The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

“I can…” No. He couldn’t exonerate himself.

“Explain?” she asked. “You don’t need to explain. You already have. I am the last woman in the world you want to marry. You’re upset because of your aunt. Why would you introduce me to your family? You haven’t said anything I don’t already know.”

He took a step forward. “It’s not that.”

“Oh?” There was just enough of a dubious quality in her voice.

“It is that,” he said, “But it’s so much more. I love you, Jane.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“I love you. And if I let you share in this—if I bring you in at this moment—I don’t know how I could ever let you go. You’d be a part of me. A part of my family.”

She already was. There was some part of him that felt as if he were still on a dark forest road with her. With nobody else around—just the two of them against the rest of the world.

She had not said anything yet.

“I want that,” he said. “It hurts how much I want that. Come with me, Jane. Not as my lover, but as my fiancée.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I know there will be difficulties, but we can work them out. Minnie can sponsor you; she could get the Dowager Duchess of Clermont to train you. And—”

“Train me?” Jane said. “What am I, a horse?”

Oliver winced. “No. Of course not. But a few lessons…”

“A few lessons on what?” Jane’s chin came up, but her lips trembled. “On how to act, how to behave, how to dress. Is that what you mean?”

He couldn’t say anything.

“Tell me, Oliver, how long do you think it will take me to learn to hold my tongue? To talk quietly? To dress as everyone else does?”

“I—Jane…”

“If you want a wren, marry one. Don’t ask me.”

He shut his eyes. “I know. I know. It’s such a horrid thing to ask. But…” He paused, trying to regroup. Trying to explain. “I’ve made a career of keeping quiet. Someone from my background has to be particularly careful. My brother can advocate whatever he wishes; I have to be cautious. To make sure that when people think of me, they think of a reasonable man. Someone who is just like them. Someone who…”

“Someone who doesn’t have an awful wife,” Jane said. Her voice was thick.

“Yes,” he whispered. And then seeing that flash in her eyes, he shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. It’s just what everyone else would think.”

She stood up. “It’s just as well, because I…” She stopped, biting her lip, and then shook her head. “No, never mind. You’ve just been told that your aunt has passed away. I don’t need to add to your burdens.”

“Just say it,” he snapped, “and spare me your pity.”

Her chin rose. “It’s just as well you don’t want an awful wife,” she told him, “because I had hoped for a husband with a little courage.”

Oh, that hurt. He wasn’t choosing between acceptance and Jane, between a ballroom filled with happy friendship and that dark road alone with Jane. He was choosing between a dark, lonely road with her, and one without her.

“You didn’t go to Eton,” he said to her. “You didn’t go to Cambridge. You didn’t spend years slowly fashioning yourself into the kind of person who could fit in and thus make a difference. Don’t tell me this doesn’t take courage. Don’t tell me that.” His voice rose with every word. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t courage that brought me back again and again, after every attempt to toss me out. Being like me takes courage, damn it.”

She looked at him. It felt as if she looked through him. “Really, Oliver?” One hand went to her hip. “It took courage to walk away from Clemons and let the other boys do what they did? It took courage to consider Bradenton’s offer to humiliate me? My. Courage isn’t what it used to be.”

Those words felt like spears in his stomach. The worst part was, though, he could see her hands, shaking. Her eyes, wide and full of hurt. As badly as she’d struck out at him, he’d hurt her that much, too. And he couldn’t even say that he hadn’t meant it.

“I thought so,” she said, turning away from him. “I’ll send someone over for the rest of my things.” She swept past him.

He wanted to reach for her—to tell her not to leave. To take hold of her arm as she walked past. To do anything at all.

He didn’t. She walked out and he didn’t stop her. He let that moment slip by—the last moment he had to apologize and save it all—and he wasn’t sure if it was courage or cowardice.

Freddy’s funeral was a quiet affair. There weren’t many people who had known Oliver’s aunt—just the boy who delivered her groceries, a few ladies who had visited her, and her family.