She took a cautious step back.
Arabella advanced.
“Such a delicate position for you, Lady Jillian,” she whispered. “I do hope for your sake that Mr. Fairfax does not learn anything… unflattering.”
Jillian’s pulse hammered wildly. She turned to leave.
Arabella stepped sideways as though to block her.
Her mother shifted as well.
The conservatory door was behind them, the narrow path between the flowerbeds too tight to fully skirt around without brushing past them. Jillian inhaled sharply, preparing to push her way through if necessary.
Then a shadow fell across the doorway. A tall one. Tall and, in that moment, blessedly safe and familiar. Then she looked up and saw something quite remarkable. Yes, it was Miles. Solid, unmoving, unwavering, staunch in the face of anything unpleasant. But the fury in his gaze, the sense of outraged protectiveness as she moved nearer to her, that was unexpected. Unexpected and promising in ways she dared not think about.
He had come lookingfor Jillian, eager to see her, eager to settle matters and reduce some of the uncertainty that swirled about the pair of them like circling vultures. Perhaps it was due to that uncertainty, but he had not slept either. As dawn had broken, he’d found himself unable to avoid the truth burning through him with every step he took: he could not rest until he saw her. Until he knew she was safe. Until he understood whether she was frightened or angry or hurt. Or unwilling to move forward despite the consequences. In short, he could not find peace until he understood whether she wanted him at all or if perhaps what he’d seen had been nothing more than a product of his own fanciful hopes.
He had expected to find her in the breakfast room, besieged by aunts or surrounded by Helena’s concern as she tried to shelter her from gossip. But when she was nowhere to be seen and the only responses he received were uncertain shrugs, a strange, urgent anxiety tightened around him. It was too soon for panic, too soon to fear the worst, yet the sensation continued to grow, persistent and unwelcome.
He wandered the halls with increasing unease, half hoping to encounter her, half dreading that she had deliberately hidden from him. When he finally reached the conservatory, he expected empty air and quiet plants.
Instead he found Arabella Hartington standing inches from Jillian, their posture tense. Arabella’s smile was a false sweetness stretched taut across her face. Even couched in the guise of friendship, there was something predatory in the girl’s expression. Perhaps even maddened by her mother’s ambitions for her. As for her mother, Mrs. Hartington hovered behind her like a hulking shadow. Jillian’s expression—normally bright with wit or sharpened with dry humor—was shuttered, stiff, a blend of fear and fury that struck Miles like a blow.
He entered the room without a word.
Arabella turned, startled. “Mr. Fairfax—oh! You—” Her words faltered when she saw his expression, because Miles Fairfax rarely revealed emotion openly, and the emotion he was revealing now was unmistakable.
He was angry.
Coldly, unmistakably angry.
“Lady Jillian,” he said, bypassing the Hartington women entirely as he approached her. He kept his voice calm, anchored, but it vibrated with restrained intensity. “Are you unwell?”
Jillian shook her head—once, quickly—but the faint tremor in her breath told him everything.
He turned slowly toward Arabella and her mother.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
“I assume,” he said, his tone quiet but lethal, “that there is some explanation for why you are blocking Lady Jillian’s exit.”
“Oh, we only hoped to clear up the misunderstanding,” Arabella said. “Isn’t that right, Lady Jillian?”
“Which misunderstanding would that be? The one where you shoved me into a room with no heat and no protection from the cold and allowed me to remain there to the point where the temperature might actually endanger my life? Or is the misunderstanding in the fact that you knew precisely where I was all evening and allowed me to languish while the remainder of the house searched?” Jillian snapped back at her.
Arabella flinched. Her mother flushed but lifted her chin.
“There is no cause for accusations,” Mrs. Hartington said sharply. “We were merely speaking.”
Miles’s eyes narrowed. “I heard enough to know you were not merely speaking… Just as I bore witness to the nearly devastating consequences of your actions yesterday. Jillian, had she been alone in that room, would have died there. Do not think I shall forget that… nor or ever.”
Arabella paled. Her mother stiffened. Even Jillian seemed caught between relief and dread.
Miles stepped forward—not close enough to be improper, but close enough that the warning in his stance was unmistakable. “You will not threaten her. You will not speak ill of her. And you will certainly not attempt to ruin her reputation to serve your own ambitions. And going forward, you shall make it a point to vacate any premises where either Jillian or I find ourselves moving forward.”
Mrs. Hartington gasped. “How dare you accuse?—”
“I dare,” Miles interrupted, his tone cutting through the conservatory like steel. “And I will do worse than accuse if youever approach her in this manner again. You will make your excuses to my cousin and his bride and depart as soon as possible.”
