And then there was the gown she wore tonight.

Miss Fairfield had a gift for taking a beautiful concept and then marring it beyond all recognition. Oliver had seen lovely gowns made of gauze over satin. White gauze and blue satin made for an ethereal combination. Red gauze and white satin glittered pinkly in lamplight. Even black satin—and the satin of her gown was a deep black—topped by gold would have been lovely. If only she had stopped with the gold gauze. Of course she hadn’t. Blue, red, white, green, purple—all those layers made up her flaring skirt of gauzes, running together in garish, impossible colors.

Impossible was the right word. Because she’d attracted the same gawking derision that she always drew. Like everyone else, Oliver could not look away. But unlike everyone else, he suspected he had an entirely different reason.

He liked her. More than liked her, if he were honest. If he let himself, his mind would stray idly to the pins in her hair, little enameled flowers in every garish color of the rainbow dangling from gold chains. He’d find himself thinking idly about taking them out, of sliding his hands through the soft silk of her hair, of stealing that kiss he’d almost taken.

Temptation, he reminded himself, was best conquered by avoidance.

She raised her head and caught him looking. And then—before he could turn away from her—she smiled and gave him a wink. He felt it all the way down his spine. His groin contracted in answer.

He should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it.

She found him a few hours later. “Mr. Cromwell,” she said, a glint of humor in her eyes.

“Miss Fairchild,” he heard himself reply, but even that hint of playfulness was too much. She smiled. He’d joked once that he feared her gown might be contagious, but it was her smile that was catching.

It caught him now. He felt hooked by it, no desire to do anything except smile back at her.

“Miss Fairfield,” he said in a low voice, “I had thought us in agreement. We aren’t doing this. It’s impossible.”

“Agreement?” she whispered back. “You said. I held my tongue. That is not agreement.”

He hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Then I shall remedy that immediately. Jane, we mustn’t do this. We mustn’t be…friends.”

Friends. That hadn’t been friendship that had made him touch her cheek the last time they’d been alone together. Worse than that. He was a little susceptible to her, to be sure, but he knew the way she looked at him. The way she smiled when she saw him. She was vulnerable, and he could remember her saying, I am too desperate to be angry.

“Something has changed.” She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes. “Everything has changed.” She moved her head as she spoke, and the lamplight sparkled off the multihued flowers in her hair.

“Oh?” he heard himself say.

She smiled, a fierce, hot smile. One that seemed to set something burning deep inside him in response. She leaned in. “If you think that I’m going to let Bradenton win, you’re vastly mistaken.”

“I have no intention of letting him win,” Oliver said stiffly. “But—”

“Do you think you’re squabbling with him over me?” She smiled more brightly. “Oh, no, Mr. Marshall. You’re wrong. I’m squabbling with him over you.”

He swallowed.

“You think me dry tinder,” Jane said, “vulnerable to the slightest spark. You’re afraid to send me up in flames because you think that once I am burnt out, there will be nothing left but desolation.”

She looked up at him as if daring him to contradict her. He couldn’t. He’d thought something very much like that just a moment ago. But the look on her face was brighter than any he’d ever seen, and he felt something coil in him in anticipation.

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered, and he leaned in to hear her secret. “I am not a blight. I am not a pestilence. And I refuse to be a piece sacrificed for the greater glory of your game.”

She wasn’t touching him. So why did it seem as if she was? He could almost feel the phantom pressure of her hand against his chest, the heat of her breath on his lips. He could almost taste the scent of her, that light twist of lavender. He felt as if she’d shoved him off-center, and he couldn’t quite find his balance.

“You are not any of those things,” he said. “What are you, then?”

“I am ablaze,” she told him. And then she smiled and gave him a curtsy. She swirled on her heel, leaving him staring after her.

Her words shouldn’t have made any sense, but as she turned, the many-colored gauzes of her overskirts fluttered behind her in the lamplight. It put him in mind of a prism, grabbing hold of the light and splitting it into all the colors of the rainbow. She was…ablaze.

He watched her go, and all his worries and second thoughts about temptation went up in flame. With that, he wasn’t just giving into temptation; he was inviting it over for tea.

Yes, some deep part of him thought. That’s done it.

What it was that had been done, he didn’t know. He could make no sense of it, so he watched her for the rest of the evening, trying to figure out what had just transpired. Or maybe… Maybe he just watched her.

He watched her laugh in the corner with the Johnson twins. He watched her talking to the other men, who seemed not to have noticed her transformation to phoenix. He even watched her talking to Bradenton, smiling while the man ground his teeth.

The marquess looked up from her and saw Oliver from across the room. The expression in his eyes spoke with a cold, whispering intent.

Oliver gave him no response.

Bradenton found him a few moments later. “In nine days,” he said. “I’m having guests over. Canterly, Ellisford, Carleton—you recognize the names, I take it. My friends in Parliament will be here. I’ll be introducing Hapford to them.”

Bradenton looked across the room to the place where Jane stood. Oliver could hear her laugh all the way over here.

“Maybe once I wanted you to prove something about yourself.” His gaze hardened. “Maybe I still do. But mostly, I just want to see her pulled down.” He shook his head, turning back to Oliver. “Do it, Marshall. If you do it before everyone leaves, I’ll bring them around.”

Oliver’s future. This vote. Everything he’d ever dreamed off, offered up to him so easily, yet at such a price.

Weighed against that was the image of Jane. Of her bright, brilliant smile. God, he felt sick.