The Heiress Effect

by Courtney Milan

  “No,” Sebastian said with a brilliant smile. “We won’t. That sounds hideous and disgusting.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Sebastian said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my cousin and I must turn off the path here.”

  There was no path leading absolutely anywhere. Sebastian pointed vaguely across the fields.

  “Good day,” Sebastian said, waving. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must abscond instead.”

  “Wait,” Oliver started. But his cousin took hold of his wrist and plunged into the grass. The field was still dew-soaked. In a matter of seconds, Oliver’s stockings were damp. Sebastian smiled the whole time, a brilliant, awful smile. But he pressed on at a punishing pace, not letting go of Oliver’s wrist until they’d gone half a mile.

  “There you have it,” Sebastian said. “One of my supporters. Now tell me, Oliver, why shouldn’t I be happy?”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was an unseasonably bright, warm day, a few days after Jane had so brazenly informed Mr. Marshall that she was battling with Bradenton over him. In those intervening days, she’d wondered what she had been thinking. How she’d dared to say anything so audacious.

  But when she saw Mr. Marshall again, she didn’t wonder.

  It was high noon. She’d been walking on Jesus Green with the Johnson sisters, pretending to watch a cricket game that was being lost very, very badly, enjoying the warmth of real friendship. She saw him first, walking slowly along the other side of the green, gesturing as he talked. He was talking to a boy in a black gown.

  She had never seen Marshall walk before. Oh, she’d watched him amble about a room. But out on a lawn, he had a long stride and an easy grace to him. The wind caught a hint of his hair under his hat, ruffling his fringe.

  And Jane knew why she’d said what she had to him. Because she wasn’t ceding this man, this man who’d told her to keep talking, who’d told her she was brave, to anyone.

  It was a shockingly fierce, possessive thought. It came anyway.

  Mine.

  He’d touched her, and she’d liked it.

  Mine.

  “Jane?”

  She whirled around, startled, to see Genevieve and Geraldine smiling at her.

  “Tell me,” Geraldine said, “what were you thinking of just there?”

  Jane shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Even Geraldine isn’t that bad,” Genevieve sang out, “and that’s her fiancé over there. Does nothing have auburn hair and spectacles?”

  Jane flushed. She hadn’t even realized it was Hapford with Mr. Marshall.

  Geraldine leaned in. “Is nothing walking next to Hapford?”

  “No,” Genevieve put in. “I think that nothing is approaching. Come on, Jane. Wave at him.”

  Jane held up one gloved hand. Even separated by fifty yards of close-clipped lawn, with half a cricket-match between them, she felt a hot flush.

  He raised his hand as well. And then he walked toward her.

  I am ablaze, she thought, but she was truly on fire, burning hotter with every step he took in her direction.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she said, as soon as he was near enough. “My lord.”

  “Miss Fairfield. Miss Johnson. Miss Genevieve.” His words were proper enough, but his gaze lingered on Jane alone.

  Beside her, Hapford made a similar greeting. Geraldine came forward to take his arm, and Genevieve went with her. That left Jane with Mr. Marshall. They weren’t alone, but they had a little privacy.

  “Do you like my walking gown?”

  His gaze swept up to her bosom, then down to her toes, as palpable as a caress.

  “Tell the truth,” she said, gesturing ahead of her. “They can’t hear.” Indeed, the Johnsons had obligingly taken Hapford five or six paces ahead.

  “It’s an improvement on screeching horror,” he told her. “It ranks almost as high as sick fascination.” He gave a mock shiver. “But really. Are those vermilion bananas printed on the fabric?”

  “Yes. I love it. Look.” Jane held out her pendant, a green enameled monkey with fierce topaz eyes. “See? Isn’t that wonderful?”

  He stepped forward and looked obligingly.

  Maybe not so obligingly. She was close enough to see his eyes behind his spectacles, dropping not to her pendant but…

  Technically, her gown climbed halfway up to her neck. Also technically, the upper fabric of her bodice was dark lace. And lace had holes.

  Nothing showed that wouldn’t have shown in a ball gown, but it still showed. If someone stood close, pretending to look at a necklace…

  He lifted his gaze to her face and gave her an unapologetic smile.

  “You’re right. That quite makes the outfit.” He crooked his finger. “Let me see it again.”

  Jane flushed, and in front of her, Geraldine coughed.

  “Oh, Geraldine,” Genevieve said loudly, “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hapford. “That didn’t—”

  But Geraldine interrupted him. “I’m afraid I might be. We’d better go. Hapford, you’ll walk me?”

  “But…”

  She linked her arm with her fiancé’s. “Come along,” she said.

  “But… Oh.”

  “Unless,” Geraldine said, “you wish us to stay, Miss Fairfield?”

  “Um.” Jane flushed hotter. “No. That would be unnecessary.”

  Genevieve waved at her, and the three of them walked away. Jane watched them go, the entire time feeling Mr. Marshall’s eyes on her…necklace. She turned back to him and he raised his eyes to her face.

  “You have a smudge on your spectacles.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her hand and placed it deliberately against the glass. “A fingerprint right there.”

  He gave her a look of mock annoyance and took off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief.

  “That’s what you get for ogling my monkey. Now imagine what I’ll do if you take Bradenton up on his offer.”

  That smile that had curled the corners of his lips faltered. His breath sucked in. “Jane.”

  “What vote is it?” she asked. “The one that’s so important.”

  But he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he held out his elbow to her. “Walk with me.” They passed by the cricket game.

  “You know,” he finally said, “that I’m a duke’s byblow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Legally, I am not any kind of bastard. My mother was married when I was born and I was acknowledged by her husband. Up until a few years ago, I wasn’t even publicly recognized as the duke’s progeny. Some people knew, of course, but it was at best whispered about, never spoken aloud.”

  Legally, Jane wasn’t a bastard, either. But she still was treated like one.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I forget that people think I’m Clermont’s son. They don’t believe that Hugo Marshall is my father. It’s odd, because he’s never been anything else to me. Just…father. He never acted as if my sisters who were his flesh and blood were more important than I was. I didn’t realize how extraordinary this was for most of my childhood. It just was.”

  Oh, she felt a twinge of jealousy at that, one that twined around her heart at the thought of having a real family.

  “What was it like?” she asked, her voice low.

  “He taught me how to fish, how to set a snare for a rabbit, how to fight politely at fisticuffs, and how to win a fight very impolitely using dirty tricks. If necessary.” Mr. Marshall took a deep breath. “He taught me how to balance books and how to fold a piece of paper into a box. He showed me how to whistle on a blade of grass. My father taught me everything. And so I call him father because that’s what he was. In every sense of the word except that one tiny thing.”

  “So you were a part of the family, then?”

  “Oh, yes. I grew up with them. They ran a small farm. And that’s what brings me to all of this. My parents have
never been wealthy. They have always had enough. My mother and father are both clever. Twice a year, they lease out factories for a week, just long enough to distill oils and make soaps. Not great big bars of soaps, produced for the masses, but scented, molded soaps. My mother packages them for ladies and charges twenty times their worth.” He smiled and glanced at her. “You use it, I think. Lady Serena’s Secret.”

  She did. The boxes appealed to her in their colorful range of pastels. The bars of soap had come wrapped in tissue, accompanied by a slip of paper explaining the scent. There were different scents for every month of the year, altering with the seasons. She paid five times more for those small, sweet-smelling bars than she might otherwise have laid out, but unwrapping them gave her pleasure so she’d accounted it money well spent.

  “My parents do well for themselves,” Mr. Marshall continued. “But I have three sisters. Two of them have recently married, and they’ve laid out funds to establish them in their new lives. There was my own schooling at Cambridge. And while the current Duke of Clermont—my brother—settled money on me when I came of age, they’ve refused to take anything from him on principle.”

  “Are you telling me your family is poor?” she said.

  “No, not at all.” He swallowed and looked away. “Although…yes, I suppose you would think so. I am telling you that my father is a tenant at will in a county constituency. He pays an annual rent of forty pounds a year.”

  She shook her head, not seeing the relevance.

  “I worshipped my father. I used to think he could do anything,” he told her. “That’s the way of it, when a man teaches you everything. And then, when I was sixteen, I learned otherwise.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Everyone is fallible. Even the best of men.”

  “No. I didn’t mean that I discovered he had flaws. I meant what I said. There is one thing my father is not allowed to do.”

  She waited for his answer.

  “He cannot vote.”

  She looked up in surprise, her eyes widening. “That’s…that’s…”

  “Imagine,” he said, his voice tight, “that there was someone who owed you nothing and gave you everything. A family. A place in the world. Love. Imagine that the entire world around you said that he was worth nothing. What would you do for him?”

  “For her,” Jane whispered involuntarily. She took her hand off his sleeve and hugged her arms around herself. “When you have almost nobody… For her, I’d do anything.” She was silent for a moment longer. “That’s what Bradenton promised you? A vote on the Reform Bill?”

  He nodded. “More than that. Not just the vote, but the credit for changing his mind. He’s the leader of a group nine strong. He’s grooming Hapford to join them. If I can bring the entire group in, it will prove my worth. It will be the first step forward.” He looked away. “Miss Fairfield, I won’t apologize to you for the choice I must make. Bradenton and his set will all be in town in a matter of days—all nine of them. I don’t know.” He made a frustrated sound. “That is—I think I would be better off leaving. Now.” He spread his hands. “Parliament will sit in a few weeks anyway. It is time to get on.”

  Mine.

  Maybe it was rash on her part. Maybe it was injudicious. But then, Bradenton had broken her cactus and she wanted him to pay.

  “Tell me, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “How would you get on with your first step forward if you brought back eight votes instead of nine?”

  “I’ve been trying precisely that. You just saw me talking to Hapford.” He stopped and looked at her. “But the rest of them…the bonds of friendship count for much, and if Bradenton speaks ill of me…” He shrugged.

  “That’s the thing,” Jane said. “I’ve never met them, but Bradenton doesn’t even have a solid hold on Hapford. He cannot truly control the other men. And if you could do something to put a little pressure on those bonds of friendship…”

  He just looked at her.

  “They’re going to be here,” she said. “It’s the perfect opportunity. You only need a little something. Enough to get them to listen to you rather than him. You’ll have the votes you want, minus one. You’ll get the credit.” Her voice dropped. “And Bradenton, well… I think that would really annoy him.”

  He blinked. “My God.” A slow smile spread across his face. “But how would it be done?”

  “Oh, Mr. Marshall,” Jane said, long and slow. “I have been thinking of nothing else.”

  After her last conversation with Mr. Bhattacharya, Emily had felt unsettled. She’d watched Titus more carefully, trying to be…well, not obedient, but at least more respectful.

  It had made absolutely no difference to his behavior, but she’d found that the less she raged at her uncle, the more she could bear.

  Now, standing on the side of the brook and waiting for Mr. Bhattacharya to arrive, she felt nervous all over again. What if he decided that he didn’t want to see her? What if he decided that her uncle’s approval was paramount? Her heart raced with every little noise, imagining it to be his footfalls. The palms of her hands tingled, as if her skin remembered his.

  And then she saw him and she felt herself burst into a smile as he drew near. He was always an excellent dresser. Far too many Cambridge students were quite slovenly—that was what came of wearing robes over their clothing, she supposed; they stopped caring about what they believed few others could see. Mr. Bhattacharya was always neat and clean, his clothing evenly pressed, his hat situated firmly on his head.

  “Mr. Bhattacharya,” she said, as he came nearer.

  He came to a halt a few feet away and regarded her quizzically with his dark eyes. “Is that the way you’re planning to greet me?”

  She flushed at that. “Did you have something else in mind?”

  He was surely talking about a kiss. Not on the lips—the idea of that made her whole body flutter with nervous anticipation. Lovely, sweet, anticipation, a yearning that filled her with sudden force.

  “You don’t remember my given name, do you?” He spoke a little ruefully.

  Oh. He was talking about that kind of greeting. Emily blinked, dispelling the force of her want.

  “Of course I do. It’s Anjan.”

  He broke into a smile to match hers.

  The meeting after you held a gentleman’s hand was, Emily decided, more awkward than the one before. Was she supposed to snatch his hand straight off, like some prize already won, or did she need to work up to it?

  He took another step forward.

  “Pretty Emily,” he said. “Clever Emily. Sweet Emily.” He reached out, then, but he didn’t take her hand. He brushed one of her curls, fingering her hair ever so softly.

  “I think,” Emily said shakily, “that you are the best dream I have ever had.”

  He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “My guardian thinks I’m taking a nap,” she explained. “I know. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m…trying to do better.”

  He didn’t let go of her hair, but she could see his face tensing, his jaw shifting ever so slightly, his nostrils flaring.

  “I see,” he said.

  “You probably don’t. Pretty Emily. Clever Emily. Lying Emily. Almost my entire life is a falsehood.”

  He looked into her eyes. “Mine is, too. I’m Indian. I’m the good-natured one, the one who doesn’t hear half of what is said in front of him. The one who doesn’t complain no matter what. I suppose I should not be surprised that you’re lying to your guardian after all. There are very few parents in England who would allow me to court their daughter, no matter what my prospects might be.”

  Emily swallowed. “Court?” she said. Court was a word with hard edges, a word she didn’t quite understand. Flirt she might have understood. Bedazzle. She would have said that he was enjoying her company. But… He was going out this year. And her guardian didn’t even know what was happening.

  “Aren’t you going back to India after you receive your degree?” she asked.

 
; He contemplated her. “No.”

  “You’ll…surely be marrying an Indian woman. I had…”

  “It’s not likely,” he said again. “I have a friend here by the name of Lirington. His father has offered me a position when I graduate. I’m staying.”

  “Here,” she said blankly. “Here with the boiled spinach and bread. Here with all of us Napoleons. You’re staying here? I know how much you miss your family. Why?”

  He didn’t say anything for a very long time. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned away. “My eldest brother,” he said. “We were quite close even though I was ten years younger. I worshipped him, followed him everywhere. He told me all about his plans. He had always intended to go to England, he said. In India, they never saw him as anything other than another soldier, another fellow with brown skin. ‘There are so many of us here,’ he said, ‘they never see us as people.’ He told me that if things were going to change, he would have to go to the English in their home country. He’d planned to move here when he was twenty-five, to set up a business. To live here the rest of his life. To know them, and have them know him.”

  He’d started speaking quietly; by the time he reached the end of his sentence, he had returned to normal volume.

  He swallowed and looked away.

  “Without that,” he said softly, “he feared that more lives would be lost by idiocy. The Sepoy Mutiny… That was started by criminal thoughtlessness. I don’t think it was ill intentioned, but it was foolish. If the English had listened, they would have understood what it meant. To them, it was just grease. Pig lard and beef fat are just parts of an animal. They didn’t understand that they were asking the Indian soldiers to go against their holy beliefs. That was the sort of thing Sonjit would tell me—that he could save lives and stop this stupidity, if only he could make the English understand.” Anjan swallowed. “As I said, I worshipped him.”

  Emily only watched.

  “During the Sepoy Mutiny, he took a knife to the gut. It wasn’t even during a battle; someone just ran up to him on the street, yelling. By the time he was brought home, it was too late to do anything except watch him die. When I saw him, he said, ‘Well, it looks as if I won’t be going to England.’” Anjan’s voice was tight. “So I promised him I would do it.”