Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Jasper could not recall a time he had been so thoroughly entertained by silence.
For it was not Cordelia’s serene silence nor Hazel’s stifled one, but Matilda’s.
For it was Matilda, who was behind him at that very moment waving her arms about like some frantic scarecrow, her face arranged in horror as though Cordelia had proposed a walk straight into the gallows.
He had half a mind to turn about and catch her at it, but no. Far better to pretend ignorance and let her stew.
“Splendid indeed,” he echoed Cordelia, folding his hands behind his back as if he were the very model of docility. “I can think of no finer company to guide me through the Kenton gardens. I daresay roses and primroses shall appear dull in comparison.”
Hazel coughed, which he immediately recognized as poorly disguised laughter. Cordelia arched a brow in approval. And Matilda, ah, the sweet, prim and proper Matilda, shot him a look fit to scorch.
Perfect.
As they set off, Jasper fell into step beside her. She did not so much walk as march, with her back stiff and her chin high.
“You needn’t look as though you are on your way to execution,” he murmured low enough for only her to hear.
“I am not,” she returned without glancing at him. “Though if I were, I should at least know what crime I had committed. Here, I suffer punishment for no reason at all.”
“Punishment?” he repeated, widening his eyes in mock astonishment. “To walk with me? Lady Matilda, you wound me. And I have not even had the chance yet to tell you how very charming you look when you scowl.”
She gasped, her eyes flashing to him at once, and it was exactly the reaction he lived for. He had promised Cordelia and Evelyn, with his hand to heart, that he would be gentle with this quiet, proper lady. But damn it all, the temptation was irresistible.
He leaned the slightest bit closer. “Truly, I believe it suits you better than a smile. Though I confess I should like to test the matter further.”
Her blush was instant, furious, and far too becoming. She tore her gaze away, focusing on the gravel path as though it contained the secrets of the universe.
Delicious.
He could not resist pushing further. “Do not look so aghast, Lady Matilda. One might think you were jealous, to see me employ my compliments elsewhere. Perhaps upon a certain red-haired widow, for instance?”
She stiffened all over. He nearly laughed aloud, the sound bubbling in his chest. Aha, there it was, he thought to himself.
He loved that spark, that outrage, that blush, that way she bristled as though he were the most insufferable man alive.
Perhaps he was. But only with her did it feel like play.
And what play it was.
“Your compliments would be wasted on me for you would elicit no reaction,” she assured him in that tone he loved so much.
Hastily, Jasper fell into step beside her again, letting his gaze roam casually over the gardens while he measured her reactions with exquisite precision.
“You do walk like a general inspecting her troops,” he said, voice soft but teasing. “All dignity, all alertness… yet somehow, I suspect the tiniest part of you is aware of my presence.”
Matilda’s lips pressed into a thin line, her grey eyes flashing with both irritation and something he could not quite name. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am entirely unaware of your presence,” she said primly, though her voice had that slight tremor he had noticed in heated debates.
“Entirely?” he echoed, tilting his head, a dimple appearing as he allowed himself the smallest, infuriating smile. “Not the faintest flutter of annoyance or… intrigue?”
Her frown deepened, and she bit her lower lip. “Annoyance, perhaps. Intrigue, absolutely not!”
The very sound of it, the way she said it, so certain, so scandalized, yet utterly unpracticed in deception, made him pause mid-step.
A thrill ran up his spine, sharp and entirely unexpected.
No lady had ever elicited such a reaction from him, or held his attention so completely without the slightest pretense of coquetry.
“You are outrageously proper,” he murmured, letting the words brush against her awareness. “And yet, I suspect you enjoy being indignant at my expense.”
Matilda stopped mid-step, and Jasper, who had been enjoying their verbal sparring, turned just in time to catch her gaze.
Her eyes were grey, but they were also more than that.
They were pale, stormy, and precise, like winter mist over a frozen lake, beautiful but dangerous, concealing depths one did not dare underestimate.
He had never seen eyes that could both warn and allure in the same instant, and they held him captive without effort.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady yet edged with an uncharacteristic intensity, “may I ask you something?”
Jasper blinked, caught entirely off guard. He had been prepared for teasing, for outrage, for even scolding, but this seriousness was another weapon entirely.
She held his gaze without blinking. “And will you… promise me a serious answer?”
The words struck him like a sharp blow, a challenge more real than any jab in the boxing ring. He found himself nodding, before reason or pride could intervene.
“I will,” he said, mirroring her measured and firm tone, almost more so than he had ever spoken in his life.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes still locked on his, as though reading his very thoughts.
Jasper’s heart, usually so steady in mischief and charm, thumped with a wild insistence he could not fully understand.
And he knew, with a mixture of awe and mild panic, that he had agreed entirely too quickly, and that whatever she intended to ask might very well undo him completely.
Her sharp and unwavering eyes held him in place. “Why are you constantly so… flirty with every lady you meet? Does it bring you pleasure? Is that how you measure your manhood?”
Jasper’s chest tightened at the words. The questions could have offended a lesser man.
Most would bristle, grow defensive, or seek to insult in return.
Yet something in the way she said it, which was so pointed and so serious, but not cruel, made him understand instantly that she did not wish to wound him.
She meant to unsettle him, to provoke the discomfort he had so effortlessly cultivated in her.
A slow grin spread across his face, and the dimples appeared. He leaned in just slightly, the faintest touch of challenge in his tone. “And pray, Lady Matilda, why do you concern yourself with my flirtations? Should I be so affronted by your sudden interest in my… manhood?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she looked away, straightening her back as if to hide her flush. He could not resist.
“I assure you,” he continued smoothly, “I have no wish to measure my manhood by anyone’s standards but my own. And yet… it appears you are quite invested in its… proper display.”
Matilda opened her mouth, but no words came. She flushed deeper, and the faintest tremor of frustration passed through her shoulders. Jasper’s laughter escaped him despite himself.
She had caught him off guard, and he had no intention of letting her maintain the upper hand. Rogue though he was, he could not resist the dance, not with her. Not when every blush, every sharp glance, every barely restrained glare was a challenge he could not refuse.
He allowed himself one last, teasing quip as they walked. “Perhaps I should inquire why do you care so much what I do with other ladies? I should think your sensibilities safe from my attentions.”
And as always, her expression, which was part scandal, part exasperation and entirely captivating, drew him further in than he would ever admit aloud.
“The last thing I want,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “is to give you or anyone else the wrong impression.”
Jasper tilted his head, curiosity teasing at the edges of his amusement. “And why is that? Why, Lady Matilda, do you care so greatly for the opinions of others? Surely a lady of your wit could disregard all but her own judgment.”
Her lips pressed together, and for a moment she looked almost distant, as if weighing her response. “Because it is a recipe for disaster,” she said finally.
“Disaster?” he repeated, intrigued, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of challenge. “And by disaster, pray tell, you mean—”
“Scandal,” she finished, her grey eyes narrowing just slightly. “Nothing else. A single misstep, a careless word, and the consequences may ruin more than just a reputation.”
Jasper’s laughter escaped before he could stop it again. It was a low, warm chuckle that turned the words into a playful tease rather than a reprimand. “Ah, I see. You fear scandal more than… than my flirtations, then?”
Matilda’s frown deepened, though her flush betrayed her irritation. “It is not your flirtations I fear,” she said sharply, “but the opinions they might provoke in the foolish, the careless, the malicious.”
He leaned just slightly closer, the teasing glint in his blue eyes brightening. “And yet here you are, walking beside me, thinking of me. I can only conclude you enjoy being vexed… deliberately, of course.”
Her lips parted, indignant, but she looked away, cheeks pink as roses in the morning sun.
Jasper had to resist the urge to grin widely, for the lady’s outrage, so sweet and restrained, was a temptation far greater than any other amusement he had known.
It occurred to him again, with that same mix of astonishment and undeniable pleasure, that no woman had ever captivated him so completely with such quiet defiance, nor unsettled him so thoroughly while appearing so proper.
Matilda bristled, though her tone held a sharp sweetness. “I assure you, Your Grace, I derive nothing from annoyance, deliberate or otherwise.”
“Nothing at all?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Not even the exquisite pleasure of seeing you blush?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away with a snap of her head. “Your Grace, you are insufferable.”
“Insufferable, yes,” he agreed lightly, “and entirely, irrevocably myself. But tell me, have you never considered tiring of insufferable men?”
She shot him a sideways glance, eyes flashing. “I have considered it. And I find the notion most agreeable. You need not trouble yourself with my tolerances.”
Jasper laughed softly. “I take it, then, that marriage is equally unthinkable for you?”
Her lips pressed together firmly. “Equally unthinkable. I would never marry again.”
“Excellent,” he said with mock solemnity, letting the words hang. “Because I, too, would never marry. Never willingly, at least. The idea of being chained permanently and endlessly to another, even the cleverest of women…” His gaze flicked to hers. “…intolerable.”
Her grey eyes widened slightly, reflecting a rare surprise. “Yes… absolutely intolerable,” she agreed, the words spilling out with quiet conviction.
A brief silence fell. Jasper’s lips twitched with a restrained laugh. “Well, Lady Matilda, it seems that on one matter, at least, we are perfectly aligned. Our fates remain free.”
“And dreadfully so,” she murmured, the faintest wry lift to her mouth betraying the tiniest amusement.
Electricity hummed in the space between them not from agreement alone, but from the knowledge that here was someone as fiercely independent, as unyielding, and as exasperating as himself.