“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.”
The next morning came on a wash of gray clouds. Oliver awoke with the memory of the previous night in his head—like a dream, gauzy and insubstantial, the sort of thing that could not really have happened.
He sat up. He was in a spare room in his cousin’s house. He waited for his head to clear. And instead of dissipating into impossible nothingness, as dreams were wont to do, his recollection solidified, memory after memory coming atop each other. Jane’s smile. Her gown. The look on her face as she’d smiled and said, I am ablaze.
God. What was he going to do?
A knock sounded on his door. “Are you ready?”
It was his cousin. Yesterday, he’d foolishly agreed to accompany Sebastian on his morning ramble. Oliver rubbed his eyes, looked out the window. It was early yet, dawn still combing gray fingers of mist through the fields. From the back window, he could see fog stretching over the River Cam and the fields beyond.
“Hurry up, Oliver,” Sebastian called.
“It’s not fair,” Oliver responded. “Why is my cousin the only rake I know who likes getting up in the morning?”
The only sound that came in response was Sebastian’s laughter.
It took half an hour to get dressed and leave. The mist was beginning to burn off in the early sunlight, and a bird called somewhere. But for the first few minutes of the walk, it was too cold to do anything but tread briskly, rubbing gloved hands together, until the exercise brought its own warmth. They crossed the Cam, went up the backs of the colleges, and wandered out into the fields before Sebastian spoke.
“Are you going to finally tell me what you’re up to?”
“Here? I told you already. Bradenton—”
“Hang Bradenton,” Sebastian said. “I never liked him anyway. That’s not what I mean.”
Oliver quirked up his mouth, perplexed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)
Courtney Milan's books
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- The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)
- Talk Sweetly to Me (Brothers Sinister #4.5)
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