The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(51)

She swallowed.

“My family is well-to-do,” he said. “It is complicated to explain if you don’t know the system. My eldest brother was an officer in the Indian forces. My second brother is a magistrate. My father is in the civil service, a position of responsibility directly under the commissioner of railways. I am here precisely because my family accepts British rule. How could I talk of rebellion? What would happen to them?”

She shook her head wordlessly.

“Even if they were not, my brother told me about the Sepoy Mutiny. How it started. How it ended. Indian fighting Indian for the British. What do we have to gain?” There was a bitterness in his voice. “So no, I do not dream of home rule. I dream of the things I can achieve, not the ones that are outside my grasp.”

“But—”

“If I dreamed of home rule, I could accomplish nothing.” His breath came faster. “I’d be too radical to stomach, and in the end it would all come out to the same thing. Violence all over again, and to what point?”

She tried to imagine not being able to even dream of freedom.

He turned away from her. “So don’t talk to me about Napoleon. You cannot possibly understand what he is like.”

For all that Emily had only ventured a few miles from her uncle’s house, she felt her horizons crumbling, as if she’d been pulled inside out. God, how blind she had been.

“This is not a subject for polite conversation.” His tone had evened out. “You have my apologies.”

That fierceness had left his eyes. He smiled evenly, as if nothing had happened. It was wrong, all wrong. A mask of pleasantry.

“No,” she said passionately. “No. Never apologize for that. Never. I don’t know what you dare to do anywhere else in the world, but with me…” She wasn’t even sure why she was so upset. “This is my escape,” she finally said. “The one thing I do that makes the rest of the day worthwhile. It should be yours, too.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, his emotions hidden behind a mask. “I should tell you that you shouldn’t defy your uncle,” he finally said.

“If there were no civil service, no danger of violence… Tell me, Mr. Bhattacharya, what flag would you hoist?”

He inhaled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to think about that. I think you are trying to change the subject.”

“I think,” Emily said, “something quite different. Did you really believe me when I said my family was that unconventional? To allow us to wander about for days on end without so much as an introduction?”

“I…” His lips twitched. “Well…”

“You knew. You might not have wanted to know, but you knew. If you don’t think I ought to be sneaking out, why are you here?”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, ever so slowly, he reached out and took her hand. Not to guide it to his arm or to steady her over rough footing. He took her hand and caressed it with his thumb, until her fingers unfurled in his. And then—still looking in her eyes—he bowed and kissed her palm.

And that was when Emily realized that without intending it, she’d swum into deep waters.

Chapter Eleven

Temptation, Oliver told himself, was best conquered by avoidance. If one didn’t want to indulge in too many sweets, it was best not to buy them. If one didn’t want to partake of alcohol, one ought not visit a pub. And if one wanted to keep from humiliating a lady…

Well, Oliver figured it was best to keep his distance. He’d managed the trick for three days, and he hoped that tonight’s dinner would prove no different.

Her gowns didn’t improve. There had been the blue and gold affair, perfectly acceptable in coloration, but printed in a pattern that shimmered and pulsed, seeming to grow and shrink before his eyes until Oliver had to look away. There was the Red Gown of Hellfire—as Whitting had called it—moiré silk that did, in fact, call to mind flame.

And then there was the gown she wore tonight.

Miss Fairfield had a gift for taking a beautiful concept and then marring it beyond all recognition. Oliver had seen lovely gowns made of gauze over satin. White gauze and blue satin made for an ethereal combination. Red gauze and white satin glittered pinkly in lamplight. Even black satin—and the satin of her gown was a deep black—topped by gold would have been lovely. If only she had stopped with the gold gauze. Of course she hadn’t. Blue, red, white, green, purple—all those layers made up her flaring skirt of gauzes, running together in garish, impossible colors.

Impossible was the right word. Because she’d attracted the same gawking derision that she always drew. Like everyone else, Oliver could not look away. But unlike everyone else, he suspected he had an entirely different reason.

He liked her. More than liked her, if he were honest. If he let himself, his mind would stray idly to the pins in her hair, little enameled flowers in every garish color of the rainbow dangling from gold chains. He’d find himself thinking idly about taking them out, of sliding his hands through the soft silk of her hair, of stealing that kiss he’d almost taken.

Temptation, he reminded himself, was best conquered by avoidance.

She raised her head and caught him looking. And then—before he could turn away from her—she smiled and gave him a wink. He felt it all the way down his spine. His groin contracted in answer.