The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(32)

“Well,” said that other woman, “there’s…certainly a great deal of pink in that gown.”

“Yes,” Miss Fairfield responded happily. “I think so too!”

Everyone was looking at her. Literally everyone—there wasn’t a single person who could do anything but gawk at that gown.

It would have been bearable if there were not so much of that fabric, but the seamstress had not stinted. It wasn’t just the pink bodice and the pink skirts, but the excessively pink sash—all pink, no vines on that—which had been looped and wired to stand out from her gown. There were floridly pink flounces, which were trimmed with gouge-your-eyes-out pink lace.

So much vicious, pink fabric. And all of it was shiny.

She smiled brilliantly, as if she were proud of that confection and utterly unaware that she was the cause of all those titters.

Oliver had once watched a man eat a lemon. His own mouth had dried in vicarious response, and he’d looked away. He felt like that now, looking at her gown. She didn’t hold back one bit. She wore her too-bright gown and spoke in her too-loud voice, and she didn’t flinch while everyone gawked at her.

She was going to get burned, not caring. She went about the room greeting people. Behind her, a gentleman made a rude gesture at her backside—a flip of his hand that was too crass for a ballroom—and the laughter that erupted had an ugly tint to it.

Miss Fairfield smiled as if she’d done something brilliant.

No, it was not just that she was going to get burned.

She had already been burned. She was afire now. She smiled and laughed and she didn’t care what they thought of her. It was as painful to watch as that fellow had been, casually peeling a lemon and then eating the slices one by one as if nothing were wrong. Oliver wanted to tell himself that he wouldn’t hurt her, that he wasn’t that kind of man. But right now, all he wanted to do was push her so far from him that he never had to see this, never had to hear that low, mocking laughter again.

He remembered being laughed at. He remembered it all too well, and he remembered its aftermath. They’d come find him later, taunting, a group of them when he’d been caught out alone…

No. He couldn’t watch this. He turned away.

But it did little good. He could still hear her.

She greeted the hostess, cheerily. “Mrs. Gedwin,” she said in a carrying voice, “I am so delighted to be in attendance. And what a lovely chandelier you have. I wager it would look almost new, if it had been dusted recently.”

Oliver’s fists clenched. Stop playing with fire, you foolish girl, before you hurt yourself.

“Good God,” said a woman near him. “Even her gloves match.”

Sebastian had said that nature chose its most brilliant colors as a warning: Don’t eat me. I’m poison. If that were the case, Miss Fairfield had just announced that she was the most poisonous butterfly ever to grace the drawing rooms of Cambridge. She flitted about the room, leaving dazed looks and cruel titters behind her.

By the time she made her way to him, he had a headache. Hell, he didn’t need Bradenton to offer him his vote. He might have pushed her away just so he wouldn’t have to listen to everyone laugh.

“Mr. Marshall,” she said.

He took her hand and inhaled. And that, perhaps, was what brought him back to himself. Amidst all that was unfamiliar, there was one thing he recognized—the smell of her soap, that mixed scent of lavender and mint. It spelled instant comfort, and it made his course of action quite clear.

He’d promised not to lie to her. That was all he had to do now—not lie.

“Miss Fairfield,” he said in a voice pitched normally. “You look well today.”

She dimpled at him.

He let his gaze drift down briefly, and then looked up at her. “Your gown, on the other hand…” He took in a deep breath. “It makes me want to commit an act of murder, and I do not consider myself a violent man. What are you wearing?”

“It’s an evening gown.” She spread her outrageously gloved hands over her hips.

“It is the most hideous shade of pink that I have ever seen in my life. Is it actually glowing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But the smile on her face seemed more genuine.

“I fear it may be contagious,” he continued. “It is setting all my preternatural urges on edge, whispering that the color must be catching. I feel an uncontrollable urge to run swiftly as far as I can in the other direction, lest my waistcoat fall prey next.”

She actually laughed at that and brushed her shoulder. “This would make a lovely waistcoat, don’t you think? But don’t worry; the color isn’t virulent. Yet.”

“What does one call a color like that?”

She smiled at him. “Fuchsine.”

“It even sounds like a filthy word,” Oliver replied. “Tell me, what sort of devilry is fuchsine?”

She glanced around them, ascertained that nobody was near enough to hear. “It’s a dye,” she said, as if that were not obvious. “A new one, a synthetic one, made from some kind of coal tar, I believe. Some brilliant chemist with a talent for experimentation and no sense of propriety came up with this.”

“It’s…” There were still no words for it. “It’s malevolent,” he managed. “Truly.”