“A regrettable exaggeration,” Jillian said, though she did not feel entirely convinced of her own words.
“It is a powder keg,” Helena insisted softly. “And you are lighting a fuse.”
Jillian opened her mouth to protest again, but Helena stood abruptly, her shoulders tight with something between worry and resignation.
“I have said my piece,” Helena murmured. “And heaven knows you will do precisely as you please regardless of any warning I give.” She touched Jillian’s cheek gently. “Just take care, my dear.”
With that, Helena slipped past her, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor. The soft tread of her slippers faded down the stairs, leaving Jillian alone in the stillness of the dim little room. Only when Helena’s footsteps vanished entirely into the distance—beyond the landing, beyond the main corridor, wholly out of sight and earshot—did Jillian release the breath she’d been holding. A breath she’d been holding because she feared, on a level she cared not to examine, that her sister might well be right.
The silence that followed was thick and oddly charged. She rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling warm and restless. Perhaps she needed a stroll. Or a book. Or distance from the room where Helena’s words still hovered like unsettled dust.
Jillian crossed to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out?—
directly into a solid chest.
She gasped as the impact jolted through her. Her slipper slid on the polished floor. She pitched backward—-and a pair of strong hands closed around her before gravity could claim her.
One arm wrapped firmly behind her back; the other grasped her upper arm with steady, instinctive strength. The dim candlelight from the wall sconces cast shadows across his features as he pulled her against him to keep her from falling.
Jillian’s hands landed on his chest—warm, solid, far too broad—and she felt the shock of contact shoot through her as if her nerves had been struck like a tuning fork.
Miles inhaled sharply, the sound low and tense. His face hovered only inches from hers, his breath brushing her cheek. “I—I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice roughened at the edges, as though the words had trouble forming.
Jillian swallowed hard, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his coat. “It was… my fault,” she murmured, though her voice sounded thin and unsteady even to her own ears. “I did not expect anyone to be standing… directly there.”
“I did not expect anyone to come barreling through the door,” Miles replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if he were too disoriented to form proper irritation. His hands remained firmly around her waist, steadying her—and he did not release her.
The corridor was empty. Silent. Entirely deserted.
And they were alone.
The awareness of that fact unfurled slowly between them, warm and dangerous, like the glow of banked embers stirring to life.
Jillian felt her breath catch. She could see the flecks of gold in his eyes at this proximity—something she had never noticed before, because she had never been this close to him. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms, and she froze, unsure whether to step back or hold her ground.
Miles seemed just as unsure.
His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes, the movement swift but unmistakable. His fingers tightened minutely at her waist, betraying the slightest tremor.
“Jillian,” he said softly—so softly she barely heard him.
Her heart gave an unruly leap. “Miles,” she whispered, unable to look away.
Neither moved.
The air seemed to draw tight around them, charged with something unspoken and entirely improper. Her pulse hammered wildly; her breath came too quickly; her skin tingled everywhere he touched her. It was absurd. Impossible. Unthinkably intimate.
Miles looked as though he might step back—or step closer—but neither choice resolved, leaving them suspended in an agonizing, breathless limbo.
Then a floorboard creaked somewhere far down the main corridor—perhaps a servant, perhaps no one at all—but it was enough to jolt them both.
Miles dropped his hands as if her gown had caught fire. Jillian stumbled backward a half-step, mortified by the trembling that betrayed her.
“I—excuse me,” Miles said, his voice strained and decidedly unsteady. He bowed stiffly, though his eyes refused to settle anywhere near hers.
Jillian straightened her spine, though her knees felt unreliable. “No apology necessary,” she said quickly, even too quickly. “I am perfectly well.”
“Good,” he replied, though the word wavered.
