When the conversation reached its conclusion and Jillian announced her intention of seeking quieter company, he shifted at last, intending to step forward, to offer some useless remark about the weather, anything that might ease the mutinous set he could hear in her voice. It was the most natural impulse in the world to go after her.
He almost did.
His hand even lifted from his side, as if to reach for a woman who was not there.
Then, from the other end of the corridor, Henry’s voice floated up the stairs, accompanied by two of their cousins, all three of them still in high good humor over yesterday’s spectacle. Behind them came Mrs. Templeton and another guest, conversing in low tones that broke into giggles whenever they glanced in the direction of the morning room.
Miles stilled.
He watched Jillian turn the corner, her profile visible for an instant as she moved away—composed, self-possessed, untouchable. Her shoulders did not droop as one might expect after such an encounter. She walked as though she would allow nothing, not even a houseful of gossips, to see her falter.
She did not look back.
He felt a powerful urge to follow her, to abandon propriety and common sense and any pretense of indifference, to go after her down the corridor and tell her that she was not alone in this farce. That whatever implications were being drawn, he would bear them alongside her. The urge was so strong it surprised him.
He tightened his hand at his side instead.
Henry and the others reached the top of the stairs just as Jillian disappeared from view. They saw only Miles, emerging from shadow, his stance taut.
“There you are,” Henry said cheerfully. “I was just coming to drag you off for a game of billiards. Anything to distract you from the fact that half the house has decided you have entered into a grand romance.”
One of the cousins chuckled. “Years of glacial disdain only to end in sudden passion. It is very like a novel.”
Mrs. Templeton, arriving a moment later, smiled in that knowing way older ladies often adopted when they believed themselves to be generous. “I shall not say I am surprised, Mr. Fairfax. A woman with that much spirit will either drive you mad or marry you. Sometimes both.”
Miles forced his features into something approximating polite amusement. “You give the situation more drama than it truly possesses, ma’am.”
“Do we?” Mrs. Templeton’s eyes gleamed. “We shall see.”
He inclined his head and murmured something suitably noncommittal. It would not do, he told himself, to go striding down the passage in full view of everyone, following Jillian into a secluded room. It would feed precisely the story that was already forming around them. Whatever he felt about how she had been spoken to in that morning room, whatever he wanted to say to her, would have to wait until it could be done without making matters worse.
He turned toward the stair that led to the billiards room instead, falling into step with Henry, answering some remark he barely heard. The careful, practiced discipline he had trained into himself over years—remain detached, notice everything, reveal little—settled back into place.
As he moved away, Miles cast one last look down the corridor where Jillian had gone. The sight of the empty passage pricked at him. He did not realize, until he turned fully, that Mrs. Hartington and Arabella stood at the far end, half-hidden in a side turning, their faces pale with indignation.
Arabella’s gaze was fixed not on the door Jillian had taken, but on him.
If Jillian had seen it, she might not have dismissed that look as harmless. Given Arabella’s obvious fury and the cold calculation evident in Mrs. Hartington’s expression, he knew they did not.
There was nothing harmless in it now. He’d been indiscreet and Jillian might well pay a price for it.
Chapter
Seven
The evening drew itself into the customary pattern after dinner, with the gentlemen rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, card tables being set near the windows, and a general atmosphere of expectancy settling over the company. Someone called for music. Someone else seconded the idea with too much enthusiasm. Within minutes, Lady Beatrice had announced that no evening at Fairhaven was complete without performances, and that the pianoforte would be quite offended if neglected.
Jillian, who had taken refuge in a chair half-hidden behind a palm and had hoped to remain there, saw Helena’s gaze sweep the room and land on her with unmistakable intent. She had time for one silent, heartfelt curse before her sister crossed to her.
“You have not played in days,” Helena said, entirely ignoring the plea in Jillian’s eyes. “Fairhaven will begin to sulk.”
“Fairhaven is a house, not a person,” Jillian muttered, though she let Helena pull her to her feet. “And if it sulks, it has only itself to blame.”
Helena squeezed her hand. “You will feel better once you are doing something. Besides, you know very well that yousing beautifully and half the people here need reminding that a woman’s talents are not confined solely to embroidery and blushing.”
“That is precisely the sort of declaration which invites trouble,” Jillian said, but the words lacked heat. There was a part of her that welcomed the excuse to sit with her back to the room, her hands occupied and her mind focused on something other than the memory of yesterday’s forfeit or this morning’s thorny conversation.
The guests made a polite clearing around the pianoforte as she approached. Mrs. Templeton smiled in benevolent encouragement. The Harper sisters bounced on their seats like eager sparrows. Arabella and her mother sat together near the far end of the room, stiff as two icicles. Jillian resolutely did not look in their direction, though she felt the weight of their disapproval prickle at the back of her neck.
