The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(8)

“She’s so irritating,” Whitting was saying, “that I can almost feel myself breaking out in a rash in her presence.”

It didn’t matter how irritating Miss Fairfield was. Oliver had been on the receiving end of those snide comments one too many times to rejoice in making them.

Instead, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood at the window.

He didn’t listen. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t join in, even though Bradenton tossed a few sentences in his direction.

In the end, he was actually glad to rejoin the ladies.

But it didn’t get better. Whitting glanced at Oliver after every one of her telling remarks, expecting him to join in his derision. The other men took turns standing next to her, drawing her fire in little batches. It bothered Oliver. It bothered him exceedingly.

There was a small supply of little cakes on the back table; Oliver put several on his plate and wandered off to look out the window. But there was no escape; she left the other men and came to stand by him.

“Mr. Cromwell,” she said warmly.

He nodded at her, and she started speaking.

It wasn’t that bad if he just listened to the sound of her voice. If he avoided parsing it out into individual words. She had a pleasant intonation—warm and musical—and a lovely laugh.

She called him Mr. Cromwell. She commiserated with him on the difficulty of accounting. She mentioned—three times—how much respect she had for people like him, people who had to work for their living. It wasn’t bad at all, now that he’d prepared himself for the cyclone-force devastation of her conversation.

And then, as he stood next to her, smiling and trying to be polite, she reached out and took one of the cakes off his plate. She didn’t even seem aware that she’d done so. She smiled, holding his cake in her fingers, waving it about as she gestured during the conversation.

That only meant that everyone could see what she had done.

Behind her, the others were grinning. Whitting made a loud remark about pigs feeding from any trough. Oliver gritted his teeth and smiled politely. He was not going to break. They’d laughed at him, too.

“So,” Miss Fairfield was saying, “I’m sure you’re most proficient with numbers. That’s an excellent talent to have—one that will serve you in good stead in the future. I’m certain any employer would think of you so.”

She took another cake as she spoke.

“It’s a wonder that they found enough lace to wrap all the way around her,” Whitting said behind her.

If Oliver could hear it, so could she. But she didn’t react. Not so much as a flicker of pain crossed her eyes.

He’d been wrong. She was going to break him. Not because she was so awful; she meant well, at least, and that made up for a great deal. She was going to break him because he couldn’t stand beside her and listen.

It reminded Oliver of an afternoon twenty years ago, back when he’d still been at home. A pair of boys had called his next-youngest sister, Laura, a plump little calf. They’d followed her home making mooing sounds. That was back when Oliver could solve problems with his fists.

Miss Fairfield wasn’t his sister. She didn’t seem to notice. But she might be someone’s sister, and he didn’t like what was happening to her.

He’d come here to try and talk to Bradenton of reform. He’d come here to change minds. He hadn’t come here to see anyone mocked.

So he kept silent.

And when she reached out for another cake, he handed her his entire plate instead.

Her eyes widened for a moment. She stood in place, looking at him, and he was reminded—temporarily—that when Miss Fairfield held her tongue, when he was able to forget the monstrosity that she was wearing, she was actually quite lovely. There was a dimple in her upper arm, the kind that made him want to reach out and explore its dimensions. She looked up at him with eyes that were adorably brilliant.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’ve been holding these for you, but I must go…talk to a man.”

She blinked. He inclined his head and left her.

“What is it with him?” he heard Whitting wonder.

It was simple. He didn’t like to laugh at anyone. He could find too much of himself in the object of their amusement. And while much had changed since his childhood, that never would.

Jane shut the door to her sister’s room and let out her breath in one great whoosh. Her face hurt from the effort of smiling. She set her cloak atop a clothespress and worked her shoulders back and forth, relaxing muscles that were frozen to tenseness. It was as if she were becoming a real person once more, one with feelings and desires all of her own instead of a simulacrum, spouting whatever nonsense was necessary.

It was nice to be able to have feelings again. Especially when the reason for this desperate charade was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of her, dressed in a nightgown.

“Well?” Emily asked. “How did it go? What happened?”

Somehow, returning her sister’s welcoming smile didn’t seem to use the same muscles that she’d employed all evening.

They didn’t look like sisters. Emily had soft, blond hair that fell in natural curls; Jane’s hair was dark brown. Emily’s features were delicate—an artist’s application of thin, arching eyebrows and fine lashes. Jane—well, there had never been anything delicate about her. She wasn’t the sort of woman that one typically called plain. She was pretty enough, she supposed, in a plump way.