Compromises, kisses, kidnapping: As a wealthy heiress, Thalia Halperin is all too familiar with the tools in a fortune-hunter's arsenal. But when Oliver Marshall, a proud and honorable solicitor, refuses to engage in any of these underhanded tactics, she decides to take matters into her own hands.
She abducts him herself. Then she seduces him. When Oliver discovers that Thalia engineered his abduction, he loses his temper and she loses his trust. Now that the attraction between them has been consummated, they can't even keep their distance. But until they find their confidence in each other, they won't be able to address the reason why Thalia refuses to marry: There's a killer out there who's determined to take control of Thalia's wealth. The villain has already had one of Thalia's fiances beaten to death. And if he discovers Thalia's feelings for Oliver, he'll want to kidnap him, too.
. Is the book finished?
. Well, yes. But there are a few structural changes
that I need to make. I have a secondary character whose character arc doesn't
really cohere yet. I have a lot of extraneous stuff going on, from a point earlier in
time when I imagined there would be a lot more interest in how Thalia resolved what I
thought was a crucial plot-point that turned out not to be crucial at all. And I have
three or four scenes that just aren't doing it for me. After I get through Jenny's book,
I'll probably turn to this one.
. Are you going to totally rewrite it like you did Ornithology?
. God willing, no.
. Are you going to have major structural revisions every time
you write a book?
. I don't know. I'm hoping not. Every time I do one of these,
I learn a heck of a lot about how to avoid making the same mistakes in the future. I learned
a ton writing this book; before I wrote it, I didn't understand conflict. There are scenes in here
that I wrote and rewrote three times until they worked, and getting that down on the page, and learning
how to figure out when and how something wasn't working, really helped me when I rewrote Ornithology. But
on the other hand, if that's what it takes to make it work right, that's what it takes.
. Do you wish you'd written Oliver as a lord?
. No.
. Why not? They sell better.
. That's only because people haven't yet discovered the
absolute sexiness of solicitors. Mu ha ha.
ondon. August, 1840.
"Freddy," said the cool voice behind the library door, "if you don't unhand me this instant, I'll smack you."
Out in the corridor, Oliver Hugo Marshall halted. Long ago, he'd suffocated his reckless tendency to charge ahead in the name of justice, buried it beneath sheaves of paper crossed with india-inked law hand. Or so he'd thought. But after all these years, the low alto elicited that familiar, heady rush.
"You know I love you so." The man's voice cracked, absurdly high, on the last word. "Just--Ow! Just let me prove to you how much--stop it!--how much--hold still, damn you!"
Oliver was a boy no longer. He had a career to consider, and clients who depended on him. Besides, a political soiree was no place to rush to the rescue. He sighed and adjusted his spectacles where they pinched the bridge of his nose. As he always did when he needed to think, he began to count.
He reached one.
That was enough to make up his mind. He slid one hand through unruly hair, schooled his eyes to grey indifference, and pushed the door open.
The diffuse gaslight silhouetted a short man. He grasped the shoulders of a much taller woman in an attempt to jerk her down for a kiss. Oliver recognized the lady instantly. Everyone knew her; after all, Miss Thalia Halperin was scandalously wealthy and miles above his touch. She snatched up one of the leather-bound volumes that rested on a table, and smacked her assailant on the head. The dark ringlets framing her face quivered with the blow.
"Ow!" The little fellow reached for her again. One arm shielded his face; the other grabbed blindly. His fingers clenched around rose-colored sleeve and an ominous rip sounded.
Miss Halperin swung to face her attacker, book raised high. "Freddy, what do you think you're about? Stop--"
Oliver cleared his throat. Both participants in the little drama jumped, like barn mice scurrying from the screech of an owl. "Freddy" turned towards the interruption, his face catching the light for the first time. And Oliver's innards turned to ice. That razor-thin face, dominated by a scrubby orange mustache, belonged to Frederick Barnstable the Third, son of the powerful MP who hosted this gathering.
Oliver had just begun to make friends in Parliament. Even with the influence he now wielded, he couldn't afford to make enemies.
But the low collar of the lady's gown had slipped, torn from her shoulder almost to her elbow. A swath of hair, emancipated from a complicated chignon, curled down her neck. To make matters worse, forbidding footsteps clattered in the corridor behind him. If Oliver abandoned the scene, he knew what would happen. Barnstable undoubtedly coveted Miss Halperin--or, rather, her enormous fortune. With her gown in disarray and her hair loose, she would be caught with nobody to play propriety except the books and a few guttering candles. But there was nothing Oliver could do; he could hardly afford to set himself up against the Barnstables. The situation was hopeless.
Hopeless? Oliver jerked his chin in stubborn denial. In his thirty-three years, that word had been shoved in his face before, and often. Even now, Oliver could hear how his father would answer. There's no such thing as a hopeless task.
Oliver set his jaw and strode directly between Miss Halperin and her attacker. This close, he could make out the startling cobalt of her eyes, framed by nutmeg eyelashes slightly darker than her hair.
Her skin was a trifle sallow and her lips too thin for real beauty. The ferocious scowl on her face didn't make her any more attractive. But she wielded her book--Robinson Crusoe--like a club. They at least had something in common, Oliver thought, suppressing a smile. Words were his weapon of choice, too.
"My apologies," he murmured.
He grasped the torn edge of her sleeve, brushing the warm skin of her shoulder. He tucked the seam into her dress. A temporary expedient, but it only needed to meet the demands of the next minute. When he repinned the tendril of hair, silky against his fingertips, the scent of wild lavender wafted to him, and a rush of longing swept over him.
There was no time for longing. The footsteps in the corridor drew nearer. Oliver scanned his handiwork one last time and snatched the volume from her fingers. He flipped it upside down and around, hiding the title against his chest. One light push sent her back two steps.
Oliver's rescripting of the event had taken five seconds. Barnstable was still frozen in place, dumbfounded.
She, on the other hand, glared. "Who are you? What are you doing?"
"I'm helping." Oliver peered down at the ungrateful woman through his spectacles. There was no time to give more of an explanation. They would be here in one, two--
On three, the door burst open.
"Oh, dear!" The woman in the lead raised her hands in theatrical outrage. "What is going on here?"
She stopped dead, cerulean taffeta flapping about her ankles. Mrs. Angela Barnstable, wife of one of Parliament's most prominent members, surveyed the scene. Instead of a disheveled girl receiving kisses, three people were arrayed at a close, but proper distance. Mrs. Barnstable's green eyes glittered. The contrived look of horror flickered from her face, warring momentarily with real confusion. Her companions milled behind her, trotting in her magnificent wake like ugly ducklings trailing a swan.
Oliver allowed himself a small, satisfied smile on the inside. On the outside, he blinked owlishly through his glasses.
Mrs. Barnstable frowned at her son. "What," she repeated, "is going on here?"
That was Oliver's cue to remove all hint of prurience from the situation. Easy enough. He was a solicitor; there was no cure for impropriety so effective as a prayer to legal Mumbo Jumbo. He cleared his throat pretentiously.
"An offer of matrimony having been extended by this individual, to wit, one Mr. Frederick Barnstable, to my client, Miss Thalia Halperin, she asked me to remain in attendance and deliver counsel as to whether the connection would be a desirable one."
Dead silence greeted this pronouncement. Freddy's square jaw worked in confusion. He fixed dull cow's eyes on Oliver. "What's that you said?"
Having achieved the necessary effect, Oliver unbent a little. "My client asked whether it would be wise to marry you."
Barnstable screwed up his mouth. No doubt the fellow was trying to determine exactly how his too-enthusiastic proposal had turned into a boring meeting with clauses and sub-clauses. Little lines about Miss Halperin's eyes gathered in pleasure.
"Uh." Mr. Barnstable scratched his orange mustache. "And what do you say?"
Oliver donned his most pious expression. "Having examined the circumstances of the proposed arrangement, I must advise my client to decline such an unequal partnership. That is my purely professional judgment, you understand."
Freddy's nose wrinkled. "Pardon?"
Miss Halperin stepped into the breach. "He said no."
The women gaggling in the doorway exchanged confused glances. No doubt Angela Barnstable had whispered something about her poor, innocent son and they'd come at a run. They'd hardly expected lawyering.
"But--but--" Freddy rolled his eyes helplessly, undoubtedly looking for a way to snatch Miss Halperin--or, more likely, her positively gargantuan dowry--from the jaws of ignominious defeat.
Oliver flipped Robinson Crusoe open, careful to cover the title with his hand. He hoped that the knot of gossipy women would take it for a law treatise. One he had undoubtedly consulted case by case before delivering sedate, sober advice. The volume was a mite thin to pass as, say, Blackstone's Commentaries, and the binding should have been tan calfskin instead of the aged black leather that cracked beneath his fingers. But who here would know that?
"Now, Mr. Barnstable, were your personal estate less encumbered, I might have delivered a more favorable judgment. It is decidedly not my place to advise you on your affairs, but have you considered applying for a writ de leproso amovendo as to your own person? It could only improve your situation."
Freddy's vacuous gaze flicked across the room. "Uh."
He looked at Oliver. He looked at Miss Halperin. In desperation, he even looked at his mother. Her nostrils flared slightly, but nobody translated.
Finally, Freddy nodded. "Right. Of course. I'm actually already doing, uh--that thing. What you said."
Oliver inclined his head politely. "Should you succeed," he said, "you may address further inquiries to me. Miss Halperin will undoubtedly be too busy to pursue the matter herself."
In other words: Go away, and never come back.
Oliver waited in keen interest as Freddy's lips moved. He could pinpoint the exact moment when the man's meager intelligence extracted the sentiment, because Mr. Barnstable huffed and cast a pleading glance at his mother.
Mrs. Barnstable's lips thinned as she turned to Oliver. One comprehensive glance absorbed everything about him. Her nose wrinkled; Oliver felt suddenly, frustratingly aware of every imperfection in his appearance, from the scuff on his shoes to the untamable curls in his hair. But she didn't dismiss him. Her eyes narrowed in recognition. "It's Mr. Marshall, isn't it? The Mr. Marshall from Leicester?"
Oliver schooled his face to cold indifference and acknowledged her question with a slight inclination of his head.
She tapped her fingers against her lips. "Miss Halperin is not your usual sort of client."
"I do try to offer trustworthy advice to all my clients."
His tone was mild, but Mrs. Barnstable inhaled through flared nostrils, undoubtedly recognizing the words as the threat they posed. She wanted--she needed--Oliver's political influence with the businessmen of the Midlands every bit as much as he needed hers. Her cold stare locked with his, and she battled for superiority.
She bent her neck first. "Indeed." Her acquiescence was stiff, but sweet. "Perhaps we'll speak of your other advice later."
She'd backed down. He didn't let one iota of relief show. Hopeless, Oliver thought with a touch of pride. Ha! He snapped the book shut and tucked it under his arm. "Miss Halperin, may I see you to your carriage?"
"Why--yes. Yes."
Amusement threaded through her words. He turned to her and nearly stepped back in surprise. On first glance, he'd dismissed her as unattractive. A second glance was all he needed to change his mind. She was tall and lithe, like a dryad, and her scowl had been replaced with an inner incandescence. She looked up at him. Her eyes shone with more than a reflection of the orange gaslight. In that instant, the unruffled calm he'd gathered around him vanished. Like the otherworldly creature she appeared to be, she'd bespelled it away.
And then she smiled at him. Do not, Oliver cautioned himself, grin like an adolescent. Instead, he offered her his arm. Together they left the library and strolled down the hall. Sedately. Slowly. Quietly.
At least, it was quiet until she snickered aloud. The sound reverberated through the hard marble foyer.
Excellent. There was nothing more annoying than being clever when nobody appreciated it.
"Hush," he admonished. "They might still hear you."
She glanced over at him. "I'm Thalia Halperin."
"I know. I'm Mr. Oliver Marshall. At your service."
"Are you really a solicitor?"
Oliver nodded.
She turned her head towards him. "So what the devil is a--a--writ de--what was it again?"
Oliver slanted a surprised look at her. Curious language for a lady. But Miss Halperin could afford to curse. With her fortune, she could undoubtedly afford a great many things.
"The writ de leproso amovendo?" Oliver looked behind him. "Don't laugh when I say it. We're still in earshot. It's a writ to move lepers so as to avoid contagion."
She choked. "Is there such a thing? Poor Freddy."
He stopped and fixed her with his best deadpan. "Miss Halperin," he lectured, "of course there is such a thing. We live in a country ordered by law, not chaos. Would you want someone moving your lepers out of hand?"
She snorted as a footman retrieved a diaphanous shawl and summoned a carriage. She settled the fabric around her shoulders.
"You think such rules humorous? I am aghast. Were I a man of violence, I should undoubtedly take action myself. But I am a solicitor, and bound by the rule of law. I shall apply to the courts forthwith for a writ de haeretico comburendo."
She raised an eyebrow.
"That would be the writ obtained for the burning of heretics. Alas, it sees little use these days, Parliament having retired it." He sighed dolefully. "If only the Tories hadn't won--"
That did it. She burst into laughter. A warm, possessive thrill shot up his arm, emanating from the point where her fingertips rested. There was nothing more powerfully attractive than a woman who appreciated his dry humor.
That tendril of hair had fallen loose from her coiffure again. It kissed the milky-white edge of her collarbone, and Oliver longed to brush the strand back, to run his fingertips up her smooth neck. He imagined his thumb brushing her jaw, thought about his lips descending slowly onto hers.
But even if they had been alone--even if the gold-liveried footmen had all disappeared--even then he wouldn't have done it. After all, Oliver well knew the difference between hopeless and impossible. London's greatest heiress would never stoop to kiss the charity-educated son of a pig-farmer. Not even if he'd forged a respectable name for himself as a clever solicitor.
Drat.
He masked his disappointment by motioning for a footman. When the confused fellow stepped forward, Oliver handed him Robinson Crusoe.
"I believe that this volume belongs in the family library. How it came to be out here is beyond me."
