Renee Ryan - The Marriage Agreement

“How do you tell them apart?” he wondered aloud.

“Years of practice.” Fanny sighed again, then pointedly lifted her attention away from the Ferguson girls and to her own family. “My brothers are especially handsome this evening, their wives beyond beautiful. And Callie, oh, how she shines tonight. She’s practically glowing.”

Jonathon didn’t disagree. “Your siblings seem happy.”

“Marriage suits them.” Fanny smiled. “Garrett once told me that when Mitchells fall in love they fall fast, hard and for keeps.”

Emotion flashed in her eyes as she spoke. For a moment, she seemed very far away and very, very sad. As Jonathon watched Fanny, while she watched her siblings, a pang of remorse shot through him.

Was he making the correct decision about marriage? With the right woman, perhaps he could be a good husband. Perhaps, unlike his father and half brother, he wouldn’t let down his wife. Perhaps the risk was worth the reward.

Another louder, shriller giggle rent the air.

“Poor Philomena,” Fanny said, shaking her head. “To have such sisters.”

Jonathon opened his mouth to agree when an older couple twirled past them. He studied the pair, the woman in particular. Fanny’s resemblance to her mother was uncanny. They had the same tilt to their beautiful eyes, the same classic features, the same regal bearing.

“Your mother is quite lovely.”

Fanny’s eyes grew misty. “I’m so relieved to see her breathing easily.”

He reached down to take Fanny’s hand, and laced their fingers together. The connection was light, and was meant to offer her comfort. Yet it was Jonathon who experienced a moment of peace, of rightness.

This woman meant much to him, too much. He never wanted to lose her.

However, lose her he would.

Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but one day, when some wise man offered her marriage, for all the right reasons.

As much as it would pain Jonathon to watch her fall in love with another man, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Thankfully, the prospect of her leaving him—or rather, the hotel—was a problem for another day.

Tonight, Fanny was all his.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

She returned the gesture, then angled her head to peer into his eyes. A small, secretive smile slid along her lips. His throat seized on a breath. Fanny Mitchell was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

For the rest of the evening, he promised himself, he would avoid thinking of the future, forget memories of the past. All that mattered was this moment. This night.

This woman.

“Fanny, would you do me the honor of—”

Her sharp intake of air cut off the rest of his request.

He attempted to search her gaze for the cause of her distress, but she was no longer looking at him, rather at a spot just over his right shoulder.

A cold, deadening sensation filled his lungs.

Jonathon knew who stood behind him.

His father. He felt the man’s presence in his gut, in the kick of antagonism that hit Jonathon square in the heart.

His grip on Fanny’s hand tightened. He was probably squeezing a bit too hard. He couldn’t help himself. She was his only lifeline in a sea of uncertain emotion.

Let her go , he told himself. Let. Her. Go.

He couldn’t make his fingers cooperate, couldn’t seem to distance himself from her.

Let her go .

Fanny was the one who pulled her hand free. The absence of their physical connection was like a punch, the pain that sharp and unexpected.

Instead of stepping away, she moved closer and secured her fingers around his arm. Her eyes filled with understanding and something even more disturbing. Sympathy.

He didn’t want her sympathy. Anything but that .

He began to step away from her, to distance himself from what he saw in her eyes. She tightened her grip and smiled sweetly. “You know, Jonathon, it’s long past time we took a turn around the dance floor.”

Her voice came at him as if from a great distance, sounding tinny in his ears, waking a favorite memory he’d tucked deep in the back of his mind. Another evening. Another one of Mrs. Singletary’s charity balls.

Fanny had stood at the edge of a similar dance floor, on the very night of her return from Chicago. Gossip had erupted the moment she’d stepped into the room. Speculation about her reasons for leaving town had been voiced in barely concealed whispers.

She’d held firm under the censure, alone, her posture unmoving, chin lifted in defiance, as courageous as a warrior. She’d been magnificent. Beautiful. Yet Jonathon had seen past the false bravado. He’d seen the nerves and vulnerability living beneath the calm facade.

He’d asked her to dance.

Later, when the waltz had come to an end, she’d thanked him for rescuing her from an uncomfortable moment.

Now she was rescuing him .

It seemed somehow fitting.

“I’d like nothing more than to dance with you, Fanny.”

Taking charge of the moment, he directed her onto the floor and then pulled her into his arms.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.