Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
How dare he!?
Matilda’s heart pounded so furiously she feared it might betray her. To imply she had wanted his embrace, as though she were one of those silly, sighing creatures who fluttered and blushed whenever Jasper Everleigh so much as crooked a smile…
No! She was not that sort of woman. She would never be that sort of woman.
Even if, for one shameful instant, she had been aware of his hand steady at her waist, of his nearness, of the heat in his voice… No, she would not think on it. He had treated her like a conquest, like a jest to be made in company, and she would not stoop so low as to play along.
She swept through the nearest doors, the night air rushing cool against her flushed cheeks. The terrace was blessedly empty, the gardens spread wide and shadowed, with the scent of roses drifting on the breeze. She clutched the balustrade, drawing breath after breath, willing herself to calm.
But the sound of footsteps behind her broke the fragile peace.
Without turning, she spoke, her voice tight but steady. “I asked for a moment, please.”
Matilda pressed her lips tight, keeping her gaze fixed upon the dark sweep of garden beyond the balustrade.
“Evelyn,” she said, softer this time, willing herself to sound composed. “I promise I am quite well. Go back inside. You will be missed.”
No answer came. Only silence.
Her hands tightened on the stone rail. “Hazel, then? You need not fuss over me. Truly, I only wanted the air.”
Still no reply. The quiet grew heavier, the kind that made her skin prickle. Slowly, against her better judgment, she turned.
Not Evelyn. Not Hazel.
“I did not have any intention of following you, Lady Matilda,” Jasper began, his voice strangely low and steady, almost gentle. “But you seemed… upset. I did not mean to upset you.”
Her grey eyes snapped toward him, anger flashing bright and fierce. “Oh no?” she said, incredulous. “Then what, pray, do you call every single instance of our conversation but upsetting me and enjoying it?”
Jasper froze, caught off guard by the force of her question, his usual calm wavering for the barest instant.
“Why?” she pressed, taking a step closer. “Why are you targeting me like this?”
He hesitated, then admitted, almost reluctantly. “Because… I dislike how you have judged me from the very first moment we met, without even knowing me.”
She scoffed, turning her chin up as though dismissing the claim entirely. “I knew of you, and that was more than enough.”
His grin widened, mischievous but pointed. “See?” he said. “You have done precisely what you fear the ton would do to you. Allowed gossip, surface observations, the reputation you’ve been handed to shape your understanding of someone, rather than experience them yourself.”
Matilda froze, her breath catching. He is right. She had loathed to admit it, yet every word rang true, cutting deeper than she liked to acknowledge.
Her fists clenched lightly at her sides, though her eyes betrayed her discomposure. She had spent so long shielding herself from disappointment, from manipulation, from being misled by appearances and now he had pierced that shield with nothing more than a grin and a statement of fact.
Her fingers curled tight upon the railing. “You presume to know me, Your Grace, when in fact you know nothing at all.”
“On the contrary,” he said, with a calmness that only sharpened her fury, “I know more than you believe. I know that just because one man took advantage of your trust does not mean every man is poised to do the same. Not everyone is out to wound you.”
She spun to face him then, her grey eyes flashing. “How very noble of you to declare it so. As if your words could erase years of deceit. As if you, who delights in tormenting me, should hold the authority to lecture me on trust.”
His mouth curved, a dangerous smile. “Delight is rather the word, I think. You are… spirited when provoked.”
“You mistake spirit for irritation.”
“Call it what you will.” He lifted a brow, all infuriating composure. “But it draws you out of your fortress. I find I prefer you this way.”
Her breath caught, though she tried to disguise it in scorn. “And how, pray, do you imagine you have come to know me at all? Through your endless jests? Through every cutting remark and pointed jab?”
He gave a half-shrug, unrepentant. “That is how I function. You parry, I press. We discover what lies beneath the armor.”
“Incredible,” she scoffed. “You would make sport of me, then pretend it is some noble pursuit of truth.”
“I never pretended,” he said softly, and in that tone there was no mockery at all.
The shift unsettled her more than the teasing had. His blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight, unwavering, and for a moment she felt entirely seen. It was intolerable.
“You think yourself clever,” she whispered, anger threading her voice, “but I am not a puzzle for you to solve. I am not a game to be played.”
“And yet,” Jasper murmured, stepping closer still, until the heat of him reached her through the cool air, “you rise to every move I make.”
Her heart stuttered, traitorous, and she hated him for it. “I am sick and tired of your games, Your Grace.”
“Are you?” His smile deepened, maddeningly sure. “Because I rather think you relish them.”
Her breath caught again, a sharp intake she could not smother.
“You behave as though this were all a jest.”
“Do I?” Jasper’s eyes gleamed, and his smile was now a challenge. “I have merely been doing what you yourself have done since the day we met. You strike first, Lady Matilda. I strike back. If you may pass hasty judgment on my character, why should I not return the favor?”
Her lips parted, but no words followed. He had caught her.
The silence hung thick between them. Jasper took one step closer. Another inch, and she would have to retreat or surrender.
“Tell me, Lady Matilda,” he asked in a voice that was dangerously low, “what was the last thing you did simply because you wanted to? Not because duty demanded it, not because you were expected to, but simply because it was your own desire?”
The question rattled her. It was dangerous; far too dangerous. She could not let him see how it pierced through her defenses. Her mind scrambled, and she blurted the first safe thing that leapt forward.
“I embroidered a handkerchief,” she said stiffly. “In great detail, might I add.”
For one breathless beat, he was utterly still. And then he laughed. Not a cruel laugh, but a rich, delighted sound that slid under her skin and unsettled her entirely.
“A handkerchief,” he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. “That hardly counts, my lady. If there is no risk, no danger, where is the fun in breaking the rules?”
Her mouth fell open. She had no answer to that either. His words landed like a spark in dry tinder, and she despised how her heart leapt in response.
She drew herself up, willing her composure back into place. “You are insufferable.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, still smiling, “but you find me fascinating all the same.”
That was too much. Without another word, she swept past him, her steps brisk, her pulse racing as though she fled a battlefield. She did not look back.
Behind her, his laugh lingered in the night air: warm, taunting, and far too close to the truth.
“You have been silent for the better part of ten minutes, Jasper,” Robert remarked, setting his glass upon the desk with a decisive clink. “That is unlike you. One might think you have something on your mind.”
Dammit, how could he tell?
Jasper leaned back in the leather chair, stretching out his legs as if the picture of ease. “I assure you, I am only savoring your excellent liquor.”
Mason snorted. “Savoring? You are brooding. There is a difference.”
“I do not brood.” Jasper raised his glass to his lips. The burn of the brandy was sharp, though it did little to sear away the image of pale grey eyes that had haunted him since the terrace. He set the glass down with deliberate calm.
Robert’s gaze was too knowing. “Does this sudden fit of thoughtfulness have anything to do with your tormenting Lady Matilda this evening?”
Jasper’s head snapped up. “Tormenting? You make it sound as though I tied the poor woman to a post.”
“You might as well have,” Mason said with a grin. “I was two seats away and could see her bristle with every word you spoke.”
Jasper gave a short laugh. “She gives as good as she gets. If I am guilty of provocation, she is no innocent victim. I merely return what she serves me. Fair play, nothing more.”
Robert lifted a brow. “Fair play, is it? Or interest disguised as antagonism?”
At that, Jasper scoffed, his tone edged with disbelief. “Interest? There is a higher chance of the sun rising in the west than of me harboring feelings of that nature for Lady Matilda.”
Mason smirked over the rim of his glass. “A dramatic denial, if ever I heard one.”
“She is insufferable,” Jasper continued, determined to hold his ground. “Sharp-tongued, judgmental, forever ready to find fault. And that mouth—”
“—is precisely what holds your attention,” Robert finished smoothly. “Come, Jasper. Admit it. If she were docile and agreeable, you would not spare her a second glance.”
Jasper’s jaw tightened. “I sometimes do prefer peace, not constant battle.”
“Do you?” Mason leaned forward, his grin widening. “Strange, then, that you looked positively alive when she threatened to flay you with her tongue at dinner.”
Jasper said nothing. He reached again for his glass, though the liquor did not distract him this time.
Matilda’s voice still rang in his ears, cool and furious and far too tempting.
He swirled the brandy in his glass, the amber liquid catching the firelight.
He kept his eyes fixed on it, unwilling to let either of his friends see what they so easily guessed.
“You both sound like old matrons, conspiring over a teapot,” he said at last.
“Better a teapot than the bottle you’re hiding behind,” Mason countered. “You are rattled, old boy. Admit it.”
“Rattled?” Jasper gave a short bark of laughter. “By Lady Matilda Sterlington? Do not be absurd. She is a vexation, not a temptation. Nothing more.”
Robert leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And yet you cannot keep her from your thoughts.”
Jasper looked up sharply. “You assume too much.”
“Perhaps,” Robert allowed. “But I recognize the signs. I have seen men in battle less tense than you at dinner this evening.”
Mason chuckled. “A woman who unsettles the Duke of Harrow. Who would have thought?”
Jasper downed the remainder of his drink in one swallow, the burn almost welcome. “Enough of this nonsense. You both know I have sworn never to marry. Never to burden another with the name Everleigh. My father made certain of that.”
The humor in the room dulled. Robert exchanged a glance with Mason but said nothing, allowing Jasper to continue.
“You are not your father, Jasper,” Mason reminded him.
Jasper’s lips curved, though without mirth. “No. I am worse, perhaps. At least he believed in something, however twisted. I believe in nothing.”
Robert leaned forward, his tone steady. “You may repeat that until you believe it. But from where I sit, you care more than most men. Perhaps too much.”
Jasper looked away, his jaw tight. Matilda’s pale eyes rose unbidden in his mind, fierce and wounded, defying him even as she trembled. He cursed inwardly.
“I care nothing for no one, especially not her,” he said, though even to his own ears the words rang hollow.
Neither Mason nor Robert challenged him this time. Their silence was answer enough.