Three
Helena was far too observant for Jillian’s comfort. The moment dinner dispersed into its usual collection of after-meal amusements—parlor games, card tables, musical attempts of varying quality, and the ever-present bustle of the matchmaking aunts—Helena wasted no time in capturing Jillian by the forearm and guiding her firmly out of the dining room. Jillian managed a polite nod toward Lady Gertrude and a vague wave toward Henry before finding herself propelled down a quiet side corridor, up a narrow staircase seldom used by guests, and into a small sitting room overlooking the east gardens.
The door shut behind them with a decisive wooden snap.
Helena turned immediately, her expression a blend of concern and sisterly sternness. “Now,” she said, pressing her back against the door as if to prevent Jillian’s escape, “you are going to tell me precisely what happened at dinner.”
Jillian let out a sharp breath and folded her arms. “Dinner happened. Soup was served. There was polite conversation. Nothing that merits kidnapping me up an entire flight of stairs.”
“Do not be evasive,” Helena said, gesturing emphatically. “You and Miles sat side by side for two hours and not once did I hear you tell him he was irritating, annoying, bedlam inducing or vile.”
“I have never said those things… to him.”
“You have thought them with such vigor you may well have shouted them,” Helena insisted.
Jillian scowled. “Perhaps.”
“And Miles,” Helena continued, pacing a short, flustered line, “did not glare at you even once. He did not look like he was silently reciting a prayer for patience. He—Jillian, I cannot believe I am speaking these words—actually smiled at you.”
“That was hardly a smile,” Jillian said, reaching up to adjust a curl that had slipped loose. “It was a social reflex devoid of sincerity, meaning and depth.”
“It was a smile,” Helena insisted, stabbing a finger toward her. “And he gave it to you.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. “You are making too much of this.”
Helena narrowed her gaze, assessing her sister with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “No. You are making too little of it. Sit.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Sit,” Helena ordered, pointing at a chair with commanding authority.
Jillian sighed and sank into the nearest one. Helena crossed her arms and waited.
Jillian knew when she was beaten.
“Very well,” she said at last, lifting her chin. “It is a hoax.”
Helena blinked. “A… what?”
“A hoax,” Jillian repeated, spreading her hands as if the matter were perfectly straightforward. “Miles and I have agreed to a temporary deception. A truce, for lack of a better word, designed to persuade our respective aunts that theirmatchmaking efforts are bearing fruit— a trojan horse if you will. In doing so, we hope they will be satisfied and cease their infernal meddling.”
Helena sank into the opposite chair as though her knees could no longer hold her. “You and Miles agreed to that together?”
“Yes.”
“You and Miles,” Helena repeated, slower this time, “sat beside each other, spoke to each other, cooperated with each other, and made a plan?”
Jillian bristled. “There is no need to sound so incredulous. We are, despite our mutual dislike of one another, reasonably intelligent individuals who can work toward the greater good!”
“There is every need,” Helena countered. “I am rather astonished neither of you burst into flames. Heavens! Lightning might well have split the dining room table in half.”
“It is entirely pragmatic,” Jillian said, rising again in agitation. “We both want the same thing: peace. The only way to obtain it is to make them believe they are succeeding.”
Helena rubbed her temples, visibly overwhelmed. “This is dangerous, Jillian.”
“It is not dangerous,” Jillian said dismissively. “It is temporary. Entirely manageable. And thoroughly devoid of emotion.”
“Emotion has nothing to do with it,” Helena argued, leaning forward. “Deceptions take on their own momentum. And you and Miles…” She waved her hand helplessly. “The two of you have never been able to share a sentence without turning it into an academic duel. The pair of you are like spitting cats… neither capable of subtlety.”
