The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

Chapter Eleven

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.