Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The morning air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of hay and horses. Jasper stood beside Robert in the stables, tightening the girth of his stallion’s saddle, with the quiet punctuated only by the snorts and shifting hooves of the animals.
From the open doors, he could just make out the garden beyond.
The ladies had gathered there for tea beneath the wide awning, their laughter rising now and again above the rustle of leaves.
Cordelia’s voice rang brightest, Hazel’s steady tones following, and Evelyn’s gentler warmth threading through.
Even Greyson sat among them, still as stone, while Mason lounged nearby, already gesturing animatedly as he told some tale.
Jasper lingered a moment too long in his glance.
Robert caught it. Of course he did. “Ah,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips, “perhaps you would rather join them for tea than ride with me?”
Jasper scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the stirrup. “Tea? With Greyson sitting there like a frost-bitten sentinel? No, thank you.”
Robert chuckled, leaning against the stall door. “You forget, I know you too well. That was no idle glance. If I did not know better, I would think you have your eye on someone.”
Jasper snorted, patting the horse’s neck with more force than necessary. “I have my eye on getting this ride over with before the day grows warm. Nothing more.”
Robert’s grin widened, infuriatingly knowing. “If you say so, old boy. But it does strike me that your horse is ready, and yet you stand here wasting time staring at a tea party.”
Jasper shot him a look, half a glare, half a reluctant smile. “And it strikes me, Robert, that fatherhood has made you insufferable.”
Robert laughed outright at that, clapping Jasper on the shoulder. “Come, then. If you are so desperate to avoid temptation, best we ride fast enough to leave it far behind.”
Jasper swung into the saddle, but as they set off, he could not resist one last glance toward the garden. Greyson sat rigid, Cordelia leaned too close with some absurd anecdote, Hazel shook her head with mock severity, Evelyn beamed and in the midst of it, Matilda sat quietly.
Jasper cursed under his breath and urged his horse forward, leaving the sight behind.
Robert guided his horse down the narrow lane. “Tell me, Jasper,” he said, half-casual, half-prying, “have you changed your mind about marriage?”
Jasper barked out a laugh. “Marriage? It would be a cold day in hell when that happens.”
Robert only chuckled. “You sound so certain. But it wouldn’t be so bad, you know. A wife, a household, children… there’s peace in it. Stability.”
“Chains,” Jasper muttered, spurring his horse forward a step. “Responsibility that suffocates, expectations that grind a man down. Spare me.”
Robert grinned knowingly. “Funny. Greyson doesn’t see it that way. He’s spoken of taking a more active role this Season, even showing an interest in the ladies who will be here for the baptism celebrations.”
Jasper’s jaw tightened. He forced a scoff. “So? The man has gone mad, clearly. Let him chase his folly. I still have my reason.”
Robert’s laughter carried on the breeze. “Reason? Is that what you call it? I call it stubbornness.”
Jasper said nothing, but the words stuck like burrs. He could not banish the thought that every man now had the same opportunity, every man would see Matilda seated at her sister’s table, every man would weigh her as a prospect.
The image lodged deep, unwelcome and immovable. Matilda, with her pale grey eyes and the blush that had undone him in the kitchen, considered by others, desired by others.
He clenched the reins tighter, his stallion tossing its head at the sudden pressure.
Robert glanced sidelong at him, grinning still. “You look as though the idea unsettles you.”
Jasper forced a smirk that felt thin. “You imagine too much, Robert. I am perfectly at ease.”
But he wasn’t. Not even close.
The morning sunlight dappled through the leaves, scattering over the table set in the garden.
Silver glinted, porcelain cups steamed with fragrant tea, and laughter wove its way through the air.
Cordelia was telling some dramatic story with such flourish that Hazel was shaking her head in mock despair.
Evelyn leaned against Mason’s arm, her eyes bright with affection, while the Duke of Callbury sat across from them, watchful and steady.
It should have been a perfectly pleasant scene. And it was. Yet Matilda found herself glancing toward the stables in the distance… for the third time.
There was no sign of him.
Of course not. She drew her eyes back to her cup. Jasper Everleigh despised this sort of thing. Tea in the garden, chatter about gowns and gossip… he would have no patience for it. And why should he join them?
Her breath caught at the thought that had slipped in, unbidden: Because of last night.
But she crushed it at once. Nothing had happened.
Almost was not enough. He had stopped himself.
Even more so, he had proved himself capable of restraint.
She ought to be grateful for it. The very idea that he might come to sit beside her because of some mad impulse, because of one moment behind a kitchen table… it was ridiculous.
“Matilda?” Evelyn’s voice broke gently through her thoughts. Matilda blinked, realizing her sister had asked her something.
She flushed. “Forgive me, I did not catch that.”
Cordelia leaned forward, her eyes dancing. “She is lost in her thoughts. Dreaming away while the rest of us carry on. Tell us, Matilda, what captivates you so?”
Matilda stiffened. “I am hardly—”
“A lady need not explain herself.” Greyson Thornhill’s voice cut across the table, low and commanding.
He had not raised it, but it carried, nonetheless.
He sat like a statue of marble, but his gaze was sharp, steady and protective in a way that startled her.
“One is permitted to let the mind wander, is one not?”
Cordelia blinked, surprised into silence. Hazel smothered a smile into her teacup. Evelyn gave Matilda a fond look, while Mason let out a laugh.
“Careful, Thornhill, you’ll spoil her.”
Greyson’s steady gaze lingered, and though Matilda’s instinct was to retreat, something in his composure made it impossible to refuse.
“Well,” she began, choosing her words with care, “I was admiring the roses. My sister has cultivated such a variety of them, you see. Cream, blush, even a striking yellow. I was wondering how many years it must take to tend a garden so well.”
“A practical thought,” Greyson said, inclining his head slightly. “It does not surprise me. You strike me as a woman who notices details others might overlook.”
The unexpected compliment stole her breath for a moment. She smoothed her napkin across her lap, uncertain how to respond. “I do not know if that is so, Your Grace.”
“It is,” he said simply. “Most speak of roses only to praise their beauty. Few ask what labor lies behind them.”
Cordelia gave a soft laugh. “Good heavens, listen to the two of you, so solemn over roses!”
Mason added with mock gravity, “I believe I just heard Greyson Thornhill pay a compliment. Matilda, you should feel honored. He rarely wastes words.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Do hush, Mason.”
But Matilda hardly heard them. Greyson’s attention remained fixed upon her, and she was relieved to speak without having to be on guard all the time.
That was how she found herself speaking again, more easily than she had expected. “I think there is comfort in such things. In knowing something may bloom again next year, if given patience. Do you keep roses at Callbury?”
“Of course. The gardens are tended with strict care. We encourage symmetry. Nothing is left to chance.”
She nodded, lips curving as though in admiration. “That must look very fine.”
“It does,” he said, and though his eyes held hers, his voice was as cool and even as ever.
Her smile faltered for just a heartbeat. Something in his unwavering composure left her oddly restless. She lifted her cup again, stalling. “I confess I like when the garden looks a little wild. As though it has a mind of its own.”
Greyson considered. “Unruly gardens require twice the discipline.”
“Ah,” Matilda said softly, forcing another smile.
Yet even as she answered, her mind betrayed her, slipping back to a memory of a very different conversation, one laced with smirks and barbs and quick retorts. Jasper, needling her until her cheeks flushed hot, always dancing just on the edge of impropriety. It was infuriating, but alive.
Greyson’s voice called her back. “You think otherwise?”
“I… perhaps,” she said carefully. “Sometimes it is pleasant not to have everything in order.”
He inclined his head gravely, as if weighing her words. “An interesting perspective. Do you read much, Lady Sterlington?”
Matilda inclined her head. “I do. More than is fashionable, I am afraid.”
His expression did not change, but there was the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes. “A useful habit. Better than idle chatter, at least. History, philosophy?”
“Both,” she said. “Though I like novels as well. They may not be as improving, but they are… diverting.”
“Diversions have their place,” he agreed. “But I find history best. It teaches us what not to repeat.”
“Yes,” Matilda added thoughtfully. “Though I sometimes think it also teaches us that mistakes are inevitable. We cannot help but repeat them, in different guises.”
Greyson paused, studying her carefully. “That is a more honest answer than most would give.”
Matilda dipped her head, feeling heat creep along her cheeks. “I do not know if honesty is wise.”
“Wisdom is overrated,” he replied calmly. “Truth is of greater worth.”
Cordelia let out a dramatic sigh. “What a serious table this has become! First roses, now truth. We shall all grow pious if we sit here much longer.”
Mason grinned, nudging his wife, who only lifted her brows at him. Evelyn, ever gentle, steered Cordelia back toward a lighter tale, leaving Greyson’s attention on Matilda.
He leaned forward slightly, though his voice remained even. “I should like to hear what else you read, what else you think.”
Polite. Respectful. Perfectly correct.
And suddenly, absurdly, she missed the fire of banter.