The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

God, she was in dire straits. You’re intelligent enough to remember two syllables was hardly a compliment, but she’d not received any praise at all in months. It left her feeling warm and utterly confused.

“I—I’m not sure—” She took a deep breath, tried to gather the shreds of her charade about her. “Was I mistaken then? I’m so sorry, Mr. Crom—I mean, Mr. Marshwell.”

“I am not going to lie to you,” Mr. Marshall said. “And might I suggest…”

She looked at him, looked up into those eyes like a winter storm. She looked up into a face that should have been ordinary, and Jane felt her whole body come to a standstill. Her heart ceased to beat. Her lungs seized up in her chest. Even her hair felt like a heavy burden. There was nothing but him and his foolish not-even-compliments.

“Might I suggest,” he finally said, “that you don’t need to lie to me, either.”

“I—”

He held up a finger. “Think about it,” he said. “Think carefully, Miss Fairfield. And once you’re done thinking… Well, the two of us might have a very productive conversation.”

She swallowed. “About fashion? You don’t appear to be the sort to care.”

He smiled, just a curl of his lip. “About a great many things. And yes, Miss Fairfield. About fashion. About the colors you wear, and what they are hiding.”

He touched the brim of his hat and gestured to his friend.

“Good day,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d not just uttered a horrendous threat, and he walked off.

“Good God,” she heard Mr. Malheur say as they walked away. “What was that all about?”

If Mr. Marshall answered, the response was swept away in the clop of horse hooves from a passing omnibus.

Chapter Four

The third time Jane met Mr. Marshall was even worse. She scarcely had a chance to speak with him at the Johnsons’ dinner, but she could sense his eyes on her all through the meal. He sat just down the long table from her, close enough to converse with. It didn’t matter what she said to him. It didn’t matter how she said it. He never gave her that freezing look that suggested that he’d been offended.

Instead, he looked…amused.

She felt wrong the entire evening—as if her shift was too small, as if she no longer fit in the armor of her clothing.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the library after, she found herself uncertain, constantly aware of him. Her responses were forced, not flowing. She felt like—what was it he had called her?—an anti-chameleon, burning brightly in the middle of the room.

Don’t marry me; I’m poison. She was poison. She was a blight. Her gown tonight was a wasteland of red-and-black silk, devoid of good taste and fringed with clattering beads. She loved it almost as much as she loved the band of polished silver on her arm. She’d perfected the art of holding her wrist just so—moving it back and forth so that it reflected light into a gentleman’s eyes. But she’d hit Mr. Marshall three times now, and he hadn’t so much as grunted.

God, what was she to do?

Mr. Marshall suggested that music might be a good way to spend the evening, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone would be looking at the performers, and they’d never ask her to join in. Jane wouldn’t have to be on. Being dreadful was such wearying work. The company adjourned to the music room.

Jane stayed in her seat, holding her breath, hoping nobody would notice she wasn’t moving.

Nobody did. They all filed out without glancing in her direction. Of course not; they didn’t want to see her.

She slumped in relief as the door closed behind the last man. Alone at last. Alone, with no need to pretend. She could breathe. She could stop thinking, stop examining every smile, stop worrying about why it was that Mr. Oliver Marshall kept glancing in her direction.

She set her fingers against her temples, wishing all the tension away, letting her eyes drift shut in relief.

Silence. Blessed, blessed silence.

“Thank God,” she said aloud.

“I rather think you should thank me.”

Her eyes jerked open, and Jane pushed herself to her feet. Her gown caught underfoot, the beads clicking together. She scarcely managed to catch herself from falling—and she swiveled, just in time to see Mr. Marshall. He was still sitting in his chair on the other side of the room. He watched her with a look of amusement, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair.

Oh, God. Hadn’t he left with the others? What had she said aloud?

“Mr. Cromwell!” she blurted out. “I thought you had gone with everyone.”

His fingers paused in the middle of a tap. Those blue eyes of his met hers. The dim light made his spectacles into a shield, reflecting her own image back at her.

“There’s no need to pretend.” He spoke as if he were a mesmerist attempting to send her into a trance. “And you have no cause for worry.”