Let It Be Love Read Free

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.”
    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.
    “I do wonder, though”—Warton studied Helmsley’s retreating figure thoughtfully—“exactly what would happen if Helmsley did find a woman who met all his qualifications.”
    “A woman 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 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.”
    One
    Six days later…
    “What am I to do, Oliver?” Miss Fiona Fairchild paced the width of her cousin’s parlor and ignored the amused, or perhaps bemused, expression on his face.
    Fiona and her