“Good,” she echoed, because she could think of nothing else to say that did not sound scandalous.
A thick, awkward silence lingered until Miles stepped aside with rigid courtesy. “If you wish to pass,” he said, attempting composure but failing in the slightest quaver at the end, “you may.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She moved past him carefully, acutely aware of every inch of distance—or lack thereof—between them. Miles turned the other way, each of them fleeing in opposite directions like startled birds.
Only when Jillian reached the far end of the corridor did she pause, one hand pressed hard to her galloping heart.
Helena had said her deception was dangerous.
Jillian had dismissed it.
But now—now she understood with uncomfortable clarity that danger had a way of changing shape, shifting and undulating like some living thing. Unpredictable and wild.
And Miles Fairfax, curse him, was no longer merely an adversary.
He had become a very particular kind of threat. The tempting sort.
Chapter
Four
Miles had slept perhaps an hour—two, at most—though “sleep” was a generous word for the restless, fevered state he endured until dawn. Every time he closed his eyes, the image returned with startling vividness: Jillian Hale pressed against him in the dim corridor, her breath mingling with his, her hands resting against his chest as if that was where they belonged. Touching him. Tormenting him with a kind of promise that he’d never dared to let himself imagine. A man could be forgiven for dwelling on such a moment. But Miles Fairfax was not accustomed to losing command over his own thoughts.
It was intolerable.
By half past six, he abandoned any further attempt at rest. He rose from his bed with the kind of weary irritation that accompanied only the most vexing matters of the heart or less noble portions of one’s anatomy—or, as he insisted to himself, matters of propriety grossly mishandled. He dressed quickly and without the assistance of a valet, preferring solitude even in these small rituals, and pulled on his riding boots with more force than necessary.
Outside, snow still lay thick upon the ground, but the stables were already stirring. The morning air bit sharply at his lungs as he led a bay gelding from its stall. The stable master approached with a knowing expression, which Miles ignored with the efficiency of long practice. It was too early for conversation, too early for speculation, and far too early for anyone to suspect the truth—that he was riding out solely to avoid the possibility of encountering Jillian at breakfast.
He mounted, exhaling a cloud of frost as the horse shifted beneath him. The early light painted Fairhaven’s grounds in cold shades of silver and pale blue. Hoofbeats muffled against the snow as he guided his horse through the frost-tipped trees and out along the ridge where he could think—or attempt to think.
Unfortunately, thinking was precisely the problem.
No amount of brisk riding, cold air, or deliberate contemplation succeeded in banishing the memory of Jillian’s breathless whisper of his name. Or the way her fingers had curled against his coat as though she had sought his steadiness, his strength. He had not imagined that—he could not have. And yet, imagining what might have happened if he had not stepped away tormented him more thoroughly than a dozen sleepless nights could have.
He cursed under his breath.
It was ludicrous. She was ludicrous. The entire situation was ludicrous. They detested one another, for heaven’s sake! Or at the very least, she detested him. He had thought. For himself, he’d taken a perverse sort of pleasure in needling her. Because he’d never, try as he might, been able to succeed at fully ignoring her. That alone should have told him something had he not been too blockheaded to consider it.
Jillian Hale—acerbic, brilliant, sharp-tongued, self-assured Jillian—was the last woman he ought to find himself contemplating. She unsettled him. She challenged him. Sheirritated him with startling regularity. And yet he had not been able to forget the tremor that had run through her when he caught her. Nor the softness he had glimpsed beneath her habitual shields—an unguarded moment he was certain she had never intended him to witness. A moment that made him wonder what other secrets she kept, what other hidden softness and vulnerability lay beneath her prickly shields.
He tugged on the reins, slowing his mount to a halt near the grove that overlooked the frozen lake. Snowflakes drifted lazily from low clouds, dusting his coat and hair. He brushed them away, though the gesture felt futile.
“Get hold of yourself,” he muttered. “It was a moment. A misunderstanding. A collision, nothing more.”
But the words rang hollow.
If he had leaned closer… if he had not heard the floorboard creak… if damnable propriety had not yanked him back to sense… he would have his answer. His answer to what, though?
Miles gritted his teeth, refusing to complete the thought.
He urged the horse onward, circling back toward the estate with renewed purpose. If he simply avoided the breakfast room, avoided the hallways leading to it, avoided any of the common sitting rooms until after noon—surely he could escape the unavoidable scrutiny of their relatives and, more importantly, avoid Jillian herself. At least until he had his libidinous urges somewhat more in check!
He dismounted in the stable yard and returned his gelding to the care of a sleepy stable boy. Snow clung once again to his hair and coat, and he brushed it away with a sharp, impatient gesture. Entering through the side door that led to a lesser-used servants’ corridor, he congratulated himself—prematurely—on his cleverness.
The corridor was quiet. Blessedly so. The rest of the household would be gathering for breakfast. With luck, hewould reach the sanctuary of the upstairs library before anyone realized he was awake.
