She took a steadying breath and told herself she was merely here to behave like any rational houseguest. She was emphaticallynothere to think about Miles Fairfax, or the way he had caught her in the corridor the previous night, or the infuriatingly improper warmth of his hands when he steadied her. She had firmly decided never to think of that moment again, which naturally meant she had thought of nothing else.
Her gaze drifted over the lively sea of guests until it landed, inevitably—perhaps fatally—on him.
Miles stood near the hearth, shoulders squared with that stiffly polite posture he adopted whenever he was trapped in conversation. Today, the trap came in the form of Miss Arabella Hartington—a pretty, fair-haired young woman whose eager expression suggested she would accept a proposal from Miles on the spot if given even the slightest encouragement. Her mother hovered behind her like a general urging troops forward, fanning herself vigorously though the room, courtesy of the heavy crowd, was perfectly temperate. Arabella was nodding up at Miles with radiant enthusiasm despite the fact that he appeared to have said nothing more encouraging that the most inane of courtesies. Jillian suspected the poor man had not received more than ten seconds of uninterrupted peace since the Hartingtons arrived.
Even from across the room, she could see the look on his face: a careful, courteous mask stretched with the stiffness of someone attempting to smile while avoiding impending doom. A faint flicker of sympathy fluttered unexpectedly in her chest. She immediately smothered it and reminded herself she was not here to feel compassion for Miles Fairfax. She was merely here to behave with composure and to avoid becoming as much a target as he currently was.
Lady Beatrice stepped into the center of the room and called out for everyone’s attention. “Our first round of parlor games is set to begin!”
A terrible feeling of dread settled over Jillian then. Beatrice being in charge of parlor games was rather like asking a great libertine to guard one’s virtue.
“Gather round!” Lady Beatrice cried from the center of the room, sweeping her arms wide and nearly knocking an unsuspecting gentleman backward with her enthusiasm. “Gather round for forfeits! We must begin at once—at once!”
A collective hum of anticipation rolled through the gathering. Jillian felt her ribs tighten slightly around her lungs. Forfeits. That ancient, often ill-advised Christmas tradition guaranteed to produce either memorable hilarity or lasting mortification. As a child, she had thought the games charming; as a young woman, she had found them occasionally amusing but more often than not somewhat humiliating. At this particular house party, with this particular audience, forfeits felt about as safe as striking a match to tinder while being drenched in oil.
Chairs were arranged in a large circle that left no hope for subtle retreat. Jillian found herself ushered into a seat by the flow of guests, unable to escape without drawing undue attention. She sat between Aunt Gertrude—who gave her a benign, if somewhat bewildered smile—and a plump, rosy-cheeked neighbor who smelled strongly of orange blossoms and impatience. Jillian folded her hands neatly in her lap, arranging her expression into one of dignified calm while telling herself she would not be drawn into any antics requiring the sacrifice of her pride or reputation.
Then Lady Beatrice reached into a basket filled with folded slips.
“For our first participant,” she said, drawing a slip with great flourish, “we have none other than—ah! Mr. Fairfax!”
Miles froze, giving the appearance of a startled animal—wary and hunted. Arabella made a noise—trilling like some happy songbird. Mrs. Hartington leaned forward so sharply that Jillian feared, especially given her comically large bosom, she might topple directly into the circle.
And somehow, despite the absurdity of the situation, Jillian felt her stomach tighten with an uneasy premonition. Despite the uneasy and temporary nature of their truce, there was an affinity between herself and Miles, a similarity of nature that might even be at the very root of their general discord. Both of them preferred to maintain their dignity above all else. And there was no dignity to be had in this setting.
Lady Beatrice unfolded the slip. Her eyes lit with unholy delight. “Oh, splendid! The Rabbit Kiss!”
The room erupted in excitement. A few young ladies giggled and pressed their gloves to their mouths. A few young men groaned theatrically. Lady Beatrice gestured grandly to the center of the circle as if inviting Miles to stride into a gladiatorial arena. His dread was palpable.
The Rabbit Kiss was infamous—two people starting at opposite ends of a ribbon, nibbling their way toward the center until the inevitable kiss occurred. The forfeit was designed to provoke blushing, scandal, and in certain cases, actual engagements. Miles looked as though he expected the floor to open up beneath him.
And Arabella took a determined step forward, beaming.
Jillian’s heart gave a most peculiar lurch.
Miles Fairfax was an insufferable, frustrating, maddening man—but he did not deserve to be sacrificed on the altar of Mrs. Hartington’s ambition or Arabella’s painful infatuation. The poor man was so cornered he barely moved. He was already resigned to his fate.
Jillian felt something harden inside her.
Before she knew she intended to act, she heard her own voice carrying across the room.
“I volunteer.”
The entire drawing room fell into sudden, crystalline silence.
Arabella’s face collapsed like a ruined soufflé. Mrs. Hartington nearly choked on her gasp. Miles stared at Jillian as though she had just declared herself a saint.
Jillian stepped into the center with measured composure—because composure was all she possessed at this point, and if she faltered now, she would never recover. She inclined her head toward Lady Beatrice. “As Mr. Fairfax and I have… recently achieved a more harmonious state of acquaintance, it seems fitting that I join him in this particular forfeit. How better to seal our truce?”
She had barely finished speaking before Lady Beatrice thrust a length of satin ribbon toward her, her face alight with triumph. “Marvelous, my dear girl! Truly marvelous!”
Jillian caught the faintest quirk of Miles’s brow—half disbelief, half warning, and entirely too handsome for her peace of mind.
He took the opposite end of the ribbon.
The circle closed in around them. Jillian raised her end to her lips, and in that instant—one tiny, fragile moment—she realized precisely what she was about to do.
She was going to kiss Miles Fairfax. In front of everyone.
