“Only that we behave,” he said, pausing as if forced to swallow something unpleasant, “civilly.”
“Civilly,” she repeated.
“For a limited duration.”
“Good heavens.”
Miles gave her a pained look. “You may mock the idea, but you know as well as I do that if we resist their efforts, they will only redouble them. That harder we appear to fight, the more enthusiastic their efforts will become!”
Jillian considered this. Unfortunately, he was right. If the aunts believed there was animosity between her and Miles—which there was—they naturally assume that both of them “doth protest too much”. They would consider it their personalmission to force opportunities for reconciliation. Endless opportunities. Manufactured opportunities. Possibly involving sleigh rides, contrived strolls in the snow, or being maneuvered beneath mistletoe with even more suspicious frequency.
“If we behave as though they are succeeding,” Miles continued, “they will relax. They may even become distracted by someone else.”
“Someone else?” Jillian arched a brow. “Who?”
He shrugged slightly. “Anyone. Preferably someone who enjoys attention.”
“Or someone who deserves it,” she murmured.
He glanced at her sidelong. “Do you consider yourself undeserving?”
“I consider myself uninterested.”
“Ah,” he said, allowing himself the barest hint of a smirk, “then we are aligned on that matter.”
Jillian drew in a slow breath. “Very well. A truce.”
Miles nodded once. “A truce.”
Beatrice, who had absolutely no talent for subtle observation but an extraordinary talent for overhearing precisely what was least convenient, let out a delighted, audible gasp. Both Jillian and Miles froze. Cecilia nearly dropped her fork, and Agatha looked as though she had witnessed a minor miracle.
Jillian pressed a hand to her temple. “What have we done?”
“We have begun a deception,” Miles said under his breath, “from which there is no return.”
“At your inistence,” she reminded him.
“My insistence, yes. Let us both hope it is not much to my great regret.”
They turned back to their plates with synchronized dread. Jillian lifted her wineglass again, desperate for fortification.
“This will be dreadful,” she murmured.
Miles reached for his own glass. “Indeed.”
“Absolutely dreadful.”
“Unquestionably.”
She took a long sip. “At least we shall not be alone in our misery.”
He hesitated, then clinked his glass lightly against hers. “A small comfort,” he agreed.
A small comfort indeed—though something inside Jillian whispered that comfort, however small, could be dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Chapter
