted in an annoyingly lofty manner then
grinned. "Admittedly pretty and the rest of it is
preferable."
"One does have to bed her after all." Warton sipped
his brandy in a thoughtful manner. "Although an enormous
fortune would certainly make a less than attractive face
and figure more palatable."
Helmsley raised a brow. "I would not have thought it
possible but you are more cynical than unusual tonight."
"'Tis the undue influence of the season. All this
good will toward men, urchins singing in the streets, high
spirits run amuck." Warton shuddered. "It quite goes
against my nature."
It was a lie and every man present, including Warton
himself, knew it but he did so love playing the role of
jaded cynic. And who would tell him otherwise? It was part
of an unspoken agreement among the long time friends not
to shatter anyone's illusions about himself unless it was
of the utmost necessity to do so.
To all appearances, they were an odd group to have
formed such a bond. While they shared a similarity of
position and age, they were as disparate as if they were
from different civilizations. Warton with his dark
handsome features and brooding nature was given to
cynicism in direct contract to Cavendish's boyish good
looks and penchant for getting into scrapes. Helmsley was
the true optimist among them and liked little better than
a good joke or a good wager or a good investment. As for
Oliver himself, well, he wasn't entirely sure how he
described himself save that he thought in some odd way, he
shared some of the characteristics of each of the others
for good and ill.
The men had attended school together but had not
truly become friends until recent years when they found
themselves frequenting the same clubs and same social
events. Oliver's friendship with Helmsley had begun when
he had enthusiastically and futilely, pursued the hand of
Helmsley's youngest sister. How all four of them had
drifted into friendship as fast and firm as this had
become was still a matter of some debate. And there were
moments when nothing but honesty between them would serve.
Certainly there had been any number of occasions through
the years when the group had been forced to make one of
its members�usually Cavendish�face unpleasant facts about
himself for his own good. Generally in situations that had
involved the fairer sex, the potential for extreme
embarrassment and an excess of alcohol.
Oliver wondered if, in the spirit of the season which
did seem to call for a fair amount of honesty, this wasn't
one of those moments.
"You, Jonathon Effington, Lord Helmsley, heir to the
Duke of Roxborough," Oliver aimed an accusing finger, "are
a nice man."
"Women like you," Cavendish added.
"Yes, I know. It works out rather well to my way of
thinking." Helmsley grinned. "What's wrong with being
nice?"
"For one thing, it makes every other man look bad in
comparison. Beyond that," Warton's eyes narrowed, "it
drives the rest of us mad."
Helmsley laughed. "Don't be absurd."
Oliver leaned closer. "Do you realize when you end a
liaison with a woman or a flirtation with a young lady
they never seem to hate you?"
"Well, of course not. Why would . . ." Jonathon
paused, "what exactly do you mean?"
Oliver lowered his voice in a meaningful
manner. "Have you ever infuriated a woman to the point
where she flung a vase at your head?"
"Or slapped you across the face?" Warton
asked. "Hard?"
"Or thrown your clothes into the fire so that you
were forced to make your way to your discretely waiting
carriage clad in nothing more than a flimsy woman's
dressing gown?" Cavendish said.
At once all eyes and an corresponding number of
raised brows turned toward him.
"Perhaps that's only happened to me," Cavendish said
under his breath. "Nonetheless, Helmsley, you do see the
point, do you not?"
"I don't know that I do. I consider myself a
gentleman," Helmsley said staunchly. "And yes, I suppose I
am nice. I see nothing wrong in that."
"Except what one has sacrificed for nice." Warton
sipped his liquor in a sage manner.
"Sacrificed?" Helmsley's brow furrowed in
suspicion. "What have I sacrificed?"
"Passion." Warton's voice was smug.
Helmsley snorted. "Nonsense, I�"
"There's never been passion in any of your
relationships, old man," Oliver said, "beyond the obvious
sort of passion that is."
"That's ridiculous." Indignation rang in Helmsley's
voice. "I've experienced no end of passion. Why, I reek
with passion. Passion practically follows me down the
street. I've certainly never had any complaints about a
lack of passion." He threw back the rest of his
drink. "Lack of passion, hah!"
"Not that kind of passion," Oliver said. "We're
talking about passion of the spirit. Of the heart."
Warton nodded. "Love if you will."
Cavendish raised his glass. "Love."
"Love, Jonathon." Oliver eyed him. "Or passion.
Whatever you wish to call it. You are never carried away.
Never overwhelmed. Which is precisely why you and whatever
lady has caught your eye for a time can go your separate
ways without recrimination on either side."
"Or promises of undying affection on her part."
Warton waved blithely. "Even threats�"
"Or family members vowing to track you to the ends of
the earth to carve you like a goose if you so much
as . . ." Cavendish paused then winced. "Only me again?"
Warton eyed the other man with equal parts awe and
disbelief. "One does wonder where you find the time."
Cavendish grinned wickedly. "One makes the time."
"This is not the least bit amusing." Helmsley's tone
was mild. "I am as passionate as any of you, probably
more. I simply pour most of my passion into my prose."
Oliver bit back a grin. Helmsley fancied himself the
next Charles Dickens but he had yet to publish so much as
a single verse. His failure to do so was in many ways a
credit to his integrity. Helmsley's godfather was a well
respected publisher and his mother wrote novels of
adventure and romance. He certainly could have had his
work published but he preferred to submit his offerings
under an assumed name, wishing his writing to succeed on
its own merit rather than his family connections. Thus
far, his integrity remained intact although his pride was
sorely tested.
"Perhaps," Helmsley considered his friends
thoughtfully, "it is not my lack of passion that has
prompted this charge against me but my skill and, I might
add, success, in dealing with the fairer sex."
Oliver and Warton traded glances.
Cavendish snorted in disdain. "Just because you have
never been involved in a scan�"
"Nor shall I. I," Helmsley got to his feet and bowed
to the others with a dramatic flourish, "am a true
gentleman. That coupled with my charm and an innate
understanding of the nature of women is why, when a lady
and I decide to part company, it is without recrimination,
frenzied promises and," he glanced ruefully at
Cavendish, "threats of dismemberment. As for the question
of a perfect bride, I make no apologies for knowing
precisely what I want and knowing as well that when I find
it I shall waste no time in making the lady in question my
wife. And furthermore I admit that knowledge brings me a
great deal of satisfaction as does knowing," he flashed a
triumphant grin, "that it drives the rest of you mad."
"One day, old man, that confident nature of yours
will be your downfall." Warton's manner was ominous.
It wasn't that Helmsley was especially better behaved
than the rest of them it was just that he had never
actually been embroiled in a situation he could not talk
his way out of. That, coupled with the annoying tendency
of women to immediately forgive him for whatever
transgression had occurred because he was so blasted nice
and a fair amount of luck, had kept his public reputation,
if not completely spotless, at least eminently
respectable.
"Take for example, that rendezvous you have every
year at your family's Christmas Ball." Warton studied
Helmsley curiously. "Have you no concern as to the
consequences should someone uninvited stumble upon that
little assignation?"
Helmsley thought for a moment then shrugged and
grinned. "No."
It was common knowledge among the men that Helmsley
had a Christmas tradition of sorts�a private meeting with
whatever woman had captured his fancy at that particular
Christmas in the library at Effington House at some point
during the annual Effington Christmas Ball. Helmsley
claimed the encounters were relatively innocent consisting
merely of conversation, champagne and perhaps an embrace
and a kiss or two. Nothing, he insisted, that would
provoke a true scandal, no ruination of virgins or
writhing about on the library rug. Still, such claims were
made with a distinctly wicked twinkle in his eye and as
much as Helmsley prided himself on his honorable nature
and his position as a true gentleman no one�save the
ladies involved�was especially certain exactly what did
transpire in the Effington House library during the
Christmas Ball each and every Christmas Eve.
Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, heir to
the Duke of Roxborough had never been caught. That too
drove his friends mad.
"I say, just out of idle curiosity, mind you,"
Cavendish started in a casual manner, "who is the lady
this year?"
"Yes, Helmsley, do tell," Warton drawled. "Who is
this year's lucky miss?"
"I cannot believe you would ask such a thing. A
gentleman never reveals the name of a lady under such
circumstances." Helmsley shook his head in a mock mournful
manner. "Besides." An altogether ungentlemanly grin
flashed across his face. "There's more than a week until
the ball."
Oliver chuckled. "So there is no lady as of yet."
"Ah but there will be, old friend." Helmsley
paused. "Would you care to make a small wager on it?"
Oliver shook his head. "No."
"We might as well throw our money into the streets,"
Warton added wryly. "If nothing else, you do have our
confidence."
Helmsley laughed. "And on that note I shall bid you
all a good day. Christmas is but a week away and I have a
great deal to accomplish between then and now."
"Go then." Warton waved him off. "And take that
nauseating good cheer with you."
"I do wonder though," Warton studied Helmsley's
retreating figure thoughtfully, "exactly what would happen
if Helmsley did find a women who met all his
qualifications."
Helmsley laughed again, the friends made their
farewells and a moment later he was off, the faint whistle
of a Christmas carol lingering in his wake.
"A women with spirit to challenge his mind." Oliver
chuckled. "I daresay such a woman would have no end of
other qualities Helmsley might not find as enchanting."
"In my experience, spirited women tend to be stubborn
and single minded. And not overly concerned with
propriety. Not at all the type of woman who could be a
duchess. Of course, he might well enjoy that." Cavendish
thought for a moment. "Or." He grinned. "She would drive
him mad."
It was a delightful thought.
For a long moment, the trio was silent.
"It's really rather a pity . . ." Warton began.
"Precisely what I was thinking," Oliver said slowly.
Warton's brow furrowed. "Of course, no one in
particular comes to mind."
"No one he hasn't met." Oliver shook his
head. "Therefore it would have to be someone entirely
unknown."
"It would be the least we could do�"
"In the name of friendship and in the spirit of the
season--"
"What?" Confusion rang in Cavendish's voice. "What is
the least we can do in the name of friendship and the
spirit of the season?"
"Why give Helmsley precisely what he wants of
course." Oliver grinned. "The woman of his dreams."
"It's a brilliant idea." Warton heaved a resigned
sigh. "It's a shame we can't do something about it."
"I do have a cousin who should be arriving from Italy
any day now," Oliver said slowly.
"A cousin?" Warton brightened. "Is she the type of
woman to appeal to Helmsley?"
"I have no idea." Oliver thought for a moment. "My
mother corresponds with her regularly but we haven't seen
her for years. My recollection of her is of a somewhat
plump, freckled, red haired, quiet creature. Not an
especially attractive child but pleasant enough in nature
as I remember."
"Perhaps she's changed?" Cavendish said.
"Perhaps. She's five-and-twenty now�"
"And not yet married?" Cavendish asked.
"No. Indeed, her father's displeasure at her failure
to wed is the one item Mother has repeatedly mentioned to
in regards to my cousin's letters."
"Not wed at five-and-twenty?" Cavendish
winced. "That's a bad sign."
"I doubt she would serve our purposes." Oliver
shrugged. Fiona's letter announcing her imminent arrival
was brief and contained no sense of the young lady's
character. Or why she had decided to return to England
after nearly a decade. Of course, her father had died
several months ago and perhaps she simply wanted to at
last return home. "Besides, I would hesitate to offer up a
family member in this cause."
"Pity. I should love, just once, to see Helmsley head
over heels for a woman who is precisely what he claims he
wants. It would be the quintessential Christmas gift." A
slow grin grew on Warton's face. "And it would indeed
drive him mad."
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