“Anjan,” Emily heard herself say. “Are you asking me to marry you? Because…”

“No, of course not,” he replied. “It’s too soon for that. We haven’t known one another very long, which I hear is important for you English. And I have not heard from my parents, which is important to me. I’m just telling you a story, that’s all.”

A story. A story. She swallowed, trying to envision the story that would follow. It wouldn’t be an easy life, that much she knew. He rarely talked about how he was treated, but she hadn’t received the impression that many people were kind. Quite the reverse. And that would be what she entered into? That would be what her children would experience? She felt too young for children, let alone for a decision of this magnitude. She wrapped her arms around her waist.

“Here’s another story,” she said quietly. “I’m not of age. My uncle hasn’t even let me come out because of my fits. He would never let me marry.” Least of all you, she thought, but she didn’t want to have those ugly words said. “No matter what happened, I would have to wait until I turned twenty-one. And that’s a year and a half away.”

“Would you?” he asked. “Would you consider the wait, if we were in a story?”

But as much as she’d pretended this was an escape, this wasn’t a story.

“Every day we meet, I tell myself I shouldn’t come,” Emily said. “I’m afraid my uncle will find out, that he’ll start thinking of me as he thinks of Jane—well, never mind that.” She shut her eyes. “How can I consider the rest of my life when I can scarcely contemplate tomorrow?”

He drew back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It was a story. A story and a rhetorical question.” She looked at him and felt a wash of sadness. “The strange thing is, I think that if our parents had arranged our marriage, I would be happy with the prospect. Isn’t that daft? It’s only because I have a choice that I’m fretting.”

He took a step toward her. “You’d have a choice,” he said softly. “Your mother would love you. After we met, she’d come to you alone. ‘How did I do?’ she’d ask. ‘Do you like him?’ A parent offering her beloved child a precious gift and hoping that it finds favor.”

Emily thought of her father—the one who hadn’t even visited every year. She thought of the mother she didn’t even remember, one who had brushed off her inconvenient children, seeing them only as an audience to listen to her complaints about the country life her husband had forced on her. She thought about Titus’s sad little pout when she and Jane had driven off that horrid Doctor Fallon with his foul-smelling jars.

“No,” she said, trying not to choke on the words. “That isn’t what would happen. He’d say, ‘nineteen-year-old girls are given guardians because they cannot choose for themselves.’”

Anjan didn’t speak for a moment. Then he lifted his hand and slowly, ever so slowly, touched her cheek.

“This part isn’t a story,” he said. “This part is just the truth. If he won’t hold you precious, then I will.”

It was just his hand. It was just her cheek. Her eyes stung. She didn’t move away, didn’t try to hold back the liquid that burned her vision. She couldn’t say anything in response, and so she just stayed with him—long enough that a cloud slid lazily across the sky, casting them in shade, and then passed on, putting them in sunlight once more.

“I’ll consider your story,” Emily finally said huskily. “For all the difficulty I see in it, it would have its rewards.”

Chapter Thirteen

The evening of Bradenton’s gathering came all too quickly. After a few feverish days of planning, Oliver found himself in Bradenton’s home once again. This time, though, the house was packed with the marquess’s allies in Parliament, and so the rooms were rather too warm. There were more than twenty here tonight—a smattering of lords, Members of Parliament, and accompanying wives.

“Marshall.” Bradenton made his way to Oliver through the gathered group, looked about, and leaned in. “I have to say I’m disappointed. Disappointed and surprised.” His voice was low, scarcely audible in the din of conversation. “Everyone is here, and yet Miss Fairfield’s reign of ridiculousness continues unabated. I had expected better of you.”

Too bad Oliver’s own expectations had intervened. He smiled faintly. “Oh ye of little faith,” he intoned. “You said tonight, and tonight I plan to deliver.”

The marquess, who had been shaking his head, paused. “Really?”

They’d gone through the plan inch by painstaking inch. Across the room, Hapford caught Oliver’s eye. His fists clenched, and he looked away.

“Let’s just say,” Oliver said, “she is primed. By the end of the night, Miss Fairfield will know exactly where she belongs.”

“How delightful.” Bradenton smiled. “I knew you would come around. And yes, here she is.” He shrugged. “Knowing what I do, I can even be gracious.” He walked forward, a smile on his face. “Miss Fairfield. How lovely to have you here.”

Miss Fairfield’s response was lost in the noise, but Bradenton bowed and walked away.

Oliver approached her a few minutes later. “Miss Fairfield,” he said. “How are you this evening?” He already knew the answer. Her fingers twined together in nervous anticipation; her eyes were alight with possibility. He felt it, too—the thing they might achieve here tonight.

He felt a twinge of something stronger than anticipation looking at her. At the lips he hadn’t kissed, the veins in her wrist that he’d not examined with his fingertips. Of the smooth swell of her br**sts, no longer occluded even by black lace.

Don’t touch.

And so he didn’t. He inclined his head to her as if she were a trifling little acquaintance, and then let her go talk to the others. She wasn’t his, after all. They were just…

Friends.

Yes, he thought. That. How had they come to be just that?

For once, her heavy gown was almost unobjectionable. Yes, her wrists blazed with sparkling stones, and the brocade at her hem was a little too colorful. But the great excesses had been slightly muted, changing her from utterly impossible to merely overly exuberant.

Bradenton returned to her side with a lemonade. She took it—and then, when he offered his arm—took that too. Oliver watched as the man introduced his set—Canterly, Ellisford, Rockway—one after the other, running through the names so swiftly that nobody would have been able to recall them. Jane, of course, had been coached. She greeted everyone politely by name. She smiled. And—oh, yes—she wasn’t perfect. She flubbed Lord James Ward’s title—he was Lord James, as his father was a duke, not Lord Ward—but one of the Johnson twins, who flanked her, whispered in her ear and she flushed and apologized prettily.