She was immediately replaced by Lord and Lady Pembridge, then by the determined Miss Headley—whose prior obsession with Miles had been nothing short of alarming—and by three formidable matrons who examined Jillian with the critical interest of jewelers appraising diamonds.
Through it all, Jillian stood straight-backed and utterly composed, her chin lifted, her gaze steady. Miles admired her more fiercely than he could say.
When the townhouse door finally shut behind them with a sound of solid, blessed finality, Jillian exhaled and removed her gloves with meticulous care.
“That,” she said, “went better than expected.”
“Better?” Miles echoed, aghast. “Three people asked if I had been coerced, one implied elopements are romantic in precisely the wrong way, and Lady Pembridge suggested you must possess dangerous charms to have captured me.”
Jillian arched a brow. “Do you disagree?”
He stepped closer, sliding a hand lightly to her waist. “I am coming to appreciate that your charms are numerous,” he murmured, “and devastating.”
She flushed—but she did not retreat. “Flatterer.”
“Married man,” he corrected softly. “Which affords certain privileges.”
Her laughter—warm and low—wrapped around him like a welcome fire. He bent to kiss her cheek, brief yet unmistakably intimate.
The butler cleared his throat.
“A note has arrived, sir.”
Miles exchanged a grimace with Jillian. “They are faster than I anticipated.”
“Like vultures,” she murmured.
The note was from Lady Gilmartin. The entire Ton demanded their presence.
Miles groaned. “We have been home for five minutes.”
“You were overly optimistic,” Jillian said solemnly.
Chapter
Eighteen
Lady Gilmartin’s masquerade was the sort of event that could only happen in London during the height of the winter season—lavish, glittering, unashamedly theatrical. Jillian had attended her share of society entertainments, yet she had never stepped into anything quite like this. The entire mansion had been transformed into a fantasia of candlelit illusions. Crystal chandeliers dripped with garlands of ivy and gold ribbon, the air was warm with the scent of roses despite the frost outside, and every guest wore a mask elaborate enough to make even the most familiar faces suddenly intriguing.
Jillian paused at the top of the stairs, hesitating just long enough for her maid to secure the final ribbon of her own mask—black velvet edged in silver filigree. It framed her eyes beautifully, softening the bold intelligence her critics sometimes found… inconvenient. The rest of her ensemble was simple by comparison, a gown of midnight blue silk that shimmered like the surface of a winter lake. She had chosen it because it flattered her figure without being ostentatious, and because she suspected Miles might appreciate something elegant but not overly romantic.
She refused to consider why that mattered.
From the entry hall below, music rose in a lively swell, strings and flute weaving together in a bright, tempting rhythm. Guests glided past in a swirl of color—emerald, crimson, gold—each obscured by masks styled after gods, animals, fairies, and folklore. Jillian felt a ripple of something unfamiliar beneath her ribs. It was not fear, nor excitement exactly, but a curious, breathless anticipation she could not quite name.
It was rare to enter a room without being immediately recognized.
It was even rarer to enter one without being categorized.
The sudden, unexpected freedom made her pulse flutter.
Henry and Helena were already descending the stairs, Helena radiant in a soft pink gown trimmed in white fur, Henry wearing a mask that resembled a fox with mildly alarming accuracy. They had insisted that Miles was arriving separately after a late meeting, though Helena had raised her brows far too knowingly for Jillian to feel entirely comfortable.
Her sister slowed near the bottom of the stairs, glancing back with maternal amusement. “You look magnificent,” Helena whispered. “Just wait until Miles sees you.”
Jillian lifted her chin. “He has seen me in dozens of gowns.”
“Not while wearing a mask,” Helena said with an impish grin. “There is something about mystery that draws the truth from people.”
