manner. She glanced from one man to the other. Certainly, at this point if she couldn’t trust them she couldn’t trust anyone at all. Besides, she was probably just being silly. “Very well.”
“Excellent.” Oliver beamed. He opened the door and practically pushed her into the hall, closing the door behind her. Apparently she wasn’t the only one a bit undone by her situation.
Fiona found a passing maid and sent her to fetch the portfolio. She turned to go back into the parlor, then decided instead to wait by the stairs. Besides, she could use a moment to herself. Whatever Oliver had in mind, she hoped it was a good idea. No, a lucrative idea. She certainly needed one. It was all Jonathon’s fault. If he was a man of his word…
No. She sank down on a bench by the stairway. As much as she wanted to, she really couldn’t blame him for this. It was entirely her own fault. She should have married long ago. She’d had more than a few proposals through the years. And several of them quite acceptable. Men who were handsome and charming and wealthy. She would have done well to have wed any of them, but she’d just never felt the kind of affection that she’d wanted to feel for the man she would spend the rest of her days with. She’d liked them, most of them, but she’d never found anyone who made her heart leap and her toes tingle and all those things that she’d heard came along with love.
The closest she’d ever come to anything approaching those sorts of feelings was the brief infatuation she’d had at the tender age of seventeen with Jonathon Effington, a man she’d never even spoken to at the time. Now that she had, now that she’d been in his arms, it was rather shocking to realize he might well be the one man for her. Certainly there was something wonderful in the pit of her stomach and even perhaps in her heart when he’d kissed her. Not that it mattered. As much as she thought she could easily fall in love with him and thought as well, given the look in his eye, he could fall in love with her, there was simply not enough time.
And indeed, wasn’t time at the very heart of her problem? Hadn’t she always thought there would be enough time to meet the right man? To fall in love? To marry? But there was always another grand ball, another spring outing, another flirtation, another day or week or month planned, and she’d been having entirely too much fun to worry about the distant future.
Without warning it had seemed nineteen had turned to two-and-twenty, and two-and-twenty had turned to five-and-twenty. And her father had died and had left in his wake a means to force her to do what he’d never forced her to do when he’d been alive. Because he too had believed in love. And love, for his daughter, was precisely why he had made the arrangements that he had. Not that she didn’t intend to do everything possible to thwart those arrangements. Regardless of whatever scheme Oliver had in mind, her only real options were to marry a man she had no desire to wed or to force marriage to a man who had no wish to marry her. As dreadful as it sounded, it would be better to take her chances with Whatshisname. At least he was probably willing to marry. Of course, she had no intention of letting Jonathon know that yet. Aside from her anger, she’d been surprisingly disappointed. Perhaps even hurt. She shouldn’t have been, of course, it made no sense at all. But nothing about her life at the moment made a great deal of sense. And the very least Jonathon deserved for reneging on his agreement was uncertainty about his own fate for as long as possible. The maid appeared with her drawings and Fiona returned to the parlor. Oliver and Jonathon were engaged in an earnest discussion, probably about her, each with glass in hand. She would wager it wasn’t sherry. They cast her similar guilty looks.
“Let’s see these, then, shall we?” Oliver said in an all-too-jovial manner.
“I am looking forward to it.”
“Excellent.” Oliver beamed. He opened the door and practically pushed her into the hall, closing the door behind her. Apparently she wasn’t the only one a bit undone by her situation.
Fiona found a passing maid and sent her to fetch the portfolio. She turned to go back into the parlor, then decided instead to wait by the stairs. Besides, she could use a moment to herself. Whatever Oliver had in mind, she hoped it was a good idea. No, a lucrative idea. She certainly needed one. It was all Jonathon’s fault. If he was a man of his word…
No. She sank down on a bench by the stairway. As much as she wanted to, she really couldn’t blame him for this. It was entirely her own fault. She should have married long ago. She’d had more than a few proposals through the years. And several of them quite acceptable. Men who were handsome and charming and wealthy. She would have done well to have wed any of them, but she’d just never felt the kind of affection that she’d wanted to feel for the man she would spend the rest of her days with. She’d liked them, most of them, but she’d never found anyone who made her heart leap and her toes tingle and all those things that she’d heard came along with love.
The closest she’d ever come to anything approaching those sorts of feelings was the brief infatuation she’d had at the tender age of seventeen with Jonathon Effington, a man she’d never even spoken to at the time. Now that she had, now that she’d been in his arms, it was rather shocking to realize he might well be the one man for her. Certainly there was something wonderful in the pit of her stomach and even perhaps in her heart when he’d kissed her. Not that it mattered. As much as she thought she could easily fall in love with him and thought as well, given the look in his eye, he could fall in love with her, there was simply not enough time.
And indeed, wasn’t time at the very heart of her problem? Hadn’t she always thought there would be enough time to meet the right man? To fall in love? To marry? But there was always another grand ball, another spring outing, another flirtation, another day or week or month planned, and she’d been having entirely too much fun to worry about the distant future.
Without warning it had seemed nineteen had turned to two-and-twenty, and two-and-twenty had turned to five-and-twenty. And her father had died and had left in his wake a means to force her to do what he’d never forced her to do when he’d been alive. Because he too had believed in love. And love, for his daughter, was precisely why he had made the arrangements that he had. Not that she didn’t intend to do everything possible to thwart those arrangements. Regardless of whatever scheme Oliver had in mind, her only real options were to marry a man she had no desire to wed or to force marriage to a man who had no wish to marry her. As dreadful as it sounded, it would be better to take her chances with Whatshisname. At least he was probably willing to marry. Of course, she had no intention of letting Jonathon know that yet. Aside from her anger, she’d been surprisingly disappointed. Perhaps even hurt. She shouldn’t have been, of course, it made no sense at all. But nothing about her life at the moment made a great deal of sense. And the very least Jonathon deserved for reneging on his agreement was uncertainty about his own fate for as long as possible. The maid appeared with her drawings and Fiona returned to the parlor. Oliver and Jonathon were engaged in an earnest discussion, probably about her, each with glass in hand. She would wager it wasn’t sherry. They cast her similar guilty looks.
“Let’s see these, then, shall we?” Oliver said in an all-too-jovial manner.
“I am looking forward to it.”
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