The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(19)

Without his glasses, she had imagined that he’d be bleary-eyed, unable to see her. But whatever the fault in his vision, his eyes fixed on hers, sharp as ever, blue as the sky.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said. “Logically, if you’re pretending to this…whatever it is that you’re trying to avoid is awful.”

She wanted to speak, wanted to say something, to say anything. But all that came out was a little choke, deep in her throat—something guttural and painful, something she hadn’t even known was lodged inside her.

So this was why she’d felt that frisson. It wasn’t his eyes. It wasn’t his height. It wasn’t even his shoulders—and she absolutely was not going to think of his shoulders. It was simply that he knew what it was like to stand outside everyone else. He knew, and she hadn’t even had to tell him.

“That’s the truth?” she finally managed to say. “That is the truth you promised me?” It had been more than anyone had given her.

He tilted his head and replaced his spectacles.

“It’s ninety-five percent of it,” he finally said.

He inclined his head to her, and then—before she could think of anything to say—he tapped his forehead in a sort of salute and left her alone.

It was the missing five percent of the truth that rankled Oliver. The air on the verandah was cold against his cheeks; behind him, he could hear the sounds of a piano duet played by the inimitable Johnson sisters.

Nobody had said anything when he’d wandered from the music room out onto the verandah, cold as it was.

They really didn’t care about him, and he returned the favor as best as he could.

He didn’t want to take Bradenton up on his offer. He’d told himself that he’d find another way to convince the man. Maybe that was why he’d talked to Miss Fairfield the way he had—to prove he wouldn’t do it.

But he hadn’t said no the other night when Bradenton asked.

And Oliver had greeted her on the streets in part because of Bradenton’s suggestion. Some part of him—some sick part—had wondered how it might be done. He thought of her eyes just a bit ago, so wide. Her mouth parted ever so slightly, as if to whisper her agreement. Her hands wringing together. He’d hit on the key to Miss Fairfield and he knew it.

Bradenton was right; he could break her. He knew exactly how it was done.

It was that memory—one that made him break out in an uneasy sweat—that had brought him out into the cold. It was possible to break someone who was alone. It was easy to break someone if you gave them a support, allowed them to lean on it…and then swept it all away.

Oliver had no answers, which is why he was standing outside in the middle of a January night. The chill brought no clarity of mind. Cold stone and cold walls surrounded him in the middle of this cold city. The verandah was little more than a square space of outdoors a few paces wide. He’d grown up on a farm; this was hardly any room at all.

Hardly a surprise. Cambridge always made him feel caged.

The outside door opened behind him. He didn’t turn.

Miss Fairfield came to stand beside him.

Her beads clacked as she moved, her brocade glittering in the dim light in a garish imitation of military braid. It was the ugliest gown he’d ever seen, and she wore it like the shield that it was. She set her hands on the balustrade, gripping it tightly, not saying a word. Her breath was ragged, as if she had climbed three flights of stairs. As if even the thought of trusting another person had her heart racing.

It should race. She should walk away. But he didn’t say that. He just regarded her, watched her watching him back.

“Well, impossible girl?” he asked. “What’s it to be?”

She took another breath. “I count,” she finally said.

It took him a moment to remember their previous conversation.

She twisted her hands together. “I count every day as it passes.”

He didn’t say anything. He wanted to comfort her, but that seemed cruel, given the possibilities of what lay between them.

“I am afraid to even speak to you,” she said. “If I open my mouth, I’m afraid it will all spill out. I’ll talk and talk and talk and never be able to stop it all. There’s too much.”

He tilted his head and looked at her. “Did I sound like a man with a moderate number of complaints?”

“No. No.” She shook her head, and then threw her arms in the air helplessly. “I don’t know what you want. I know what everyone else desires, but you… I don’t know about you.”

Oliver thought of Bradenton, dangling his vote in the Reform Act before him—dangling it like the tempting bait that it was. He thought about what it would mean for his chances at achieving office. He thought about the marquess, believing that Oliver was his for the purchase.

Nobody shoved Oliver around. Nobody.

“I went to school with Bradenton,” Oliver finally said. “He was an ass back then, until…” He paused. “He’s better at hiding it now, that’s all.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I want him to pay,” Oliver said. “For every filthy assumption he’s made.”

He turned to her. She was watching him, her eyes wide.

“It’s that simple,” he said. “You’re annoying him. Good for you. I don’t want you to feel alone.”