Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Helena was far too observant for Jillian’s comfort.
The moment dinner dispersed into its usual collection of after-meal amusements—parlor games, card tables, musical attempts of varying quality, and the ever-present bustle of the matchmaking aunts—Helena wasted no time in capturing Jillian by the forearm and guiding her firmly out of the dining room.
Jillian managed a polite nod toward Lady Gertrude and a vague wave toward Henry before finding herself propelled down a quiet side corridor, up a narrow staircase seldom used by guests, and into a small sitting room overlooking the east gardens.
The door shut behind them with a decisive wooden snap.
Helena turned immediately, her expression a blend of concern and sisterly sternness. “Now,” she said, pressing her back against the door as if to prevent Jillian’s escape, “you are going to tell me precisely what happened at dinner.”
Jillian let out a sharp breath and folded her arms. “Dinner happened. Soup was served. There was polite conversation. Nothing that merits kidnapping me up an entire flight of stairs.”
“Do not be evasive,” Helena said, gesturing emphatically. “You and Miles sat side by side for two hours and not once did I hear you tell him he was irritating, annoying, bedlam inducing or vile.”
“I have never said those things… to him.”
“You have thought them with such vigor you may well have shouted them,” Helena insisted.
Jillian scowled. “Perhaps.”
“And Miles,” Helena continued, pacing a short, flustered line, “did not glare at you even once. He did not look like he was silently reciting a prayer for patience. He—Jillian, I cannot believe I am speaking these words—actually smiled at you.”
“That was hardly a smile,” Jillian said, reaching up to adjust a curl that had slipped loose. “It was a social reflex devoid of sincerity, meaning and depth.”
“It was a smile,” Helena insisted, stabbing a finger toward her. “And he gave it to you.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. “You are making too much of this.”
Helena narrowed her gaze, assessing her sister with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “No. You are making too little of it. Sit.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Sit,” Helena ordered, pointing at a chair with commanding authority.
Jillian sighed and sank into the nearest one. Helena crossed her arms and waited.
Jillian knew when she was beaten.
“Very well,” she said at last, lifting her chin. “It is a hoax.”
Helena blinked. “A… what?”
“A hoax,” Jillian repeated, spreading her hands as if the matter were perfectly straightforward.
“Miles and I have agreed to a temporary deception. A truce, for lack of a better word, designed to persuade our respective aunts that their matchmaking efforts are bearing fruit— a trojan horse if you will. In doing so, we hope they will be satisfied and cease their infernal meddling.”
Helena sank into the opposite chair as though her knees could no longer hold her. “You and Miles agreed to that together?”
“Yes.”
“You and Miles,” Helena repeated, slower this time, “sat beside each other, spoke to each other, cooperated with each other, and made a plan?”
Jillian bristled. “There is no need to sound so incredulous. We are, despite our mutual dislike of one another, reasonably intelligent individuals who can work toward the greater good!”
“There is every need,” Helena countered. “I am rather astonished neither of you burst into flames. Heavens! Lightning might well have split the dining room table in half.”
“It is entirely pragmatic,” Jillian said, rising again in agitation. “We both want the same thing: peace. The only way to obtain it is to make them believe they are succeeding.”
Helena rubbed her temples, visibly overwhelmed. “This is dangerous, Jillian.”
“It is not dangerous,” Jillian said dismissively. “It is temporary. Entirely manageable. And thoroughly devoid of emotion.”
“Emotion has nothing to do with it,” Helena argued, leaning forward.
“Deceptions take on their own momentum. And you and Miles…” She waved her hand helplessly.
“The two of you have never been able to share a sentence without turning it into an academic duel. The pair of you are like spitting cats… neither capable of subtlety.”
“A regrettable exaggeration,” Jillian said, though she did not feel entirely convinced of her own words.
“It is a powder keg,” Helena insisted softly. “And you are lighting a fuse.”
Jillian opened her mouth to protest again, but Helena stood abruptly, her shoulders tight with something between worry and resignation.
“I have said my piece,” Helena murmured. “And heaven knows you will do precisely as you please regardless of any warning I give.” She touched Jillian’s cheek gently. “Just take care, my dear.”
With that, Helena slipped past her, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.
The soft tread of her slippers faded down the stairs, leaving Jillian alone in the stillness of the dim little room.
Only when Helena’s footsteps vanished entirely into the distance—beyond the landing, beyond the main corridor, wholly out of sight and earshot—did Jillian release the breath she’d been holding.
A breath she’d been holding because she feared, on a level she cared not to examine, that her sister might well be right.
The silence that followed was thick and oddly charged. She rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling warm and restless. Perhaps she needed a stroll. Or a book. Or distance from the room where Helena’s words still hovered like unsettled dust.
Jillian crossed to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out—
directly into a solid chest.
She gasped as the impact jolted through her. Her slipper slid on the polished floor. She pitched backward—-and a pair of strong hands closed around her before gravity could claim her.
One arm wrapped firmly behind her back; the other grasped her upper arm with steady, instinctive strength. The dim candlelight from the wall sconces cast shadows across his features as he pulled her against him to keep her from falling.
Jillian’s hands landed on his chest—warm, solid, far too broad—and she felt the shock of contact shoot through her as if her nerves had been struck like a tuning fork.
Miles inhaled sharply, the sound low and tense. His face hovered only inches from hers, his breath brushing her cheek. “I—I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice roughened at the edges, as though the words had trouble forming.
Jillian swallowed hard, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his coat. “It was… my fault,” she murmured, though her voice sounded thin and unsteady even to her own ears. “I did not expect anyone to be standing… directly there.”
“I did not expect anyone to come barreling through the door,” Miles replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if he were too disoriented to form proper irritation. His hands remained firmly around her waist, steadying her—and he did not release her.
The corridor was empty. Silent. Entirely deserted.
And they were alone.
The awareness of that fact unfurled slowly between them, warm and dangerous, like the glow of banked embers stirring to life.
Jillian felt her breath catch. She could see the flecks of gold in his eyes at this proximity—something she had never noticed before, because she had never been this close to him.
She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms, and she froze, unsure whether to step back or hold her ground.
Miles seemed just as unsure.
His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes, the movement swift but unmistakable. His fingers tightened minutely at her waist, betraying the slightest tremor.
“Jillian,” he said softly—so softly she barely heard him.
Her heart gave an unruly leap. “Miles,” she whispered, unable to look away.
Neither moved.
The air seemed to draw tight around them, charged with something unspoken and entirely improper. Her pulse hammered wildly; her breath came too quickly; her skin tingled everywhere he touched her. It was absurd. Impossible. Unthinkably intimate.
Miles looked as though he might step back—or step closer—but neither choice resolved, leaving them suspended in an agonizing, breathless limbo.
Then a floorboard creaked somewhere far down the main corridor—perhaps a servant, perhaps no one at all—but it was enough to jolt them both.
Miles dropped his hands as if her gown had caught fire. Jillian stumbled backward a half-step, mortified by the trembling that betrayed her.
“I—excuse me,” Miles said, his voice strained and decidedly unsteady. He bowed stiffly, though his eyes refused to settle anywhere near hers.
Jillian straightened her spine, though her knees felt unreliable. “No apology necessary,” she said quickly, even too quickly. “I am perfectly well.”
“Good,” he replied, though the word wavered.
“Good,” she echoed, because she could think of nothing else to say that did not sound scandalous.
A thick, awkward silence lingered until Miles stepped aside with rigid courtesy. “If you wish to pass,” he said, attempting composure but failing in the slightest quaver at the end, “you may.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She moved past him carefully, acutely aware of every inch of distance—or lack thereof—between them. Miles turned the other way, each of them fleeing in opposite directions like startled birds.
Only when Jillian reached the far end of the corridor did she pause, one hand pressed hard to her galloping heart.
Helena had said her deception was dangerous.
Jillian had dismissed it.
But now—now she understood with uncomfortable clarity that danger had a way of changing shape, shifting and undulating like some living thing. Unpredictable and wild.
And Miles Fairfax, curse him, was no longer merely an adversary.
He had become a very particular kind of threat. The tempting sort.