The Heiress Effect by Courtney Milan Page B

enough to know that.”
    God, she was in dire straits. You’re
intelligent enough to remember two syllables was hardly a
compliment, but she’d not received any praise at all in months. It
left her feeling warm and utterly confused.
    “I—I’m not sure—” She took a deep breath,
tried to gather the shreds of her charade about her. “Was I
mistaken then? I’m so sorry, Mr. Crom—I mean, Mr. Marshwell.”
    “I am not going to lie to you,” Mr. Marshall
said. “And might I suggest…”
    She looked at him, looked up into those eyes
like a winter storm. She looked up into a face that should have
been ordinary, and Jane felt her whole body come to a standstill.
Her heart ceased to beat. Her lungs seized up in her chest. Even
her hair felt like a heavy burden. There was nothing but him and
his foolish not-even-compliments.
    “Might I suggest,” he finally said, “that you
don’t need to lie to me, either.”
    “I—”
    He held up a finger. “Think about it,” he
said. “Think carefully, Miss Fairfield. And once you’re done
thinking… Well, the two of us might have a very productive
conversation.”
    She swallowed. “About fashion? You don’t
appear to be the sort to care.”
    He smiled, just a curl of his lip. “About a
great many things. And yes, Miss Fairfield. About fashion. About
the colors you wear, and what they are hiding.”
    He touched the brim of his hat and gestured
to his friend.
    “Good day,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d
not just uttered a horrendous threat, and he walked off.
    “Good God,” she heard Mr. Malheur say as they
walked away. “What was that all about?”
    If Mr. Marshall answered, the response was
swept away in the clop of horse hooves from a passing omnibus.

Chapter Four

     
    The third time Jane met Mr. Marshall was even
worse. She scarcely had a chance to speak with him at the Johnsons’
dinner, but she could sense his eyes on her all through the meal.
He sat just down the long table from her, close enough to converse
with. It didn’t matter what she said to him. It didn’t matter how
she said it. He never gave her that freezing look that suggested
that he’d been offended.
    Instead, he looked…amused.
    She felt wrong the entire evening—as if her
shift was too small, as if she no longer fit in the armor of her
clothing.
    When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the
library after, she found herself uncertain, constantly aware of
him. Her responses were forced, not flowing. She felt like—what was
it he had called her?—an anti-chameleon , burning brightly in
the middle of the room.
    Don’t marry me; I’m poison. She was
poison. She was a blight. Her gown tonight was a wasteland of
red-and-black silk, devoid of good taste and fringed with
clattering beads. She loved it almost as much as she loved the band
of polished silver on her arm. She’d perfected the art of holding
her wrist just so—moving it back and forth so that it reflected
light into a gentleman’s eyes. But she’d hit Mr. Marshall three
times now, and he hadn’t so much as grunted.
    God, what was she to do?
    Mr. Marshall suggested that music might be a
good way to spend the evening, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Everyone would be looking at the performers, and they’d never ask
her to join in. Jane wouldn’t have to be on. Being dreadful
was such wearying work. The company adjourned to the music
room.
    Jane stayed in her seat, holding her breath,
hoping nobody would notice she wasn’t moving.
    Nobody did. They all filed out without
glancing in her direction. Of course not; they didn’t want to see
her.
    She slumped in relief as the door closed
behind the last man. Alone at last. Alone, with no need to pretend.
She could breathe . She could stop thinking, stop examining
every smile, stop worrying about why it was that Mr. Oliver
Marshall kept glancing in her direction.
    She set her fingers against her temples,
wishing all the tension away, letting her eyes drift shut