The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister 2)

Oliver snorted. “Nobody is that bad.”

Whitting put his hand to his head and rubbed at the furrows on his brow. “She’s worse.”

“Ah, ah,” Bradenton said, lifting a finger. “She’s almost here. That’s not how it’s done, gentlemen.” He emphasized the last word and then set down his glass. A gesture, and his young nephews followed him back to the entry. Oliver trailed after.

Yes, Oliver knew how it was done. He’d been on the receiving end of those almost-insults all too often. Upper-class politeness counted off cruelty not by the words that were spoken, but by the length of the silence that passed.

A servant opened the door and two women passed into the entry. One, swathed in folds of dark wool dotted with snow, was clearly a chaperone. She took down the heavy hood from her face, revealing gray, curling hair and a pinched mouth.

The other…

If ever a woman had wanted to announce that she was an heiress, this one did. She had made every effort to flaunt her wealth. She wore a fur-lined cloak, white and soft, and kid gloves with ermine showing at the cuffs. She gave a shake of her head and then undid the clasp at her neck—a clasp that shone with a golden gleam. As she moved, Oliver caught a sparkle at her ears, the glitter of diamonds and silver.

As one, the men stepped forward to greet her.

“Miss Fairfield,” the Marquess of Bradenton said. He had a pleasant tone in his voice, a convivial friendliness as he dipped his head to her.

“My lord,” she responded.

Oliver moved closer with the rest of the group, but stopped in his tracks when she took off her cloak. She was…

He stared and shook his head. She should have been pretty. Her eyes were dark and shiny; her hair was up, with a glossy riot of curls pulled out and artfully arranged about her shoulders. Her lips were pink and full, poised in a demure half smile, and her figure—what he could see of it—was precisely the sort he liked, soft and full, made up of curves that even the most determined corset could not hide. Under any other circumstances, he’d have found himself stealing glances all evening.

But looking at her was like picking up a luxurious peach and discovering it half-taken over by mold.

Her gown was ghastly. There was no other word for it, and even that one scarcely did justice to the thrill of helpless horror that traveled through him.

A little lace was in fashion. Falls at the cuffs, perhaps, or a few inches at the hem. But Miss Fairfield’s gown was lace all over—layer upon layer of the most intricate hand-knit stuff available. Black lace. Blue lace. Gold lace trim. It was as if someone had swept into a store, ordered three hundred yards of each of the most expensive kinds of lace, and then crammed every ell on one dress

This wasn’t a case of gilding the lily. If there was a lily underneath all that, it had long since been crushed to a pulp.

The party stopped in its tracks as she took off her cloak, frozen in wordless contemplation of a wardrobe that made the word “gaudy” sound sweet and demure by contrast.

Bradenton recovered first. “Miss Fairfield,” he repeated.

“Yes, you did already greet me.” She had a very pretty voice. If Oliver could shut his eyes—or perhaps look at her from above the neck—

She swept forward, too far forward, advancing on Bradenton until he actually took two steps back. This brought her earrings—heavy diamond stones clasped in silver—to dangle a few feet from Oliver’s eyes.

One of those earrings would buy his parents’ farm three times over.

“Thank you so much for the invitation,” she said. As she spoke, she folded her cloak.

One of the gray-liveried servants should have stepped forward and relieved her of the burden. But they, like everyone else, had been momentarily stunned by the hideousness of her apparel.

Miss Fairfield didn’t seem to notice. Without once looking to her side—without even glancing at Oliver—she handed him her cloak. His fingers took hold of it before he could register what she’d done. She turned away from him, greeted Hapford and Whitting, her voice pleasant, the back of her neck taunting him with little curls.

She’d handed him her cloak. As if he were a servant. A footman came up to Oliver, apologetically taking the unwanted burden from him, but it was too late. He could see the horrified smile on Whitting’s face, the one he didn’t quite seem able to repress. Bradenton, too, gave Oliver a too-amused smile.

He was long past the point of getting angry at little slights, and this one hadn’t even been intentional. But God, she was a disaster. He almost felt sorry for her.

Bradenton gestured behind Oliver. “Miss Fairfield,” he said, “there is another man here to whom you have not yet been introduced.”

“There is?” Miss Fairfield turned and finally set eyes on Oliver. “Goodness. I didn’t even see you when I came in.”

She’d seen him. She’d just thought he was a servant. A simple mistake; nothing more.

“Miss Fairfield,” Oliver said smoothly. “A pleasure.”

“Miss Jane Fairfield, this is Mr. Oliver Marshall,” Bradenton said.

She put her head to one side and looked at him. She was pretty. That annoying part of his brain couldn’t stop noticing it in spite of the garish way she’d rigged herself out. Pretty, if you liked the healthy glowing English rose sort of woman. Normally, Oliver did.

He wondered when she was going to realize her error. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and a frown left a furrow on her chin.

“But we’ve met,” she said.

This was not what he had expected her to realize. Oliver blinked uncertainly.

“I’m sure we’ve met,” she continued. “You look familiar. There’s something about you, something…” Miss Fairfield tapped her lip with a finger, shaking her head as she did. “No,” she concluded sadly. “No. I am wrong. It’s simply that you look so common with that hair and those glasses that I mistook you.”

He looked common?

Another woman delivering an insult of that magnitude would have emphasized the word just to be sure that her intent was not mistaken. Miss Fairfield, though, didn’t act as if she was delivering a set-down. She sounded as if she were remarking on the number of pups in a litter.

“I beg your pardon.” He found himself standing just a little taller, looking at her with a hint of frost in his expression.

“Oh, no need to beg my anything,” she said with a smile. “You can’t help your looks, I’m sure. I would never hold them against you.” She nodded at him, as graciously as a queen, as if she were doing him a tremendous favor. And then she frowned. “I’m so sorry, but would you repeat your name again?”