The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

“How…useful,” Oliver said. “I have to go to London, too.”


But he’d been hoping they would have to go somewhere else. Oliver had duties waiting for him there. He shut his eyes and imagined those duties—the neglected appointments, the newspaper column that he might write about the latest proposed amendments—and then pushed them aside. “But we’re not there yet,” he said. “We’re here. And now.”

“I had noticed,” Jane whispered. “What should we do about it?”

He pulled her close. “This,” he said. And he turned her face to his and kissed her.

“I do not know, Anjan.”

The woman who sat on the other side of the table from Emily wore a purple and gold silk sari draped about her. She had Anjan’s eyes, dark, ringed with impossibly long eyelashes. Mrs. Bhattacharya’s face was unwrinkled except for the frown that she leveled at Emily. Her arms were folded, and Emily tried not to twitch under her perusal.

Anjan’s mother sniffed and looked at her son. “Is something wrong with her? She looks sickly.”

“She has not been outside much.” Anjan seemed entirely calm.

A feeling Emily did not share. Her stomach danced, and it took all her effort to keep herself still.

Mrs. Bhattacharya simply shook her head. “And what will your father say when I tell him that your bride-to-be has fits? We only want the best for you.” She frowned at Emily. “Could you not find some other girl? A nice girl from home, maybe…”

“I suppose that is possible,” Anjan said politely. “But Miss Emily’s father is a barrister, and her uncle is a tutor in law. She can introduce me to people besides just Lirington’s parents. It’s an advantageous match in that regard.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya narrowed her eyes at her son. “Of course you try to convince me that way. You are just being sensible.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice as she spoke. “You do not care that she is pretty. You did not write to me that you could talk to her of everything. It has nothing to do with any of that, does it?”

Anjan’s lips twitched into a real smile. “Of course,” he said dryly. “What could be more pragmatic?”

She gave him a look. “I am not stupid, Anjan.”

“You know me too well. But I’ve already told you I’m in love with her. If I want to someday have influence on the English, I need someone who understands them. Someone who does that, and yet doesn’t wish me to forget who I am, too.”

“Forget?”

“Practically everyone in England eats meat and drinks alcohol,” Emily said. “Imagine your son going to a gathering and being served a roast. Who would you talk to beforehand to make sure that didn’t happen? Who would make sure there was lemonade in his glass instead of white wine? Taking care of such arrangements is a wife’s work.” She glanced over at Anjan. “I do not think you son would ever forget, of course, but I could help smooth the way.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya frowned, considering this.

“And of course we’re hiring an Indian cook.”

“Hmph.” Anjan’s mother looked somewhat mollified. But when she realized that her expression had softened, she glared at Emily with renewed intent. “Meals are meals. And India? You want him to forget about India? To never come home, never have his children know where they are from?”

“No,” Emily replied. “Of course not. We’ll visit as often as we can.”

“I see. Who is this girl, Anjan, who wants everything you want? I am not sure I believe her.”

“But I don’t want everything Anjan wants,” Emily said. “He explained to me how it works. I want everything you want.”

Silence met this at first. Then Mrs. Bhattacharya tilted her head and looked at Emily. “You do?”

“Of course I do. I know nothing about being married to Indians, raising Indian children. Who else would I ask for advice?”

Mrs. Bhattacharya raised one eyebrow and turned to her son. “You told her to say that.”

Anjan coughed into his hand. “I promise, Ma, I didn’t. I did tell her that you were in charge, but she figured the rest of it out herself.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya shook her head, but her lip twitched, too—an expression of suppressed humor that reminded Emily of her son. “Well, at least she knows how to go on.”

Anjan smiled at Emily, and she found herself smiling back. Getting lost in his expression…

His mother rapped the table smartly. “Did I say you could smile at each other like that? I promised my husband I would not go easy on you. There are still seventeen items on my list. We are by no means finished.”

The list ranged from questions of how Emily felt about hosting family members who came to sit for the civil service examination, children, religion, children again, Emily’s fits and her family’s history, children…

“Do you love him?” Mrs. Bhattacharya finally asked.

“Yes,” Emily said. “In fact—”

“No need to convince me,” the other woman interrupted. “Of course you do. Who couldn’t?”