Chapter
One
Snow had begun falling in earnest by the time the carriage bearing Lady Jillian Hale and her aunt Gertrude had turned onto the long lane approaching Fairhaven House. The somewhat austere lines of the stately home were softened beneath layers of white that made the entire place appear deceptively serene. Jillian knew better. Nothing was ever serene at Fairhaven during Christmas, not when her sister Helena and Helena’s exuberant in-laws filled every warm corner with good cheer, meddlesome intentions, and a prevailing belief that romance was something one could engineer like a clockwork mechanism. The house had that reputation even without the rumors of matchmaking ghosts, though Jillian attributed all of that to overactive imaginations and drafty corridors rather than actual spectral involvement. Still, she had the uncomfortable sense that the holiday might prove more eventful than she wished, and she had not even stepped down from the carriage yet.
She had just reached for the door when the unmistakable rumble of another coach sounded behind them. Her maid made the dire mistake of glancing out the window and confirming Jillian’s worst suspicion: another Fairfax carriage was pulling in,this one bearing the livery she most dreaded. Jillian did not need to be told who had arrived. Some unfortunate souls developed a sixth sense for danger; Jillian had developed one specifically for the very bane of her existence… The right, honorable and wretchedly overbearing Mr. Miles Fairfax.
She stepped down into the snow, doing her best to arrange her expression into one of bland civility before he emerged. But of course, there he was within seconds. Unhampered by heavy skirts and ridiculous footwear, he’d jumped down from his own coach with an almost animalistic grace that was second nature to the tall, dark-haired, and all too handsome man. As per usual, he carried himself with that particular brand of composure Jillian had always suspected was less natural grace and more the result of permanent, tedious self-control. Snowflakes clung to his coat and hair, making him look almost romantically windswept, a fact which irritated Jillian deeply, for it was entirely too flattering for a man who had once referred to her (she was certain of this) as “a too decorative nuisance.”
He noticed her immediately. His expression did not change much—Miles Fairfax rarely allowed his features the luxury of emotion—but there was a slight tightening around his eyes, a telltale tension that Jillian had come to interpret as disapproval.Disdain.She returned the sentiment with immaculate politeness and a cool smile that suggested she could, if asked, deliver a twenty-minute lecture on his many shortcomings, likely without ever having to repeat herself even once.
From inside the house, a squeal emerged and the doors burst open. Her sister Helena swept forward into the snow to embrace Jillian with warm enthusiasm. Then, a moment later, greeted Miles with the careful warmth one offered a skittish horse or a gentleman with volatile tendencies. Lord Henry Fairfax joined them shortly thereafter with the air of a man who had already resigned himself to the inevitable spectacle. Henry had a worldof patience for her sister and Helena, in all her glory, pushed it to the limit daily.
“You arrived nearly together,” Helena said, her tone bright but her eyes flicking between them with wry amusement. “Thick as thieves, one might say!”
Jillian lifted her chin. “Mere coincidence.”
Miles bowed slightly. “I assure you, we made no effort at coordination. Not that Lady Jillian has ever been overly stirred by the spirit of cooperation.”
Jilllian chose to ignore the comment in favor of something else that drew her eye. There was a fullness to her sister’s figure that was quite new and not at all the norm for Helena whose slender build had always been the envy of many debs. Stepping closer to her sister’s side, she could hear Henry gently ribbing his cousin.
“Of course not,” Henry murmured. “Why would the two of you ever behave in a manner consistent with normal human interaction?”
Miles ignored him entirely, as did Jillian. Instead she took her sister’s arm and pinned her with a silently questioning gaze. One to which Helena simply smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly. But it was confirmation enough. Helena was expecting. She was going to be an aunt.
The rush of emotion that prompted within her had Jillian utterly silent as their group made their way inside and Fairhaven House embraced them in a rush of warmth and Christmas greenery.
Garlands draped the banisters, wreaths adorned the doors, and the scent of pine and cinnamon hovered in the air like evidence of well-coordinated festivity. The portraits of ancestral Fairfaxes gazed down at the bustle with expressions ranging from mild interest to weary disappointment, though Jilliansuspected that had more to do with the painter’s preferences than the current scene.
Helena leaned close as they shed cloaks and gloves. “Aunt Beatrice is already on a matchmaking rampage.”
“Wonderful,” Jillian muttered. “Perhaps she will finally run out of victims.”
“You are one of the victims.”
“I decline the position.”
“You declined it last year. And the year before.”
Jillian couldn’t halt her eyes rolling in response. Beatrice Fairfax fancied herself the greatest matchmaker of all time when in truth she was anything but. She’d paired off some of the most patently unhappy marriages amongstthe Ton. “And I shall decline it every year until the end of time… I shall go to my grave free of that woman’s infernal schemes.”
Helena wisely abandoned the topic just as Beatrice herself glided toward them in full holiday splendor, her silk gown a shade of violet so bold it nearly startled the eye. She clasped both Jillian’s and Miles’s hands with delighted energy, her expression brightening the moment she noticed the proximity of their arrival.
“How fortunate that you two should arrive so very close together,” she exclaimed. “It is a sign.”
Miles, who had been preparing to sidestep her, froze as though caught in a snare. “A sign of what, precisely?”
“That fate has brought you here at the same moment,” she replied. “Christmas is no time to deny the power of serendipity.”
“But is it a time for inaccurate conclusions drawn from isolated incidents?” Jillian asked, not bothering to soften the remark. She had long ago discovered that the best way to defend herself from matchmaking relatives was through the judicious application of intellect and sarcasm.
Lady Beatrice only smiled in that mysterious manner she had perfected over the years, the one that suggested she claimed personal credit for every engagement announcement printed in theTimes.
A sharp gust of wind suddenly swept down the corridor, extinguishing a candle on the mantel. A footman startled; a housemaid crossed herself. Jillian suspected a poorly fitted window. Lady Beatrice suspected romance. Fairhaven House itself, if one believed the staff, suspected mischief and was always willing to participate.
Before anyone could relight the candle, a soft rustle drew every gaze upward. Mistletoe—fresh, glossy, and absolutely not present a moment before—now hung from the chandelier overhead, suspended with such delicate precision that it could not have been the work of any ordinary servant. Jillian stared at it, then at Miles, then back at the mistletoe.
“Do not even consider it,” Jillian said.
