Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Dinner at Fairhaven was always lively, but on the first night of the Christmas gathering it bordered on pandemonium.
Guests filled the long table bathed in the light as candles burned brightly in their silver sconces.
A cheerful din of conversation floated around the room like a particularly determined swarm of bees.
Jillian entered with Aunt Gertrude, prepared for holiday chaos, but entirely unprepared for the sight of her place card.
She halted mid-stride, staring at the dreadful piece of folded parchment as though it had personally betrayed her. “No,” she whispered under her breath. “Absolutely not.”
Miles Fairfax stood directly behind her, and when he saw her name beside his, he stopped as well. A muscle ticked in his jaw before he said, in a tone of grave resignation, “It appears we have been trapped.”
“By design,” Jillian replied sourly. She did not need to turn to know Lady Beatrice was lurking somewhere nearby, waiting for her triumph to be acknowledged.
Miles stepped around to pull out her chair with perfect manners, though the slight arch of his brow suggested he hoped she appreciated the agony such good behavior cost him. She offered him a tight smile and lowered herself into the seat with the poise of a woman resigned to suffering.
“Lady Jillian,” he murmured, adjusting his napkin with fastidious precision, “a pleasure as always.”
She lifted her wineglass. “How remarkable that your definition of pleasure aligns so closely with torment.”
Lady Beatrice, positioned on Jillian’s other side, leaned forward with the bright-eyed look of someone observing a stage play. “Is this not delightful?” she asked, clasping her hands. “Seated together again. One might almost believe the benevolent spirits of Fairhaven arranged it.”
On the tip of her tongue, Jillian tasted the bitterness of a comment about Lady Beatrice’s advanced age not quite giving her claim to the spirit world just yet.
But she bit it back and managed a slightly less scathing comment.
“I believe you arranged it,” Jillian said, not bothering to temper her voice.
It made no difference; Beatrice heard only what she wished.
“Fairhaven works through its residents,” Beatrice replied airily. “In mysterious ways.”
Miles let out a quiet, suffering breath and unfolded his napkin with more force than necessary. “Lady Beatrice,” he said, finally acknowledging her, “your faith in the house’s influence is… admirable.”
“Oh, it is not faith, dear boy. It is experience.”
Jillian angled her body slightly toward him and lowered her voice. “If she assigns meaning to the way you butter your roll, I am going to feign a swoon.”
“That would only encourage her,” Miles replied, keeping his gaze carefully on his plate.
“A sadly astute prediction,” he concurred.
Their soup was served, but neither reached for it.
Jillian could feel Miles’s tension radiating across the narrow space between them.
It was unusual—almost unsettling—for him to seem so visibly cornered.
When she glanced over, she caught him watching Beatrice’s end of the table with the focus of a man anticipating incoming artillery.
Miles leaned toward her slightly. “If you continue glaring at me like that,” he said, the low timbre of his voice threaded with dry annoyance, “everyone will assume we are secretly engaged.”
Jillian’s spoon hovered over her soup. “No one with even passingly functional vision would come to that conclusion,” she whispered back.
“They would if they are determined to do so. And they”—he inclined his head toward the trio of matchmaking aunts—“are very determined.”
Jillian followed his gaze. Agatha and Cecilia were bent together, whispering ferociously behind their fans, while Beatrice kept darting glances toward Jillian and Miles with the air of someone awaiting applause.
“Oh dear,” Jillian murmured as she watched them. “They are plotting something.”
“They are always plotting something,” Miles replied, lifting his spoon only to set it down again with a sigh.
“Something worse than usual, then,” Jillian conceded.
“Agreed.”
Henry, seated several guests down, leaned forward and called lightly, “I see the two of you conversing without visible hostility. Should I alert the newspapers?”
Miles shot him a withering look. Jillian ignored him entirely.
Miles turned back to her. “We must do something.”
“About the aunts?” she asked.
“About the entire situation.”
“That seems rather broad.”
“It is intended to be. This is a volatile situation.”
Jillian bit back a smile. He looked almost pained by the necessity of speaking with her, which naturally made her wish to prolong the conversation.
“What do you propose, Mr. Fairfax?” she asked, her tone just shy of polite mockery.
“I propose,” he said with a measured breath, “that we consider a temporary truce.”
She blinked at him. “A truce?”
“Do not look at me as if I suggested matrimony,” he muttered, straightening the silverware unnecessarily. “It is merely a strategy.”
“A strategy for what?”
He nodded ever so slightly toward the matchmaking aunts again. “For survival.”
Jillian studied him, trying to determine whether he was serious.
He looked entirely serious—serious enough that she felt an unexpected flicker of sympathy.
Miles Fairfax, the paragon of composure, undone by a handful of overzealous relatives.
It was almost endearing, which irritated her beyond measure.
“And what would this truce entail?” she asked cautiously.
“Only that we behave,” he said, pausing as if forced to swallow something unpleasant, “civilly.”
“Civilly,” she repeated.
“For a limited duration.”
“Good heavens.”
Miles gave her a pained look. “You may mock the idea, but you know as well as I do that if we resist their efforts, they will only redouble them. That harder we appear to fight, the more enthusiastic their efforts will become!”
Jillian considered this. Unfortunately, he was right.
If the aunts believed there was animosity between her and Miles—which there was—they naturally assume that both of them “doth protest too much”.
They would consider it their personal mission to force opportunities for reconciliation.
Endless opportunities. Manufactured opportunities.
Possibly involving sleigh rides, contrived strolls in the snow, or being maneuvered beneath mistletoe with even more suspicious frequency.
“If we behave as though they are succeeding,” Miles continued, “they will relax. They may even become distracted by someone else.”
“Someone else?” Jillian arched a brow. “Who?”
He shrugged slightly. “Anyone. Preferably someone who enjoys attention.”
“Or someone who deserves it,” she murmured.
He glanced at her sidelong. “Do you consider yourself undeserving?”
“I consider myself uninterested.”
“Ah,” he said, allowing himself the barest hint of a smirk, “then we are aligned on that matter.”
Jillian drew in a slow breath. “Very well. A truce.”
Miles nodded once. “A truce.”
Beatrice, who had absolutely no talent for subtle observation but an extraordinary talent for overhearing precisely what was least convenient, let out a delighted, audible gasp.
Both Jillian and Miles froze. Cecilia nearly dropped her fork, and Agatha looked as though she had witnessed a minor miracle.
Jillian pressed a hand to her temple. “What have we done?”
“We have begun a deception,” Miles said under his breath, “from which there is no return.”
“At your inistence,” she reminded him.
“My insistence, yes. Let us both hope it is not much to my great regret.”
They turned back to their plates with synchronized dread. Jillian lifted her wineglass again, desperate for fortification.
“This will be dreadful,” she murmured.
Miles reached for his own glass. “Indeed.”
“Absolutely dreadful.”
“Unquestionably.”
She took a long sip. “At least we shall not be alone in our misery.”
He hesitated, then clinked his glass lightly against hers. “A small comfort,” he agreed.
A small comfort indeed—though something inside Jillian whispered that comfort, however small, could be dangerous.
Very dangerous.