Miles made a sound—soft, raw, a breath that carried a lifetime of restraint breaking.
He reached for her then, not with hesitation but with purpose, and drew her fully into his arms. She rose into the kiss before she could think, before she could breathe, before she could question anything at all.
His mouth met hers with reverence and fire—no restraint, no pretense, no distance left between them. Jillian clutched at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensation of finally surrendering something she had unknowingly held back for years. His hands slid to her waist, steady and warm, anchoring her as the world tilted.
When he deepened the kiss, she felt her knees weaken. He gathered her closer, one arm around her back, the other lifting to cradle her head as if she were something precious he feared to drop.
“Jillian,” he murmured against her lips, breathless, undone. “My love.”
She pressed her forehead to his, trembling. “Take me home,” she whispered. “Please.”
Miles exhaled a sharp, shuddering breath—one of relief, one of desire, one of utter devotion.
“Yes,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Home.”
He wrapped his cloak around her, shielding her from the chill as they slipped quietly from the alcove. Their departure went unnoticed—not because the ballroom lacked eyes, but because at that moment, for the first time in their tumultuous history, Jillian and Miles saw only each other.
The carriage ride home passed in breathless, charged silence. When the townhouse door closed behind them, Miles reached for her again, cupping her face as if he could not bear another moment without her touch.
And Jillian rose to meet him willingly, joyfully, unguardedly.
He kissed her, slow and deep, before lifting her into his arms.
The world narrowed to the warmth of his body and the steady, certain beat of his heart beneath her hand.
They disappeared beyond the bedchamber door?—
—and the night closed gently around them.
Epilogue
Snow fell in soft, drifting flakes as the carriage rounded the final bend in the long, familiar lane leading to Fairhaven House. Jillian watched the flakes catch in the winter light, glowing like tiny sparks in the pale afternoon sky, and felt a warm curl of contentment settle beneath her ribs. She had not expected to feel nostalgic for this particular place—after all, the previous Christmas had been nothing short of a tempest—but time had a remarkable ability to turn chaos into memory and memory into fondness.
Fairhaven stood just as it always had, its austere stone softened by garlands and wreaths, its windows glowing with early candlelight. Yet something about it seemed different to Jillian, as though she were seeing it through a lens altered in every possible way. Last year, she had approached the house with dread, bracing for matchmaking, tension, and the inevitability of Miles Fairfax ruining her holiday.
This year, she arrived as Jillian Fairfax, happily married woman, and the idea of spending a quiet Christmas surrounded by family felt like the perfect ending to a remarkable year.
The carriage stopped. Miles stepped out first, his boots sinking into the snow, then turned and offered his hand toher. She took it, her gloved fingers resting lightly in his, and descended with the ease of a woman who had long since stopped pretending she did not enjoy the feeling of his hand around hers.
“You are smiling to yourself,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath warmed her cheek. “Should I be concerned?”
“Not in the least,” she replied. “I am merely remembering how much I wanted to throttle you at this time last year.”
He laughed under his breath, tugging her hand more firmly against his side as they walked toward the entrance. “A fond memory, I’m sure.”
“Comforting, in its way,” she said. “It reminds me how far we’ve come.”
“Indeed. You have made remarkable progress,” he teased, “considering you now resist the urge to throttle me only once or twice a week.”
“Only on the days when you truly deserve it.”
“I see. Then I shall endeavor to behave admirably until the New Year.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “Your optimism still astonishes me.”
They reached the front steps just as the door flew open with characteristic enthusiasm. Helena stood framed in the glow of the hall, her dressing gown tucked hastily around her, wisps of hair escaping a bun that had once been elegant but now bore the clear signs of having survived a long day with an infant.
“Jillian!” Helena cried, sweeping her into a careful embrace that was slightly hindered by the bundle in her arms. “Miles! You’re here at last!”
