The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

He didn’t want her to meet anyone. He didn’t want anyone to have her but himself. But… He hadn’t asked her here to dally with her, no matter how dazzled he felt at the moment.

“I’m leaving,” he heard himself say. “Parliament is sitting in less than two weeks, and there’s a great deal left to do. I must get back to London.”

Her eyes grew wide. “I see.”

There was nobody else about, and so he did what he’d wanted to do for an age. He turned to her, and then ever so slowly, reached out and set his hands on her sides and drew her to him.

“I see,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “I wish I didn’t see at all.”

With his hands at her waist, their bodies touching ever so slightly, he could feel her breath. Her chest rose, brushing his; a few moments later, her shoulders fell, and that point of contact diminished. A puff of warm air against his collar marked her exhalation.

“I haven’t been counting,” she said quietly.

It seemed an intimate confession, whispered in that low tone of voice. He didn’t say anything in response. He leaned down until his lips brushed her forehead. It wasn’t a kiss he gave her. Not a kiss, but something close.

“I don’t know when I ceased counting days,” she said. “When I did not, at the time when night came, look up at the ceiling and say, ‘there’s another one down; tomorrow will be four hundred and whatever it is. I’ll have to count once again.’”

Another inhalation; another brush of their bodies. And this time, that gap between them didn’t disappear when she exhaled. It took Oliver a moment to realize it was because he’d pulled her closer.

“It was sometime after you arrived,” she continued. “That was when I stopped dreading each coming day.”

“Jane.” He made little circles with his thumb against her waist, leaning in to her.

She smelled of lavender. Of comfort. Of home, truth be told, and he didn’t dare find his home in her.

“I need to stay with my sister for a little over a year.” She set her own hand on his arm, and then gradually, ever so slowly, slid her hand down his sleeve. “After that…maybe we might see one another again.”

It was not quite a question. He felt every one of her breaths, rising and falling against his chest. So he could also tell that she had stopped breathing. That the warm breeze of her exhalation had ceased, that her body tensed against his chest.

Seeing her again? That was a euphemism. His own want reached out, red and demanding. He didn’t just want to see her. He wanted her in his bed. She wouldn’t hold back, not an inch. She was clever and curious and passionate, and he suspected that if he ever had her under him… God, he couldn’t think of that. Not now, not with her so close.

He wanted more than that, though. He wanted to argue with her about politics, to hash through every bill, every proposed amendment with her. He wanted to sit with her of an evening, when they were both tired of talking. He wanted her, everything about her.

Everything except… Her.

Because no matter what she might mean to him when they were alone, he’d seen the other women tonight—quiet wives who held back, silently goggling at Jane as if she were some strange sort of beetle crawling across the table. She was Jane of the too-bright gowns. Jane of the dubious reputation. Jane, too blunt, too outspoken. Too much a bastard, just like him.

She was the exact opposite of what he needed in a wife. So why couldn’t he let go?

“Impossible girl,” he breathed.

“Don’t call me that. Tonight, everything is possible.”

“That’s what I meant. You’re a doer of impossible things. I need a wife who will stick to the possible.”

Still her eyes were bright. “In a year…”

“Jane,” he said, “in a year I might be married.”

He’d been waiting for her to take a breath, but the one she drew in nearly killed him. She made a choked sound in the back of her throat—more of a gasp than an inhalation.

“If the reform bill passes,” he said baldly, “they’ll elect another Parliament. That will be my chance. My chance to run, my chance to obtain a seat. They’ll expect me to marry if I do.”

“I see.” She didn’t say anything for a while, and Oliver went back to counting her breaths—too fast, too harsh, growing more ragged as time slipped on.

“You saw what they were like tonight,” he said. “The women who marry politicians. Part of me wants to ask you to become one of them, but how could I? Ask you to mute the best of you? To make yourself into a drab little wren, when you’ve become a phoenix?” He dropped his voice. “I could never forgive myself if I asked you to extinguish your fire.”

“I see,” she repeated. This time, she sounded hoarse. She pulled her hands from his coat and stepped away. He couldn’t see her face in the dim light, but he could see her wiping at her eyes.

He fished in his pockets and came out with a handkerchief.

“Don’t tell me to be reasonable,” she said, taking it from him. There was a hint of anger in her voice. “Don’t tell me not to cry.”