The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(38)

Instead, she exhaled.

“You make me uncomfortable,” he murmured. “But not, I expect, the way that you mean.”

“It’s because you’re an absolutely lovely man,” she confessed. And then she heard what she’d said aloud and flushed warmly. “Oh, God. Not that I think you’re attractive…”

That was worse. Far worse.

“I mean, of course I think you’re…”

Worst of all.

She screwed her eyes shut. “Shut up, Jane,” she whispered to herself.

“No.” He drew his thumb along her bottom lip. “Keep talking, Jane.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” Her own voice sounded husky. “There’s no way to come out ahead. It doesn’t matter whether I think you’re attractive. You don’t care what I think. Even I don’t care what I think.”

A finger joined his thumb on her lips. “I think you’re very brave,” he whispered. “You’re a fire that should burn itself out in five seconds of brilliant combustion. I know what it’s like to put forth that much energy, and yet you do it night after night. And nobody—not marquesses nor guardians nor physicians, not the whole weight of society’s expectations—can make you stop.”

She let out a sigh, a trembling sigh that had her lips brushing against his thumb. So much like a kiss.

“If people want you to stop talking, or to stop dressing the way you do, or to change who you are, it’s because you hurt their eyes. We’ve all been trained not to stare into the sun.”

Another finger joined his thumb against her lips. “I can’t look, and I can’t look away. But never fear, Miss Fairfield. I care what you think.”

He tilted her chin up. He did it gently, as if he were asking a question. But if his fingers on her face asked a question, his eyes answered it. They were clear and blue and stronger than she’d imagined.

“So which one is it?” he asked softly. “Do you find me attractive, or…”

“There is no or,” she told him.

He leaned close to her. So close that she could feel the heat of his breath against her lips. So close that she imagined that if she breathed in, she’d get a lungful of his essence. She felt an electric sense of expectation, as if she were putting together a jigsaw puzzle. As if she were about to set two pieces together, and she knew in her entire being that they would fit.

Instead, he straightened with a grimace and let his hand fall away.

“Is it something I said?” Jane asked. And if so, which sentence? There had been so many of them, after all.

“Impossible girl,” he said softly.

It stung that he would call her that after all they’d exchanged. “It’s only by choice,” she snapped, but she knew it was more than that. Deep down, she knew that even if she had tried to get everything right, polite society would never have loved her. “I may be impossible, but at least I’m not—I’m not—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He reached out as if to touch her again, and Jane went still. Wishing those few inches between her cheek and his fingers would disappear. Her whole face tingled, and she sucked in her breath.

“Impossible girl,” he repeated, but this time his tone was soft and low, making the words into something sensual. “I’m saying it for me as a reminder, not for you as an insult. Jane. Brave girl. Lovely girl.” He did touch her cheek then, laying his fingers against it once more. And, oh, how good it felt, that tiny little touch. That point of connection.

“Girl I should not touch,” he said. “Or kiss. Or have.”

His smile was a little sad, and she could recall him saying that she was the last woman he would ever marry.

“But bright. So bright. It’s a shame you’re so impossible, Miss Fairfield, because otherwise, I think I would try for you.”

She had preferred it when he’d called her Jane. She liked the way he said her name, not short and terse, a spare syllable to be gotten over with, but long and slow, a bite to be savored.

She reached up and laid her hand over his against her cheek. Warmth met warmth. He let out a noise, not quite a protest, but he didn’t move away.

“Remember,” he finally said, “what I am contemplating. I don’t think I should be making you more vulnerable to me. Not at all.”

“Too late for that,” she told him.

He pulled his hand away as if it would make a difference. It didn’t matter. He’d slipped past the layers of lace that she’d used to shroud her heart. She wasn’t anything so foolish as in love with him; even she was not that brave. But…

“You’re the most scaldingly honest betrayer I’ve had,” she told him.

He grimaced. “Come, Miss Fairfield,” he finally said. “It’s getting cold and we ought to go in.”

Chapter Eight

“More than two weeks in Cambridge,” the man Oliver had called father all his life said from his vantage point overlooking the stream. “And you’re just now visiting?” He didn’t look at Oliver as he spoke; he was examining the lure on the end of his line.

It was mid-afternoon—the worst time for fishing—and January to boot. But his father hadn’t quibbled when Oliver suggested a trip to the stream.