Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Miles had slept perhaps an hour—two, at most—though “sleep” was a generous word for the restless, fevered state he endured until dawn.
Every time he closed his eyes, the image returned with startling vividness: Jillian Hale pressed against him in the dim corridor, her breath mingling with his, her hands resting against his chest as if that was where they belonged.
Touching him. Tormenting him with a kind of promise that he’d never dared to let himself imagine.
A man could be forgiven for dwelling on such a moment.
But Miles Fairfax was not accustomed to losing command over his own thoughts.
It was intolerable.
By half past six, he abandoned any further attempt at rest. He rose from his bed with the kind of weary irritation that accompanied only the most vexing matters of the heart or less noble portions of one’s anatomy—or, as he insisted to himself, matters of propriety grossly mishandled.
He dressed quickly and without the assistance of a valet, preferring solitude even in these small rituals, and pulled on his riding boots with more force than necessary.
Outside, snow still lay thick upon the ground, but the stables were already stirring.
The morning air bit sharply at his lungs as he led a bay gelding from its stall.
The stable master approached with a knowing expression, which Miles ignored with the efficiency of long practice.
It was too early for conversation, too early for speculation, and far too early for anyone to suspect the truth—that he was riding out solely to avoid the possibility of encountering Jillian at breakfast.
He mounted, exhaling a cloud of frost as the horse shifted beneath him.
The early light painted Fairhaven’s grounds in cold shades of silver and pale blue.
Hoofbeats muffled against the snow as he guided his horse through the frost-tipped trees and out along the ridge where he could think—or attempt to think.
Unfortunately, thinking was precisely the problem.
No amount of brisk riding, cold air, or deliberate contemplation succeeded in banishing the memory of Jillian’s breathless whisper of his name.
Or the way her fingers had curled against his coat as though she had sought his steadiness, his strength.
He had not imagined that—he could not have.
And yet, imagining what might have happened if he had not stepped away tormented him more thoroughly than a dozen sleepless nights could have.
He cursed under his breath.
It was ludicrous. She was ludicrous. The entire situation was ludicrous.
They detested one another, for heaven’s sake!
Or at the very least, she detested him. He had thought.
For himself, he’d taken a perverse sort of pleasure in needling her.
Because he’d never, try as he might, been able to succeed at fully ignoring her.
That alone should have told him something had he not been too blockheaded to consider it.
Jillian Hale—acerbic, brilliant, sharp-tongued, self-assured Jillian—was the last woman he ought to find himself contemplating.
She unsettled him. She challenged him. She irritated him with startling regularity.
And yet he had not been able to forget the tremor that had run through her when he caught her.
Nor the softness he had glimpsed beneath her habitual shields—an unguarded moment he was certain she had never intended him to witness.
A moment that made him wonder what other secrets she kept, what other hidden softness and vulnerability lay beneath her prickly shields.
He tugged on the reins, slowing his mount to a halt near the grove that overlooked the frozen lake. Snowflakes drifted lazily from low clouds, dusting his coat and hair. He brushed them away, though the gesture felt futile.
“Get hold of yourself,” he muttered. “It was a moment. A misunderstanding. A collision, nothing more.”
But the words rang hollow.
If he had leaned closer… if he had not heard the floorboard creak… if damnable propriety had not yanked him back to sense… he would have his answer. His answer to what, though?
Miles gritted his teeth, refusing to complete the thought.
He urged the horse onward, circling back toward the estate with renewed purpose.
If he simply avoided the breakfast room, avoided the hallways leading to it, avoided any of the common sitting rooms until after noon—surely he could escape the unavoidable scrutiny of their relatives and, more importantly, avoid Jillian herself.
At least until he had his libidinous urges somewhat more in check!
He dismounted in the stable yard and returned his gelding to the care of a sleepy stable boy.
Snow clung once again to his hair and coat, and he brushed it away with a sharp, impatient gesture.
Entering through the side door that led to a lesser-used servants’ corridor, he congratulated himself—prematurely—on his cleverness.
The corridor was quiet. Blessedly so. The rest of the household would be gathering for breakfast. With luck, he would reach the sanctuary of the upstairs library before anyone realized he was awake.
He made it precisely four steps.
Then someone rounded the corner at the exact same moment he did.
They collided with the same force and shock as the night before. But this time, there was instant recognition. Because he knew the feel of her, the weight of her pressing against him, the sweet scent of her as it washed over him.
Jillian.
She gasped as their bodies struck, her hand flying instinctively to brace herself against the wall—except the wall was, once again, him.
Miles caught her reflexively, hands closing around her upper arms as her weight tipped into him.
Her bonnet was askew from what must have been a hasty attempt to dress without assistance; a few curls had escaped and brushed softly against her cheek.
Her lips parted on a sharp inhale, her eyes wide with recognition, horror, and something else he dared not name.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jillian blurted, breathless. “Not again.”
Miles swallowed. “My thoughts precisely.”
She straightened immediately—too quickly—forcing him to steady her once more before releasing her. Her hands fluttered at her skirts, attempting to smooth the fabric with a composure she did not possess.
“I was merely trying to avoid the breakfast room,” she said, taking a quick step back, though her cheeks betrayed a warm flush. “I thought everyone would be gathered there.”
“As was I,” Miles replied stiffly, brushing a bit of snow from his shoulder. “That was… the intention.”
She blinked at him, her lips tightening, not in irritation this time but in embarrassment. “So, in our attempts to avoid each other—”
“We are instead doing the opposite,” he finished, a grim thread of humor winding through the words.
“Yes,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Apparently fate is determined to shove us together.”
“Or Fairhaven is, if Beatrice is to be believed,” Miles said dryly, remembering the mistletoe that had landed on his shoulder the previous evening.
Jillian’s brows lifted. “Do not start that again.”
“I am not starting anything,” Miles replied. “The house appears to be.”
She fought a smile—he could see the battle in the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth—but she mastered herself before it could emerge. “We are not discussing that. And we are certainly not repeating… last night’s incident.”
“No,” Miles agreed quickly, far too quickly. “We shall not. Ever again.”
She looked as though she wished to challenge his choice of the word never, but instead she smoothed her gloves with sharp, purposeful movements. “Then we must proceed with caution. You go that way.” She gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “And I shall go that way.”
“That seems the most prudent course.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” he echoed, though he found himself unable to look away from her.
Her breath caught—very softly, but enough for him to notice. She turned abruptly, as if the corridor itself were aflame, and strode in the direction she had indicated. Miles remained rooted to the floor a moment longer than was reasonable, every muscle taut from the effort of restraint.
He exhaled slowly, deeply.
It was going to be a very long morning.
And if fate—or Fairhaven House itself—continued its interference, Miles suspected it would be a very long Christmas as well.