The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(14)

Oliver’s nostrils flared.

“It’s one I’m willing to grant him,” Bradenton said. “That’s what it means to be us, Hapford. We don’t just vote. We give power.”

Oliver leaned forward, wanting. Wanting so hard that he could almost taste victory in his mouth.

“And so if we’re going to be doing it,” Bradenton said, “we have to be sure of him.”

“We do?” Hapford echoed.

“We do. We need to know that he’s going to be part of the proper order. That he’ll know his place, and expect everyone to be in theirs.”

That taste of victory turned metallic. Oliver didn’t know his place. He’d spent too many nights seething at the way of things, too long wanting to rise in power, not just so that he might wield it, but so that he might wrest it from the hands of those who abused it. They’d spent years trying to teach him his place; he’d learned through long, hard experience that the only way forward was to keep quiet until he grew so tall they could no longer shove him down.

But all he said aloud was, “I should think I’ve proven my discretion over the years.”

Bradenton simply smiled. “Didn’t you hear me, Marshall? I don’t want your words. I have a job that needs doing, and I cannot do it myself.”

That sick sensation in Oliver’s stomach grew.

“You see, Hapford?” Bradenton said. “He wants. I have. The only way to make a deal is if I want something, too.” He leaned forward. “And what I want, Marshall, is Miss Fairfield.” There was no masking the venom in his voice. “I don’t want to see her or her annoying gowns. I don’t want to hear her thoughtless jibes.” Bradenton’s nostrils flared. “She’s the worst of the worst—a woman with no birth to speak of, who thinks that her hundred thousand pounds makes her my equal. A woman like her, running about, spouting her tripe… She does damage to us all, and I want her gone.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Oliver said sharply. “I don’t ruin women, no matter how annoying they are.”

Hapford was looking between them, his eyes worried. “Well said, Marshall.”

Bradenton seemed to come back into himself with one long, slow breath. The hatred in his eyes dimmed to mere amusement. “Oh, look at you two. Ruin her? Goodness, how sordid. I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to kiss her.”

“Then what are you asking?”

The marquess leaned back in his seat. “I want her to know her place. Humiliate her. Hurt her. Teach her her lesson. You know how it’s done; it took you long enough to learn yours.”

For a second, the room seemed to go hazy about Oliver. He’d learned his lesson, all right. He’d learned to keep quiet in public and seethe in private. He’d learned to keep his ambition hidden. To let men like Bradenton see only what he wished to see.

“Don’t answer, Marshall. Work it through your principles.” Bradenton smiled. “But in the end, we all know how this will work out. It’s one annoying girl against your entire future. Against the future of voting rights.”

“I say,” Hapford muttered.

“It’s not pretty,” Bradenton said. “And yes, Hapford, there are times when you might not like the details, messy as they are. But this is how things get done. If there’s something you can’t do, that must nonetheless be done…”

“But—”

“One day, your Miss Johnson will wish she’d cut the acquaintance far sooner. You’re doing her a favor, Hapford. You’re going to be her husband; it’s your duty to do what she needs before she knows it.”

Hapford lapsed into silence.

“And as for you, Marshall…” Bradenton looked at Oliver. “Take the time you need to salve your conscience. To tell yourself whatever it is you need to make this palatable. You’ll be doing her a favor, you know.”

No, Oliver thought. Not a favor. And I’m not doing it.

But that sick pit in his stomach felt differently.

Yes, it whispered. Yes, you are.

It usually took Jane one day, at most two, to crush a man’s interest in her. Any positive feelings her fortune engendered could be quickly overcome, so long as her first impression was sufficiently negative.

She had assumed that Mr. Oliver Marshall would prove no different.

She had assumed wrongly. The second time they encountered each other was on a street corner. She was going into the modiste for a second fitting with her companion; he was passing by, talking with a male friend.

He stopped on the street, tipping his hat to her. And that was when something awful happened.

She looked into his eyes. They were ice-blue and mobile. In the bright mid-morning, his spectacles made him look sharp and intelligent. He didn’t look over her head as if wishing her elsewhere. He didn’t curl his lip in disgust or nudge his companion as if to say, That’s her; she’s the one I was telling you about. He looked at her straight on, his eyes flickering over her as if he were wondering what lay beneath the blinding orange-and-green pattern of her day gown. And he smiled at her as if she deserved more than a few scraps of surface civility.

She wasn’t in heels any longer, so he had several inches on her now. His hair was a bright copper, and when he lifted his hat at her, the wind caught the ends. He seemed open and uncomplicated—so far from the dark, brooding gothic hero that filled the pages of Emily’s novels.