Oliver forbore from pointing out that he had just done so.
“You can’t win,” Bradenton said a third time, turning to Oliver, his cheeks ruddy with anger. “You might achieve a few trifling little victories here and there, but that’s what it means to be you—that you can never stop trying. That every inch you win, you must fight to keep. As for me?” He threw his arms wide. “I am a marquess. No matter what you managed today, you spent weeks considering doing my bidding.”
“That much is true.”
“Men like me? I’m rare. I was born a victor. What I have cannot be given or taken away. What are you? You’re one of a thousand similar men. One of ten thousand. Faceless. Voiceless. It’s men like me that run the country.”
Bradenton nodded, as if he had just convinced himself, and Oliver let him rage in peace.
“It will give me great pleasure to vote against the Reform Act,” he said. “Great pleasure indeed.”
“I would never begrudge you your amusement,” Oliver said. “Especially not when you must savor it alone.”
The two men stared at each other until Bradenton’s lip curled away from his teeth in a snarl. “I do believe we are done with each other, Marshall. I won’t forget this.”
Oliver shrugged. “I told you Miss Fairfield would discover her place tonight, Bradenton. She did.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was only one woman Oliver wanted to see when he joined the company. Jane was sparkling. Not just the diamond bracelets that ringed her wrists. It was her laugh, too loud, and yet just right. Her smile, too broad, and yet exactly as friendly as it needed to be. The look in her eyes when she turned and saw Oliver.
She was magnificent.
He greeted her politely and then leaned in to whisper. “Can you meet me afterward? I want to…”
There were too many ways to finish that sentence. He wanted to kiss her. Congratulate her. He wanted to slip that gown off her shoulders and have her legs around his waist. Her eyes slipped to her chaperone, sitting against the wall. “Northwest corner of the park,” she replied sotto voce. “After I leave.”
His pulse leapt at the thought. His imagination came alive. But he nodded to her politely, as if he’d not just arranged for an illicit rendezvous with her.
She arrived half an hour after him.
“You would not believe who I had to bribe,” she said by way of breathless greeting. “I have half an hour until Alice returns with her beau.”
She was beautiful, glowing with the victory she’d obtained.
“I would believe anything of you.”
Only a hint of light spilled into the park from a distant street lamp; moldering leaves crunched underfoot as he walked to her.
“You can’t imagine how I feel. I don’t have to pretend any longer. I’ll need a new way to not get married.” She laughed. “I’ll think of something. Maybe this time I’ll just say no.”
“I’ve heard that works wonders.” He couldn’t stop smiling at her. But his smile felt so false, for all that he couldn’t contain it.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone,” he said softly. “And maybe…”
She lifted her head and took a step toward him. “Oliver.”
He didn’t want her to meet anyone. He didn’t want anyone to have her but himself. But… He hadn’t asked her here to dally with her, no matter how dazzled he felt at the moment.
“I’m leaving,” he heard himself say. “Parliament is sitting in less than two weeks, and there’s a great deal left to do. I must get back to London.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I see.”
There was nobody else about, and so he did what he’d wanted to do for an age. He turned to her, and then ever so slowly, reached out and set his hands on her sides and drew her to him.
“I see,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “I wish I didn’t see at all.”
With his hands at her waist, their bodies touching ever so slightly, he could feel her breath. Her chest rose, brushing his; a few moments later, her shoulders fell, and that point of contact diminished. A puff of warm air against his collar marked her exhalation.
“I haven’t been counting,” she said quietly.
It seemed an intimate confession, whispered in that low tone of voice. He didn’t say anything in response. He leaned down until his lips brushed her forehead. It wasn’t a kiss he gave her. Not a kiss, but something close.
“I don’t know when I ceased counting days,” she said. “When I did not, at the time when night came, look up at the ceiling and say, ‘there’s another one down; tomorrow will be four hundred and whatever it is. I’ll have to count once again.’”
Another inhalation; another brush of their bodies. And this time, that gap between them didn’t disappear when she exhaled. It took Oliver a moment to realize it was because he’d pulled her closer.
“It was sometime after you arrived,” she continued. “That was when I stopped dreading each coming day.”
“Jane.” He made little circles with his thumb against her waist, leaning in to her.
She smelled of lavender. Of comfort. Of home, truth be told, and he didn’t dare find his home in her.
“I need to stay with my sister for a little over a year.” She set her own hand on his arm, and then gradually, ever so slowly, slid her hand down his sleeve. “After that…maybe we might see one another again.”
It was not quite a question. He felt every one of her breaths, rising and falling against his chest. So he could also tell that she had stopped breathing. That the warm breeze of her exhalation had ceased, that her body tensed against his chest.
Seeing her again? That was a euphemism. His own want reached out, red and demanding. He didn’t just want to see her. He wanted her in his bed. She wouldn’t hold back, not an inch. She was clever and curious and passionate, and he suspected that if he ever had her under him… God, he couldn’t think of that. Not now, not with her so close.
He wanted more than that, though. He wanted to argue with her about politics, to hash through every bill, every proposed amendment with her. He wanted to sit with her of an evening, when they were both tired of talking. He wanted her, everything about her.
Everything except… Her.
Because no matter what she might mean to him when they were alone, he’d seen the other women tonight—quiet wives who held back, silently goggling at Jane as if she were some strange sort of beetle crawling across the table. She was Jane of the too-bright gowns. Jane of the dubious reputation. Jane, too blunt, too outspoken. Too much a bastard, just like him.
She was the exact opposite of what he needed in a wife. So why couldn’t he let go?
“Impossible girl,” he breathed.
“Don’t call me that. Tonight, everything is possible.”
“That’s what I meant. You’re a doer of impossible things. I need a wife who will stick to the possible.”
Still her eyes were bright. “In a year…”
“Jane,” he said, “in a year I might be married.”
He’d been waiting for her to take a breath, but the one she drew in nearly killed him. She made a choked sound in the back of her throat—more of a gasp than an inhalation.
“If the reform bill passes,” he said baldly, “they’ll elect another Parliament. That will be my chance. My chance to run, my chance to obtain a seat. They’ll expect me to marry if I do.”
“I see.” She didn’t say anything for a while, and Oliver went back to counting her breaths—too fast, too harsh, growing more ragged as time slipped on.
“You saw what they were like tonight,” he said. “The women who marry politicians. Part of me wants to ask you to become one of them, but how could I? Ask you to mute the best of you? To make yourself into a drab little wren, when you’ve become a phoenix?” He dropped his voice. “I could never forgive myself if I asked you to extinguish your fire.”
“I see,” she repeated. This time, she sounded hoarse. She pulled her hands from his coat and stepped
away. He couldn’t see her face in the dim light, but he could see her wiping at her eyes.
He fished in his pockets and came out with a handkerchief.
“Don’t tell me to be reasonable,” she said, taking it from him. There was a hint of anger in her voice. “Don’t tell me not to cry.”
“I would never do that.”
“I know I’m being foolish. I scarcely know you. What is it that we have—three weeks’ acquaintance? It’s not possible to fall in love in so short a space of time. I don’t even want to marry you.” She scrubbed at her cheeks and then wadded up his handkerchief. “I don’t. I just want something to look forward to at the end of this ordeal.”
It couldn’t be him.
“But you’re right,” she said. “I know you’re right. I can’t imagine myself as one of them, either. I’ve only just found myself. To take on another pretense so soon… No. I wouldn’t want to, either.” She looked up into his eyes. “So this is the end, then.”
No.
Oliver hadn’t let go of her. “These next months won’t be easy for you.”
“No, likely not. But I’ve survived thus far, and I imagine I’ll continue to do so.”
“If you ever really need me, let me know. I’ll come.”
She blinked, looking up at him, her brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “Why?”
“I should say it is because I owe you. One day, you’ll realize how great a favor you did for me today.” He shook his head. “I would say that I owe you a debt of gratitude. But that’s not why I offered to come. The truth, Jane, is that if you need me, it will give me joy to be at your side.”
“You’ll be married.”
He didn’t want to think about that.
“I won’t be unfaithful to her, Jane—but marriage can’t erase friendship. And no matter what else we might have been, we are friends.”
The silence seemed soft as velvet and yet darkly dangerous. “What might we have been?”
They both knew the answer to that. But if he spoke it aloud, he’d give it life. He’d make it real. He’d change it from an insubstantial wish into a solid possibility.
Instead, he set his finger against the divot at the base of her neck. Her breath caught as if snagged by his touch. Then he dragged his fingertips up, up, up the smooth expanse of her throat. He felt her swallow.
By the time his thumb reached her lips, he ached all over. That possible future he refused to acknowledge aloud filled him. It pushed against his skin, clamoring to be let out.
“This,” he whispered, and leaned in. “This, impossible girl.”
She made an inarticulate sound in her throat as their lips touched.
He couldn’t change her past. He refused to let go of his future. That left only the present: the warmth of her kiss, that sweet taste of something that might have been…and the bitterness of a love that would not be.
She kissed him back, lips to lips, and then tongue to tongue. She kissed him until he wasn’t sure who was kissing and who was kissing back. The kiss took on a life of its own, roaring through his blood. As if somehow, if he kissed her hard enough, he could avoid the past and the future altogether. He might stay in the present forever.
He pulled back before that impossible future became all too probable.
Jane looked up at him with wide eyes. “I hate your future wife,” she said simply.
“At the moment, I’m not much in charity with her myself.”
She set her hands on his shoulders and kissed him again. This time, though, the kiss didn’t overwhelm. It reminded. This was the last time he’d feel her lips, the last time he’d taste her breath. It was the last time he’d trade his body for hers, nibble by nibble. This was the end, and they both knew it.
He finally drew away.
“If you ever need me, Jane…” Those words came out a little hoarse.
She let out a short, sharp breath. “Thank you. But I won’t. I’m stronger than that.”
“I know. But…” He swallowed and looked away. “Nobody should feel alone. Even if you don’t need me and won’t ask for me, you should know that I’ll come. That no matter how difficult things are or what you must bear, you’re not alone. I can’t change anything else.” He reached out and drew a finger down her cheek. “But that much,” he said, “I can give you. The sure knowledge that if you need me, you need only send word.”
“Care of the Tower in London, Mr. Cromwell?”
She was trying to make a joke of it, but her voice shook.
“Care of my brother in London. The Duke of Clermont.” He leaned his head against hers. “I can’t give you anything else, Jane, but I can give you that. You’re not alone.”
Chapter Fifteen
A lamp shone in the entry of the house, and a glimmer of light echoed from down the hall, marking her uncle’s study. Other than those feeble hints at illumination, though, the house seemed cold and empty. Colder and emptier now than it had been a month ago. Oliver had transformed everything, and now he was gone.
She’d done the count in the carriage on the way home. Four hundred and fifty-three days remained.
But she was stronger now. She was more. She had the memory of a kiss to sustain her through the hardest times.
Jane handed her wraps to a yawning footman, rang for a maid to help her undress, and then started up the stairs. She’d made it halfway up before she heard footsteps in the hall below.
“Jane?” a voice called.
She bit her lip and looked upward in entreaty. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was to talk to Titus.
It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She waited, trying to disguise her impatience, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to tell that she’d wept earlier.
He plodded forward into the dim circle cast by the lamp. “I must speak with you.” He scrubbed his hand over his head. “Come to my office.”
She would much rather be in her room. She wanted to be in her bed, surrounded by a fortress of blankets, hidden safely under covers. She could block out the world until she forgot all about Oliver Marshall. Following her uncle to his office for a late-night chat sounded like an absolutely horrid thing to do.
“Of course,” she said dutifully.
But his eyes glimmered, and he frowned at her. “None of your sass.”
Maybe she hadn’t spoken as dutifully as she’d intended. She bit her tongue and followed him anyway.
He pulled out a chair for her, and then settled himself ponderously into the leather-backed seat on the other side of the wooden desk. He didn’t look at her, not for a long while. Instead, he beat his fingers against the tabletop as if he were trying to imitate the sound of raindrops.
Finally, he heaved a sigh.
“This is very important,” Uncle Titus said. “How long have you known that your sister was leaving the house during the day?”
He’d caught her off guard, or she would have done a better job of lying. But Jane was tired. She was victorious. She was heartsick. She was glorious. This night, she’d won and then she’d lost. All her energy had been devoted to maintaining her calm in front of her uncle. And so instead of the confusion she might have mustered at any other moment, there was a moment when the truth shone guiltily on her face.
She had known, and she hadn’t said anything.
Titus probably would have believed her responsible no matter what the truth was. But his eyes narrowed at the guilty expression on her face. He shook his head sadly. “As I thought.”
A denial popped into her head—something like, but I did tell her to be careful. She managed not to say it out loud. She had no idea what Titus knew and had no intention of incriminating her sister.
“Did something happen to her?” she asked. “Is she well? Has she been hurt?”
Titus waved a hand. “Her body is as well as it ever can be, poor child. But she was unrepentant when I found her. She attempted to reason with me, to…” He sighed. “To convince me.”
“She’s right. There would be no
problem, if only you—”
“If I?” He slammed his hands against the desk and leaned forward. “So you’ll lay this at my feet, too? You encouraged her to defy me. You likely showed her how to leave, and told her—”
“She’s not a simpleton,” Jane snapped back, “nor is she led on strings. She’s a nineteen-year-old woman. She’s old enough to marry, to make her own decisions. Nobody needs to show her how to do things. She does them on her own.”
If Titus heard this, he didn’t show it.
“I can no longer avoid contemplating the ill effects of your influence,” he said piously.
Jane took a deep breath. “She’s a normal girl. She has high spirits, that’s all.”
Titus shook his head. “It is your telling her such things that causes these problems. A normal girl? She is no such thing. She is afflicted, Jane, and you let your sister wander about the countryside unchaperoned. What if she had met a man?”
“What if a burglar broke into her window?” Jane countered. “She’s not Rapunzel, to be locked away for good.”
Titus stared into her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at—anger, surely, but something more. Something halfway between anger and triumph. “That,” he finally said, “was a test. I know that she met a man. She told me so herself. I had given you that one last chance for honesty, you see. Your refusal to tell me the entire truth…” He shook his head, sad once more. “You disappoint me, Jane. You disappoint me deeply.”
It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t going to apologize for refusing to betray her sister. Especially since she would have received the blame no matter how Titus found out. He’d failed Emily and Jane both, thrust them into this untenable position where the choice was either to lie or to accept a future where Emily was isolated from company and tortured by physicians.
“You will leave tomorrow,” Titus said. “Your aunt, my sister Lily, will take you in.” His lip twitched distastefully. “She will find you a husband in short order. Emily will not write. You may not visit. It will be as if she has no sister. I have hopes that I may yet undo the damage you have caused.”