Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“You are rusty,” Greyson remarked, his voice as cool and flat as the polished wood of the billiards table. “I recall you sinking three balls in a row without pause. Now you are lucky if you strike one clean.”
Greyson Thornhill, Duke of Callbury, was a man who carried silence like a weapon.
Where other gentlemen laughed to ease a room, Greyson commanded it with little more than a glance.
Cold, serious, and impossibly composed, he was both admired and feared in equal measure.
A man of principle, practical to his bones, and so respected that few dared speak against him.
To Jasper, however, Greyson was more than his reputation.
He was an old friend, the sort of man who had seen him at his best and worst, and remained all the same.
Their friendship was an odd one, for Greyson’s severity was as stone to Jasper’s fire, yet the contrast had forged an unlikely but unbreakable bond.
Now the two of them stood in Robert’s parlor, billiard cues in hand, the polished wood gleaming under the afternoon light. A decanter of brandy waited on the sideboard, but neither had touched it yet.
Jasper leaned on his cue with practiced laziness, grinning despite the barb. “I let you win, Greyson. Consider it a gift to celebrate your arrival.”
Greyson’s dark brow arched. “Do not insult me with charity. You play poorly. Admit it.”
The crack of ivory balls echoed as Greyson bent with precise care and sent a red ball straight into the corner pocket. Not so much as a twitch of satisfaction crossed his face.
“Still a tyrant on the billiards table,” Jasper drawled. He reached for his own shot and missed again by a hair’s breadth. He cursed under his breath, straightening. “Tell me, do you treat all your opponents like errant schoolboys, or am I the fortunate exception?”
“You are the only one who requires it,” Greyson replied. Though his tone was cool, a glimmer of amusement flickered deep in his eyes, a sign Jasper knew few others could read.
Jasper smirked, reaching for his glass and finally pouring the brandy. “You always did have a talent for making me feel like a wayward youth.”
Greyson accepted his own glass but did not drink. He studied Jasper for a long moment before speaking. “You are distracted.”
“Am I?” Jasper’s grin widened, careless.
“Yes.” Greyson took his next shot, clean and merciless. “Otherwise you would not play like a man half-drunk.” He replaced his cue with deliberate calm. “What troubles you?”
“Perhaps I am half-drunk,” Jasper said lightly.
Greyson ignored the jest, as he always did. “I have known you long enough to recognize when your thoughts are elsewhere. It seems they are not where they should be.” Greyson chalked his cue with slow, deliberate strokes, then he continued. “I intend to take a more active role in the coming Season.”
Jasper froze mid-sip, lowering his brandy with a snap of disbelief. “You? Active in the Season? What devil has possessed you?”
Greyson bent, lined up his shot, and sent a ball cleanly into the side pocket. “I am looking for a wife.”
For the first time that evening, Jasper barked out a laugh.
“A wife? You have gone mad. Utterly mad. Do you know what a wife entails, old boy? Endlessly circling ballrooms, simpering introductions, mothers foisting their daughters at your feet like wares at market. I shall do you a favor and pretend I never heard such nonsense.”
Greyson only straightened. “You may ignore it if you wish. I will not.”
Jasper shook his head, still grinning, though it felt tight on his face. “Well, more power to you, old friend. But I will keep well clear of your folly. The fewer entanglements, the better.”
He lined up his own shot, careless, and struck. It missed by an inch. He swore under his breath, glaring at the table as though it had betrayed him.
Greyson’s silence pressed, but Jasper waved it off with a flourish of his cue.
“At any rate, more members of the ton will begin arriving in the coming days. As the baptism draws near, they will flock like starlings, eager to be seen, eager to be heard. I intend to have as little patience for it as possible.”
He leaned against the table, smirking into his glass. “Perhaps I’ll be lucky, and avoid the thrum of society altogether.”
But even as he said it, he knew luck had deserted him, for his thoughts refused to stay clear of one lady in particular, with pale grey eyes and a blush that haunted him more than it should.
Greyson set his cue neatly on the rack, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat. “I will retire for now. The journey was long, and I would like to turn in.”
Jasper let out a groan of mock despair. “You cannot leave me in disgrace, old friend. That game was an annihilation. I demand a rematch.”
Greyson’s mouth curved faintly, though it was not quite a smile. “I will only play you again when you are focused. Until then, I will not waste my skill.”
Jasper opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He could not, in good conscience, promise focus when his mind was anything but. He gave a short nod instead, raising his glass in half a salute. “Another day, then.”
Greyson inclined his head and left the parlor, his steps measured and quiet as ever.
The room felt larger without him, and the silence thicker. Jasper glanced at the half-finished game, then at the untouched decanter of brandy. Yet what stirred in him was not a thirst for more drink. It was a hunger.
Only it was not for meat, nor for bread, but for the little lemon biscuits that had been served at tea that afternoon.
They were so devilishly crisp on the outside and soft within, with their sweetness cut with just the right tang of citrus.
He had already eaten more than was proper in company, but now the craving returned with force.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at himself. A duke, undone not by war or scandal, but by biscuits. Still, the thought of slipping into the kitchen, unnoticed, to steal another plateful when no one could see him… the idea amused him almost as much as it tempted him.
With a sigh that was half-laughter, Jasper set aside his cue. He had best go and find those lemon biscuits before someone else did.
Hecrept through the corridors like a boy in mischief, his steps silent on the carpet. He had not felt so lighthearted in years. There was something absurdly satisfying in the secrecy of it, in slipping past closed doors, ducking into shadow, his prize already fixed in his mind.
The kitchen was dark when he pushed the door open, quiet as a church. Everyone had long since retired. Perfect. He could claim the whole jar and gorge himself without a single watchful eye to scold him.
He slipped inside, closed the door softly behind him, and turned toward the larder. His back was to the chamber when he did it, so he never saw, not until he turned, what was already waiting there.
Matilda.
Her hand was buried in the very jar of lemon biscuits he had come to steal.
Her eyes flew wide as though she had been caught rifling the crown jewels.
For one stunned instant, they simply stared at each other.
Jasper, with one hand still on the door, her with the incriminating biscuit halfway to her lips.
She looked every inch the red-handed thief.
And utterly mesmerizing.
The candlelight caught her brown hair, the sharp line of her cheekbones softened by the shadows, the faint flush on her face betraying her embarrassment. Her grey eyes flashed with indignation and something else he could not name, but which twisted pleasantly in his chest.
Jasper’s lips curved into a slow grin. “Well,” he drawled, voice low, “it seems the kitchen has already been burgled.”
“You startled me,” she said, far too primly for someone caught red-handed.
Jasper leaned against the door, folding his arms with deliberate ease. “Startled? No, my lady, you look guilty. Which is worse.”
“I do not,” she shot back, lowering the biscuit but not relinquishing it.
“You most certainly do. Hand in the jar, eyes wide, expression of a child found in the pantry.” He tilted his head, his grin widening. “If I had a mirror, I’d show you.”
Her grey eyes narrowed, but she raised her chin. “Well, what are you doing here at this hour, Your Grace? Don’t tell me you were on some noble errand.” She stopped herself there, then her eyes widened in mock shock. “You! You also came for the biscuits!”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I? Sneaking about like a common thief? Impossible. I was merely ensuring the safety of the household provisions.”
“That sounds very noble indeed.” She sniffed, biting delicately into her biscuit as though to spite him. “And entirely unconvincing.”
Jasper’s laugh echoed softly in the dim kitchen. He crossed to the table, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “Then we are both thieves tonight. A shocking partnership.”
“Not a partnership,” she corrected swiftly, brushing crumbs from her fingertips.
Their eyes met again across the jar. His gaze lingered on the faint scattering of freckles over her nose, the blush still warming her cheeks. She looked every bit the lady who was caught, embarrassed, but defiant.
Jasper reached for another biscuit, but then paused. Something caught his eye. A faint smear, dark against the candlelight, streaking across the curve of her fingers.
“Paint,” he said slowly, straightening.
Matilda stiffened, tucking her hand behind her skirts as if to hide it. “It is nothing.”
He arched a brow, amusement sparking in his eyes. He tugged the jar of biscuits toward himself, deliberately placing it out of her reach.
“Lies, my lady, will not earn you any cookies. Truth might. And I will keep your secret.”
Her grey eyes flashed, wary but curious. She tilted her head as though weighing his words, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Very well. If my honor rests upon biscuits…”
Almost reluctantly, as if each movement cost her courage, she drew her hands forward. Her fingers were small, dainty, stained faintly with streaks of blue and silver paint.
Jasper stepped closer, drawn in despite himself.
He caught her wrists lightly, lowering her hands to the light.
The delicate bones, the softness of her skin, the tremor in her breath…
he felt the sudden, startling urge to lift her fingers to his lips.
The desire struck him hard and sharp, but he fought it down, schooling his features into careful neutrality.
He cleared his throat. “The paint, Lady Matilda. What is it for?”
Her voice was quieter now, almost shy. “I thought to make some alterations to my gown for the ball. There is no time for embroidery, so I decided to paint what I might otherwise have stitched. The shape can be changed, too, just slightly. Enough to… make it different.”
Jasper’s mouth curved faintly. “Ah. So this is the infamous shawl business from two days ago, when the wheel broke.”
A flush crept up her neck, but she met his eyes with a kind of helpless honesty. “It was. Yes.”
Jasper chuckled softly, letting her wrists go with deliberate slowness. “Well, I suppose that does sound more diverting than actually repairing a shawl.”
Her lips pressed together as though she meant to scold him, but she said nothing. Only the faint paint stains glimmered between them, and the knowledge that for once, she had allowed him to see her secret.