Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Matilda hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “I have something to ask you. Since we are being truthful.”
His eyes glinted with amusement. “By all means. Ask.”
“Why were you so… different while fixing the wheel?” The words came out softer than she intended, but steady. “You were not your usual mocking and provoking self.”
He paused, as though her question had struck somewhere unexpected. “I was simply… focused.”
Matilda reached across the table and lifted the jar of biscuits toward herself, tucking it close to her chest. “The same rules apply,” she declared. “Only truth-sayers are granted cookies.”
His grin deepened. “Fair enough. But that is a deep conversation, one for friends.”
“Are we not friends?” she asked quickly, surprising herself with the question.
His gaze lingered on her, as if her face might reveal the answer before her lips could. “I don’t know… perhaps.”
Something playful and perhaps reckless rose within her then. She set the jar down, gathered her skirts with one hand, and swept into a graceful little curtsey.
“In that case, I am Lady Matilda Sterlington,” she said, her lips curving, “at your service.”
He blinked at her before comprehension dawned, and the corner of his mouth twitched. With a half-bow, he replied, “Jasper Everleigh, Duke of Harrow. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Matilda straightened, with a spark of laughter in her eyes. “There. You see? We can work toward being friends now.”
He only looked at her for a long moment, as though uncertain whether to laugh or protest.
Matilda tilted her head, mischief stirring. “Now then. If we are to be friends, we must do what friends do and that is ask questions.”
His brows rose, amused. “Questions?”
“Yes,” she nodded, tapping the jar of biscuits. “To get to know each other. I shall begin. What is your favorite sweet?”
He gave a short laugh. “That is easy, these very biscuits, as you well know. And you?”
“Chocolate drops,” she confessed, her lips twitching. “Though I hardly ever admit it. People find it childish.”
“Not at all,” he said, leaning one hip against the table. “You’ve good taste.”
She smiled, then pursed her lips in thought. “Very well, another. Do you rise early or late?”
“Early,” he said at once. “Years of habit. And you?”
“Late,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose. “I dread the morning. Always have.”
He chuckled low in his throat, and the sound made her insides flutter.
“Your turn,” she said firmly, pointing a biscuit at him as though it were a weapon.
He folded his arms, considering. “If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”
She blinked, startled by the unexpected seriousness. After a pause, she said softly, “Italy. I should like to see Rome, the old ruins, the paintings. To walk where history still whispers.”
His eyes lingered on her face, and for a moment, the air grew heavier. “Rome would suit you.”
Her cheeks warmed, so she hurried on. “Another question. Dogs or cats?”
“Dogs,” he replied with certainty. “Though I suspect you prefer cats.”
“I do.” She laughed lightly. “Stubborn, independent creatures. I admire them.”
“Just like their mistress,” he murmured.
He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “What is the last thing that made you laugh until you cried?”
Her mind flew to Cordelia tripping over a footstool and somehow turning it into a dramatic performance worthy of the theatre. The memory made her giggle again. “Cordelia. Always Cordelia.”
He smiled too, faint but genuine, and for a moment it felt… easy. Silly, awkward, but strangely intimate, as if they had stumbled into a world where there was no weight of titles, no shadows of past mistakes, only questions, biscuits, and the warmth of candlelight.
Matilda tilted her head, mischief glimmering in her grey eyes. “Do we feel like friends now?”
Jasper leaned back against the table, considering. At last, his lips curved. “We are smiling at each other. I’d say that means we’re as close to friends as it gets for two people who cannot stand each other.”
The line made her laugh, and a soft chuckle escaped her before she could stop it.
But then he shook his head with mock solemnity as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, but we cannot be friends just yet.”
Her brows arched. “And why not?”
He strolled to the sideboard as if it were his own kitchen, lifted the jug there, and poured two cups of milk. With a flourish, he offered one to her. She accepted it warily, though her lips twitched. Then, to her surprise, he held out a biscuit as well, placing it neatly atop the rim of her cup.
“There,” he said. “Now we may be friends. A true initiation: milk and biscuits, stolen at midnight.”
She shook her head at his ridiculousness, but the warmth spreading through her chest made it impossible not to smile. They sat together at the table, cups in hand, and on his cue they both bit into their biscuits at the same time.
Jasper chewed thoughtfully, then leaned closer. “All right. My turn for questions. If you could be any animal for a day, which would you choose?”
Matilda nearly choked on her milk. “I like that one.”
He grinned. “I’m listening.”
After a pause, she said, “A bird. Something small and quick, so I could fly wherever I pleased.”
“Of course,” he said. “And I’d be a hound. So, I could chase you.”
She rolled her eyes, but laughter bubbled up despite herself. She looked away quickly, reaching for another biscuit to steady herself. Matilda brushed crumbs from her fingers, her heart thudding as though it already knew the danger in what she was about to do.
“Very well,” she said softly. “Since we are friends now… I may ask you a serious question.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with that insufferably calm amusement. “Yes. You can.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup of milk. Nerves prickled through her, sharp as pins. She could not quite meet his eyes, and he noticed… of course he noticed. But he said nothing. He only waited patiently, giving her the silence she needed.
At last, she drew in a breath. “Why do you flirt with me? Why tease and vex me so?”
When her eyes flicked up, she expected him to laugh, to smirk, to toss her question aside. But he did not look surprised.
Instead, his voice was steady, almost gentle. “Because you are a beautiful woman. And every expression I drew from you, every frown, every flush, every glare, was like a canvas, painted just for me.”
Her breath caught. Heat flared in her cheeks, her lips parted, but no words came. She had been prepared for mockery, for arrogance. She had not been prepared for that.
The air between them thickened, charged, and just as she struggled to summon a reply, the sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Before she could rise, Jasper moved. In one swift motion he crossed the space, caught her wrist, and tugged her down with him behind the great kitchen table.
Matilda’s back pressed against the wood, her skirts rustling, her pulse racing so wildly she feared it might give them away. He crouched close beside her, the warmth of his body stealing the very air, while his hand was still at her wrist.
The footsteps grew louder, steady against the flagstone floor of the corridor. Matilda’s heart thundered in her chest. She pressed back against the table, every nerve in her body alive with panic and with something far more dangerous.
Jasper was close. His shoulder brushed hers, his hand still circled her wrist, and his body all but shielded her from view.
His scent filled the small space; the faint spice of brandy, the sharper tang of leather, the warmth of him.
She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could almost count the beats of his pulse.
The door creaked open. A servant entered, muttering under his breath as he shuffled toward the far cupboard. Matilda froze, hardly daring to breathe.
Jasper leaned closer, his lips so near her ear she felt the ghost of his breath. “Quiet,” he whispered.
The word sent a shiver down her spine.
The servant rummaged noisily, fetched something from the shelves, and lingered longer than Matilda thought possible. She prayed he would not glance behind the table. Every second stretched unbearably, each heartbeat louder than the last.
Jasper shifted ever so slightly, his thigh pressing against hers, the heat of him searing through her gown. She clenched her fingers, fighting the treacherous urge to lean into him. Her mind screamed distance, but her body betrayed her, drawn irresistibly to his nearness.
At last, the servant closed the cupboard with a bang, muttered something about the hour, and left. The door clicked shut, and the footsteps faded away. Silence fell again, heavy and breathless.
Matilda realized then that Jasper had not moved, that his hand still lingered at her wrist, that their bodies were pressed too close in the shadows. Her breath caught and her lips parted as she finally dared to look up at him.
And in the candlelight, with his blue eyes fixed on hers, he looked every inch the danger she had sworn to avoid, yet never wanted more.
Jasper’s gaze locked on hers, the blue of his eyes deep and unrelenting in the flicker of candlelight.
Neither of them moved, though the air between them throbbed with heat.
His hand lingered at her wrist, his chest brushed hers with every shallow breath, and she swore the world had narrowed to the few inches that separated their lips.
He leaned closer. Her breath caught, her pulse pounding in her ears. Every thought screamed at her to move away, but her body refused, trapped and trembling beneath the spell of him.
He was so near she could feel the warmth of him, could almost taste the kiss that hovered on the brink. Her lips parted without her bidding.
And then—he stopped.
Jasper exhaled sharply, a ragged breath, and pulled back, dragging his hand away from her wrist as though it burned him. His jaw clenched, his gaze still holding hers for one devastating moment before he looked aside.
The spell broke.
Matilda shot to her feet so quickly she nearly toppled the jar of biscuits. Her skirts caught on the edge of the table, the clatter of a wooden stool echoing in the silence.
“I uhm… should return to my chamber.” Her voice shook as she spoke.
Without waiting for a reply, she stumbled toward the door, almost running, her cheeks aflame and her heart hammering in a way that frightened her. She slipped out into the dark corridor, pressing her back to the wall once the door shut behind her. Her breath came in shallow bursts.
What madness had overtaken her?
She hurried away, skirts whispering against the stone floor, desperate to put distance between herself and the kitchen, and the man who, in one breath, had nearly undone her completely.