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280 pages, ebook
First published July 15, 2013
Miss Jane Fairfield can’t do anything right. When she’s in company, she always says the wrong thing—and rather too much of it. No matter how costly they are, her gowns fall on the unfortunate side of fashion. Even her immense dowry can’t save her from being an object of derision.In case I haven’t yet made it clear, I love this story! Oliver is such a great character. He’s honorable, smart, caring, sexy… everything a romance novel hero should be. But he’s also troubled, and that makes him even more appealing. The decisions he faced, the choices he made – he’s definitely an imperfect man, trying to become “someone” in a world that demands perfection. But it’s his imperfections that make him perfect for the outrageously improper Miss Jane Fairfield.
And that’s precisely what she wants. She’ll do anything, even risk humiliation, if it means she can stay unmarried and keep her sister safe.
Mr. Oliver Marshall has to do everything right. He’s the bastard son of a duke, raised in humble circumstances—and he intends to give voice and power to the common people. If he makes one false step, he’ll never get the chance to accomplish anything. He doesn’t need to come to the rescue of the wrong woman. He certainly doesn’t need to fall in love with her. But there’s something about the lovely, courageous Jane that he can’t resist…even though it could mean the ruin of them both.
It hurt his head, that pink, yet he couldn't look away.
And there had been a time when he'd been the one saying all the wrong things.
She patted his hand comfortingly. "There's no need to worry," she confided. "Not everyone has that capability. You make up for any lack of intellect by being so kind."
It matters not how strait the gate,And Oliver? Don't I know it to stay quiet, bite your tongue, try to fit in although people won't let you forget. How soul crushing is the scene after his aunt Freddie's death, and how uplifting when he realises what is truly important in life? And I'll never forget your fuchsine coloured waist-coat. I always, always think of Oliver when I come across the word 'fuchsine'. Never mind that he started my slightly obsessive fascination with red-haired heroes.
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
He let his gaze drift down briefly, and then looking up at her. "Your gown, on the other hand..." He took a deep breath. "It makes me want to commit murder, and I do not consider myself a violent man. What are you wearing?"
"It's an evening gown." She spread her outrageously gloved hands over her hips.
"It is the most hideous shade of pink that I have ever seen in my life. Is it actually glowing?"
"Don't be ridiculous." But the smile on her face seemed more genuine.
"I fear it may be contagious," he continued. "It is setting all my preternatural urges on edge, whispering that the color must be catching. I feel an uncontrollable urge to run swiftly as far as I can in the other direction, lest my waistcoat fall prey next."
She actually laughed at that and brushed her shoulder. "This would make a lovely waistcoat, don't you think? But don't worry; the color isn't virulent. Yet.
"What does one call a color like that?"
She smiled at him. "Fuchsine."
"It even sounds like a filthy word," Oliver replied.
“Just say it,” she begged. “Shut up, Jane. See? It’s not hard.”
“Keep talking, Jane,” he said softly.
“Remember what I am contemplating. I don’t think I should be making you more vulnerable to me. Not at all.”
“Too late for that.”
"You", he said with a small gesture of his hand, "are an anti-chameleon."
"I am an ant-eating what?"
"And anti-chameleon. The opposite of a chameleon," he explained. "You change colors, yes. But when you are in sand, you fashion yourself a bight blue so that the sand knows that you are not part of it. When you are in water, you turn read so that everyone knows you are no liquid. Instead of blending in, you change so you stand out."
Jane swallowed hard.
"Well, Sebastian," Marshall said, turning back to his friend, what think you of that sort of adaption? What kind of creature tries to stand out from it's surroundings?"
Mr. Malheur frowned and rubbed his forehead as he considered the question. "Poisons ones," he finally said.
She would walk and smile, and nobody would know that she'd escaped the dreadful clutches of...of...
Not pirates. Not whalers. Not the czar of Russia.
"I've escaped the evil clutches of a nap", she announced to the road.
‘She was a blight. A poison. A pestilence. She was the enemy of all proper conversation. Grown men would rather be mauled to death by lions than converse with her.’![]()
‘He'd started caring more about becoming the kind of person who could make a change than he cared about the change itself.’![]()
‘...the great exesses had been slightly muted, changing her from utterly impossible to merly overly exuberant.![]()
“When you keep quiet, people fill in their own most intelligent thoughts on your behalf.”![]()
The sly implication that Oliver didn’t belong, the even slyer one that he’d been subsumed into Bradenton’s goals instead of being a person in his own right…Bradenton reminded him of an old farmer, walking the perimeter of his property every day, testing the fences and peering suspiciously at this neighbors, making sure that his side and their side were clearly delineated.
Oliver didn’t know his place. He’d spent too many nights seething at the way of things, too long wanting to rise in power, not just so that he might wield it, but so that he might wrest it from the hands of those who abused it. They’d spent years trying to teach him his place; he’d learned through long, hard experience that the only way forward was to keep quiet until he grew so tall they could no longer shove him down.The politically powerful Marquess of Bradenton holds a personal grudge against Jane Fairfield, and he recruits Oliver’s assistance in publicly taking her down a peg. Oliver doesn’t know Jane very well, but like everyone else he finds her rather ghastly. Oliver is tempted, as Bradenton has offered him political support that could significantly further Oliver’s aspirations. I love the clever way Milan describes the marquess – “like an old farmer, walking the perimeter of his property every day, testing the fences and peering suspiciously at his neighbors, making sure that his side and their side were clearly delineated.” Bradenton is evilly manipulative as he points out to Oliver that “in the end, we all know how this will work out. It’s one annoying girl against your entire future. Against the future of voting rights.”
"I see shoulders that dare not relax, muscles that dare not twitch, lips that dare not do anything but smile. You’re awash in choices, Miss Fairfield, but you know as well as I that the wrong one will bring your carefully husbanded awful reputation to naught."Finally, Oliver half-guesses and Jane half-confesses the reasons for her pretense, and Oliver tells her of Bradenton’s plot. As they grow closer, an unwanted attraction develops, but both of them know that it can proceed no further. Oliver needs the kind of wife who can advance his political career, and Jane is certainly not that woman. And so they part, and later even after they meet again, admit their feelings, and act upon them, they still go their separate ways because Jane is not cut out to be the wife that Oliver wants.
“Some people, when they’re hurt . . . they remember the challenge. They grab hold of the fire once, and when they’re burned, they make plans, trying to figure out how to hold live coals. That’s your mother. But some of us remember the pain.” She reached out and patted Oliver’s hand. “You’re like that. You remember the pain, and you flinch. When you were young, I thought you were like your mother—a regular coal-grabber. But no. Now I see more clearly.”It isn’t a spoiler to reveal that she dies at the end of the book and that the truth about her life brought a tear to my eye. It is her passing that finally jolts Oliver out of his complacency. He realizes that Jane is not wrong for him; she is precisely right.
“I don’t need that quiet wife. I need you. Someone bold. Someone who won’t let me stand back from myself, and who will tell me in no uncertain terms when I’ve erred.”There are so many interwoven themes, such wry humor, and so much beautiful prose in this book that I found it difficult to select the bits to include in this review. In my opinion, though, this is Courtney Milan’s best book yet, and given her track record that alone is saying a lot.
She didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve needed you to shock me out of the biggest mistake of my life. To make me recognize my fears and to reach into the fire and grab hold of the coals.”