Gasps filled the corridor.
Jillian felt the floor tilt beneath her feet.
And Miles, in the space of a breath, moved to stand at her side—not touching, not claiming, simplythere, bearing the brunt of every scandal-scorched stare with shoulders set and expression unflinching.
Her humiliation, her fear, her restless, unspoken longing—all of it collided in her chest with brutal clarity.
This was happening.
This was real.
This was her life changing in an instant.
And the worst part was not the scandal or the ruin or the expectant hush that had fallen over the household.
The worst part was the quiet, aching truth blooming inside her:
If he offered out of honor alone, her heart might never recover.
Chapter
Eleven
As a Fairfax, Miles had endured many sorts of stares in his life: the polite scrutiny of London drawing rooms, the calculating glances of matchmaking mamas, the evaluative looks of business associates seeking weakness or leverage. But nothing in his twenty-nine years had prepared him for the shock that swept through the narrow corridor the moment the door to the East Wing burst open and half of Fairhaven House spilled into the threshold.
He had only an instant to brace himself before the inevitable chorus of gasps and horrified murmurs began. Lantern light flooded the cramped space, turning dust motes into glittering accusations. Jillian stood beside him, shoulders tight, her chin lifted with some unbreakable bond of pride and bravado. Her hair—usually so impeccably pinned—was tumbling in loose curls down her back, her gown rumpled, her cheeks flushed with more than cold. His own appearance could not have inspired confidence; his cravat hung unevenly, his coat was missing entirely, their clothes wrecked mussed beyond measure.
It was an image with only one interpretation.
Henry stepped forward first, his expression a mix of alarm and grim understanding. Miles met his cousin’s eyes withoutflinching, though the effort required nearly all the steadiness he possessed. “We were locked in,” he said, his voice measured and calm despite the riot inside him. “It was not intentional.”
“No one imagines it was,” Henry replied, though his tone suggested that the matter of intent was irrelevant. “The situation speaks for itself.”
Behind him, voices overlapped: Gertrude bemoaning the scandal, Agatha trying to hush her with such ferocity that she succeeded only in amplifying the commotion, several guests whispering with barely contained relish. One young debutante covered her mouth as though she had stumbled upon a murder, while her brother peered into the room as if hoping to see evidence of impropriety that would make for excellent gossip later.
Miles wanted to shut the door in all their faces, to shield Jillian from their stares, to undo the entire miserable evening with sheer force of will. Instead, he stood still, firm and resolute, because one thing had crystallized in the hours trapped beside her: whatever happened now, he would face it with dignity. He would not allow her to shoulder the weight alone.
Lady Beatrice elbowed her way forward, positively glowing with delight. “Oh, how marvelous!” she breathed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “Fairhaven has done it again!”
Miles ground his teeth. The aunts, in their infinite enthusiasm for meddling, were the very last people he trusted with delicate matters. And there was no delicate matter more fragile than Jillian Hale’s reputation—than Jillian Haleherself—at this precise moment.
Henry cleared his throat, directing the gathering with the sternness of a general pushing back chaos. “Everyone should withdraw. There is no need for a crowd. Lady Jillian and Miles will come to the drawing room in a moment and we shall all sort things out together while everyone else retires.”
Miles watched the faces around them shift—some nodding, some lingering for one last scandal-soaked glance—until at last the group began to disperse. The corridor emptied slowly, painfully slowly, the echoes of retreating footsteps carrying down the length of the old wing. When the last lantern drifted away and the doorframe was no longer crowded with gawkers, he exhaled for the first time since being discovered.
Only he and Jillian remained in the half-lit doorway.
She stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the opposite wall, her throat working as though she were swallowing a difficult truth. Miles stepped a little closer—carefully, respectfully—but he could not keep the quiet concern from his voice. “Are you well enough to walk?”
“Yes,” she said softly, though her tone suggested otherwise.
He waited, giving her space, resisting the reckless, foolish urge to take her hand.
Jillian drew a steadying breath. “We should go.”
He nodded and offered his arm—not because propriety demanded it, but because some deeper instinct compelled him to. She hesitated before accepting, and in that tiny hesitation he felt a sting he had not expected. For years she had recoiled from him, dismissed him, mocked him, bristled at him. But this was the first time she hadfearedhis closeness.
And he despised that he had caused it, even unintentionally.
