Arabella flushed. “I would not have been uncomfortable at all,” she insisted. “I am perfectly capable of comporting myself with dignity. It is what I have been prepared for.”
“I do not doubt it,” Jillian said, honestly enough. “But you are still very young—in social experience, of course. I am not. If someone must do something foolish, it might as well be the person who is best prepared to weather the storm.”
“You are practically on the shelf,” Arabella agreed, with rather too much eagerness. “It does not signify so very much what people say of you.”
The words struck more deeply than Jillian cared to admit. Her jaw tightened. “Precisely,” she said evenly. “I knew we would agree on something eventually.”
Beatrice made a small sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Mrs. Hartington was not amused. “From where I sat,” she said, “it appeared less like noble self-sacrifice and more like a determined effort to put yourself forward. One might almost think you were attempting to secure Mr. Fairfax’s attention in quite a calculated fashion.”
Jillian stared at her. A muscle flickered in her cheek. “If I had ever desired Mr. Fairfax’s attention,” she said, “I assure you, I should have chosen a method that did not involve public humiliation for us both.”
Beatrice clapped her hands together. “Humiliation? Nonsense. The two of you behaved beautifully. It was a lovely sight to behold. There was an air of inevitability about it.”
“Inevitability,” Mrs. Hartington repeated, her lips thinning. “We shall see what is inevitable. Gentlemen can be very easily misled when their names are suddenly linked to a lady’s in such a conspicuous manner. I do not doubt you are very clever, Lady Jillian.”
Jillian’s patience frayed. “I am clever enough to know,” she said, “that Mr. Fairfax is not a stray dog to be whistled to heel by any woman who manages to stand near him at the right moment. Not by me. Not by anyone.”
Her temper showed in the quickness of the words, but she held Mrs. Hartington’s gaze steadily. The older woman colored and drew herself up.
“I am only concerned,” Mrs. Hartington retorted, “that my daughter’s prospects not be damaged by… theatricals.”
“If anyone’s prospects are so fragile that a moment’s foolishness at a parlor game can ruin them entirely,” Jillian replied, “then I suggest they are not worth much to begin with.”
Arabella made a small, wounded sound, and for a heartbeat Jillian regretted the sharpness of her tongue. Then she caught the younger woman’s expression—a twisting mixture of hurt and resentment—and steeled herself. It would do Arabella no kindness to pretend this all meant less than it did.
“We are very much obliged for your… intervention,” Mrs. Hartington said tightly. “I only hope Mr. Fairfax is equally appreciative.”
“I have no expectations where Mr. Fairfax is concerned,” Jillian answered. “We have simply agreed not to quarrel in front of his relations. That is the beginning and end of it.”
It was a peace offering and a possible easing of tensions. Or it would have been until Beatrice sighed, satisfied. “The best beginnings often pretend to be endings. You will see.”
Jillian would have groaned had it done the least bit of good. But Beatrice was…. Well, Beatrice. Irrepressible as ever. Retreat was her only option, it seemed. “If you will excuse me,” Jillian said instead, turning from them, “I find myself in need of quieter company than this morning seems inclined to offer. The library, perhaps. I prefer to satisfy my own inquisitive nature more so than satisfying others’.”
Beatrice waved a hand. “Do not linger too long. The house is not done with you.”
“It matters not, Aunt Beatrice,” Jillian said, heading for the door, “I have determined that I shall make every attempt to be done with it.”
She left the room with a calm step that cost her more effort than she liked to admit. The corridor outside felt cooler by comparison, the sounds from the breakfast room and main hall muffled by distance and thick carpets. She drew in a slow breath, then another, and forced herself not to look back. Whatever gossip still clung to the walls could chatter without her.
Jillian turned toward the library, skirts whispering against the floor, shoulders squared. If Fairhaven wanted theatrics, it would have to stage them without her cooperation for at least an hour.
She did not notice, as she went, the slight movement in the shadowed alcove near the turn in the passageway.
She did not see Miles nor did she hear his quickly indrawn breath at the sight of her.
Miles had fledthe breakfast room with the intention of escaping to the billiards room, not the library. He had had quite enough of being watched over his toast by several matrons whose interest in his appetite extended far beyond concerns for his health. Henry’s attempts to make careless jokes had not improved matters. A gentleman could only bear so many pointed remarks about forfeits before he became a danger to himself and others.
He had paused in the alcove outside the smaller morning parlor when he heard raised voices—female, sharp, and altogether too familiar. Beatrice’s amused cadence, Mrs. Hartington’s clipped consonants, Arabella’s breathless protests, and then Jillian’s voice threading through them all, cool and controlled, occasionally flashing with unmistakable temper and the biting wit he admired as much as he feared.
He had not meant to listen.
He had told himself he would step out at once, make some innocuous remark, and deflect whatever fresh absurdity was underway.
Instead, he stayed where he was, motionless in the small recess, his shoulders pressed back against the paneling. Something in Jillian’s tone—equal parts wounded and defiant—held him there against his better judgment. He heard the older woman’s insinuations, Arabella’s thoughtless repetition of her supposed age and on the shelf status, Beatrice’s delighted provocations. Through it all, Jillian stood her ground.
He imagined the line of her chin, the bright edge in her eyes when she said she had no expectations of him. The words stung more than he cared to examine.
