The Heiress Effect (22 page)

Just those few words, but she could see the
grim set of his jaw.

He shook his head and looked away. “I knew
people,” he finally said. He gave himself a shake, a firm, hard
shake, and those dark eyes looked up at her.

“Which side did your brother fight on?” she
asked slowly.

He made an annoyed noise. “I’m here. You have
to ask?”

She shook her head.

“It started because the East India Company
issued rifle cartridges to the sepoys that had been greased with
animal fat. Pork fat, beef fat; whatever they had to hand. Since
part of the training required the soldiers to put the cartridge in
their mouth…” His hand clenched.

They had talked about this enough that Emily
understood what that would mean. She swallowed.

“The English didn’t understand that they were
asking for a desecration. They didn’t know why everyone became so
furious when the news came out.” He looked up at her. “They didn’t
understand why the fighting grew so bad, spreading from province to
province. And when they counted the dead, they didn’t include our
counts. So no, Miss Fairfield. Napoleon is not so bad.”

She held her breath. “I take it,” Emily
finally said, “that you are in favor of home rule for India, if not
outright independence.”

He looked so calm, not one muscle in his body
twitching. And yet there was that sadness in his eyes. She wanted
to wipe it away.

“No. Were you not listening to what I said
before? I do not dare favor such a thing.”

She swallowed.

“My family is well-to-do,” he said. “It is
complicated to explain if you don’t know the system. My eldest
brother was an officer in the Indian forces. My second brother is a
magistrate. My father is in the civil service, a position of
responsibility directly under the commissioner of railways. I am
here precisely because my family accepts British rule. How could I
talk of rebellion? What would happen to them?”

She shook her head wordlessly.

“Even if they were not, my brother told me
about the Sepoy Mutiny. How it started. How it ended. Indian
fighting Indian for the British. What do we have to gain?” There
was a bitterness in his voice. “So no, I do not dream of home rule.
I dream of the things I can achieve, not the ones that are outside
my grasp.”

“But—”

“If I dreamed of home rule, I could
accomplish nothing.” His breath came faster. “I’d be too radical to
stomach, and in the end it would all come out to the same thing.
Violence all over again, and to what point?”

She tried to imagine not being able to even
dream of freedom.

He turned away from her. “So don’t talk to me
about Napoleon. You cannot possibly understand what he is
like.”

For all that Emily had only ventured a few
miles from her uncle’s house, she felt her horizons crumbling, as
if she’d been pulled inside out. God, how blind she had been.

“This is not a subject for polite
conversation.” His tone had evened out. “You have my
apologies.”

That fierceness had left his eyes. He smiled
evenly, as if nothing had happened. It was wrong, all wrong. A mask
of pleasantry.

“No,” she said passionately. “No.
Never
apologize for that. Never. I don’t know what you dare
to do anywhere else in the world, but with me…” She wasn’t even
sure why she was so upset. “This is my escape,” she finally said.
“The one thing I do that makes the rest of the day worthwhile. It
should be yours, too.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He
just looked at her, his emotions hidden behind a mask. “I should
tell you that you shouldn’t defy your uncle,” he finally said.

“If there were no civil service, no danger of
violence… Tell me, Mr. Bhattacharya, what flag would you
hoist?”

He inhaled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea
to think about that. I think you are trying to change the
subject.”

“
I
think,” Emily said, “something
quite different. Did you really believe me when I said my family
was that unconventional? To allow us to wander about for days on
end without so much as an introduction?”

“I…” His lips twitched. “Well…”

“You knew. You might not have wanted to know,
but you
knew.
If you don’t think I ought to be sneaking out,
why are you here?”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then, ever so slowly, he reached out and took her hand. Not to
guide it to his arm or to steady her over rough footing. He took
her hand and caressed it with his thumb, until her fingers unfurled
in his. And then—still looking in her eyes—he bowed and kissed her
palm.

And that was when Emily realized that without
intending it, she’d swum into deep waters.

Temptation, Oliver told himself, was best
conquered by avoidance. If one didn’t want to indulge in too many
sweets, it was best not to buy them. If one didn’t want to partake
of alcohol, one ought not visit a pub. And if one wanted to keep
from humiliating a lady…

Well, Oliver figured it was best to keep his
distance. He’d managed the trick for three days, and he hoped that
tonight’s dinner would prove no different.

Her gowns didn’t improve. There had been the
blue and gold affair, perfectly acceptable in coloration, but
printed in a pattern that shimmered and pulsed, seeming to grow and
shrink before his eyes until Oliver had to look away. There was the
Red Gown of Hellfire—as Whitting had called it—moiré silk that did,
in fact, call to mind flame.

And then there was the gown she wore
tonight.

Miss Fairfield had a gift for taking a
beautiful concept and then marring it beyond all recognition.
Oliver had seen lovely gowns made of gauze over satin. White gauze
and blue satin made for an ethereal combination. Red gauze and
white satin glittered pinkly in lamplight. Even black satin—and the
satin of her gown was a deep black—topped by gold would have been
lovely. If only she had stopped with the gold gauze. Of course she
hadn’t. Blue, red, white, green, purple—all those layers made up
her flaring skirt of gauzes, running together in garish, impossible
colors.

Impossible
was the right word. Because
she’d attracted the same gawking derision that she always drew.
Like everyone else, Oliver could not look away. But unlike everyone
else, he suspected he had an entirely different reason.

He liked her. More than liked her, if he were
honest. If he let himself, his mind would stray idly to the pins in
her hair, little enameled flowers in every garish color of the
rainbow dangling from gold chains. He’d find himself thinking idly
about taking them out, of sliding his hands through the soft silk
of her hair, of stealing that kiss he’d almost taken.

Temptation, he reminded himself, was best
conquered by avoidance.

She raised her head and caught him looking.
And then—before he could turn away from her—she smiled and gave him
a wink. He felt it all the way down his spine. His groin contracted
in answer.

He should have known that wouldn’t be the end
of it.

She found him a few hours later. “Mr.
Cromwell,” she said, a glint of humor in her eyes.

“Miss Fairchild,” he heard himself reply, but
even that hint of playfulness was too much. She smiled. He’d joked
once that he feared her gown might be contagious, but it was her
smile that was catching.

It caught him now. He felt hooked by it, no
desire to do anything except smile back at her.

“Miss Fairfield,” he said in a low voice, “I
had thought us in agreement. We aren’t doing this. It’s
impossible.”

“Agreement?” she whispered back. “
You
said. I held my tongue. That is not agreement.”

He hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Then I shall remedy that immediately. Jane,
we mustn’t do this. We mustn’t be…friends.”

Friends. That hadn’t been
friendship
that had made him touch her cheek the last time they’d been alone
together. Worse than that. He was a little susceptible to her, to
be sure, but he knew the way she looked at him. The way she smiled
when she saw him. She was vulnerable, and he could remember her
saying,
I am too desperate to be angry.

“Something has changed.” She lifted her chin
and looked him in the eyes. “Everything has changed.” She moved her
head as she spoke, and the lamplight sparkled off the multihued
flowers in her hair.

“Oh?” he heard himself say.

She smiled, a fierce, hot smile. One that
seemed to set something burning deep inside him in response. She
leaned in. “If you think that I’m going to let Bradenton win,
you’re vastly mistaken.”

“I have no intention of letting him
win,”
Oliver said stiffly. “But—”

“Do you think you’re squabbling with him over
me?” She smiled more brightly. “Oh, no, Mr. Marshall. You’re wrong.
I’m
squabbling with
him
over
you.”

He swallowed.

“You think me dry tinder,” Jane said,
“vulnerable to the slightest spark. You’re afraid to send me up in
flames because you think that once I am burnt out, there will be
nothing left but desolation.”

She looked up at him as if daring him to
contradict her. He couldn’t. He’d thought something very much like
that just a moment ago. But the look on her face was brighter than
any he’d ever seen, and he felt something coil in him in
anticipation.

“I have something to tell you,” she
whispered, and he leaned in to hear her secret. “I am not a blight.
I am not a pestilence. And I refuse to be a piece sacrificed for
the greater glory of your game.”

She wasn’t touching him. So why did it seem
as if she was? He could almost feel the phantom pressure of her
hand against his chest, the heat of her breath on his lips. He
could almost taste the scent of her, that light twist of lavender.
He felt as if she’d shoved him off-center, and he couldn’t quite
find his balance.

“You are not any of those things,” he said.
“What are you, then?”

“I am ablaze,” she told him. And then she
smiled and gave him a curtsy. She swirled on her heel, leaving him
staring after her.

Her words shouldn’t have made any sense, but
as she turned, the many-colored gauzes of her overskirts fluttered
behind her in the lamplight. It put him in mind of a prism,
grabbing hold of the light and splitting it into all the colors of
the rainbow. She was…ablaze.

He watched her go, and all his worries and
second thoughts about temptation went up in flame. With that, he
wasn’t just giving into temptation; he was inviting it over for
tea.

Yes,
some deep part of him thought.
That’s done it.

What it was that had been done, he didn’t
know. He could make no sense of it, so he watched her for the rest
of the evening, trying to figure out what had just transpired. Or
maybe… Maybe he just watched her.

He watched her laugh in the corner with the
Johnson twins. He watched her talking to the other men, who seemed
not to have noticed her transformation to phoenix. He even watched
her talking to Bradenton, smiling while the man ground his
teeth.

The marquess looked up from her and saw
Oliver from across the room. The expression in his eyes spoke with
a cold, whispering intent.

Oliver gave him no response.

Bradenton found him a few moments later. “In
nine days,” he said. “I’m having guests over. Canterly, Ellisford,
Carleton—you recognize the names, I take it. My friends in
Parliament will be here. I’ll be introducing Hapford to them.”

Bradenton looked across the room to the place
where Jane stood. Oliver could hear her laugh all the way over
here.

“Maybe once I wanted you to prove something
about yourself.” His gaze hardened. “Maybe I still do. But mostly,
I just want to see her pulled down.” He shook his head, turning
back to Oliver. “Do it, Marshall. If you do it before everyone
leaves, I’ll bring them around.”

Oliver’s future. This vote. Everything he’d
ever dreamed off, offered up to him so easily, yet at such a
price.

Weighed against that was the image of Jane.
Of her bright, brilliant smile. God, he felt sick.

I am ablaze.

Fire washed away sickness. Oliver didn’t
smile. He didn’t look Bradenton in the eye. He simply shrugged.
“Nine days, then. If that’s what I have.”