And as she walked away—back straight, head high, dignity repaired as best she could—he felt something inside him reach after her with a force that unsettled every carefully arranged part of his life.
Honor would require an offer.
Duty would require a match.
But desire—undeniable, rising, and far more dangerous than any scandal—whispered something he scarcely dared admit aloud.
He wasn’t doing this just because he wished to save her reputation. He wantedher. And he rather desperately wanted her to want him.
And that truth, now impossible to ignore, promised to complicate everything that came next.
Chapter
Twelve
Morning arrived at Fairhaven with a deceptive air of calm—sunlight filtered through the frost-laced windows. Despite the quiet and the appearance of a peaceful country day, there was an undercurrent in the air which hinted at all the scandal and upheaval which had erupted the night before.
Jillian had barely slept, and the little she accomplished had been restless and shallow. Every time her eyes drifted shut, she saw Miles’s face in the lantern-light of the east wing’s decaying corridor—steady, solemn, impossibly gentle in ways that undid her. She had clung to every fleeting moment of clarity she could find, reminding herself that nothing was settled yet. Honor might demand one thing, but heart—and hers was decidedly far more tender where he was concerned than she could have ever imagined—demanded something else entirely.
What she feared most was Miles actions coming only out of duty, out of a determination to fix what had been broken, out of nothing resembling the warmth she had felt beside him in the darkened room. She feared he would see her as an obligation rather than a choice, and that fear grew more insistent with every passing hour.
She avoided breakfast entirely, not wishing to endure the scrutiny of twelve pairs of eyes assessing her future as casually as they would a holiday pudding. Instead she slipped into the conservatory, seeking solace among the wintering plants and the muted hum of the house beyond. She traced a fingertip along the edge of a frost-coated fern, letting the cold leaf sharpen her thoughts.
It was there she overheard the voices.
Arabella’s was unmistakable—a soft, simpering soprano that always carried a veneer of politeness even when her words lacked any true warmth. Her mother’s was lower, clipped, and edged with bitterness.
“I am telling you, Mama, it is not yet settled,” Arabella whispered fiercely. “No formal offer has been made.”
“Not yet,” her mother answered, “but it will be. He is too bound by his own notions of honor to do anything but propose immediately. Unless…” The pause was pointed, heavy with implication. “Unless some detail emerges to make the match… unwise.”
Jillian stilled completely, her breath lodging in her throat.
“I do not see how,” Arabella hissed. “They were found sleeping against one another like lovers. What detail could possibly overturn that?”
“There are many ways to ruin a girl without touching her,” Mrs. Hartington murmured. “A whisper of impropriety committed long before this, a suggestion of impropriety with someone else, a piece of gossip that harms her reputation just enough to make the union seem undesirable. We need not prove anything. We need only raise questions.”
Jillian’s blood ran cold.
“You would truly do that?” Arabella asked, though her voice held no disbelief—only eagerness.
“We must salvage your prospects,” Mrs. Hartington replied. “If Lady Jillian Hale was compromised beyond repair—prior to last night’s fiasco— no respectable gentleman will want her, and no reasonable person would demand that Mr. Fairfax will be forced to assume such a burden. Then you may appear the sympathetic friend, the loyal confidante who helps him weather the scandal. Men are easily guided when their emotions—and vanity— are stirred.”
Jillian’s hand curled tightly around the fern’s rim until she felt the cold bite her skin. She was not merely hurt; she was sickened. Aunt Beatrice’s meddling had always been foolish, but it was never cruel. Arabella and her mother were something altogether different—calculating, grasping, and willing to destroy Jillian’s reputation to trap Miles for themselves.
She took a step backward to retreat quietly before she heard more, but her heel caught on the edge of a watering can. It clattered to the tiled floor with a hollow metallic ring.
Silence followed.
Then quick, sharp footsteps.
Jillian’s heart pounded as the conservatory door flew open and Arabella appeared, eyes wide and voice falsely sweet. “Lady Jillian! What a surprise. I thought you were resting. You look… pale.”
Her mother hovered behind her, eyes narrowing.
Jillian opened her mouth to respond, but Arabella stepped closer, her smile tight and triumphant. “You must take care. After last night, everyone is discussing you. It would be unfortunate if further rumors began to circulate.”
Fear flared through Jillian—not fear for her reputation, but fear that she had no ally, no recourse, no certainty that Miles would believe her if lies were spread.
