Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Jasper drew a deep breath as he adjusted his gloves, the familiar weight of the reins steady in his hands.
A hunt was precisely what he needed: speed, movement, the thunder of hooves beneath him.
Nothing cleared his head so well as the rhythm of horse and rider, no thought intruding except the next fence, the next stretch of open ground.
Stop thinking about her, he told himself. This is what you need.
But the gods had a cruel sense of humor, for there she was, trotting toward the gathering with Evelyn and Hazel at her side, with her cheeks pink with the morning air and her posture graceful yet assured. And unlike them, she was not perched delicately sidesaddle… she rode astride.
The sight jolted him like a lash.
His protective instincts flared sharp and fierce. Did she not know the whispers that would rise the instant the rest of the company saw her? Did she not care? His jaw tightened, and he had to force his fingers to loosen on the reins before his horse grew restless beneath him.
The picture of her with her skirts parted for the saddle, her back straight and her eyes alight with concentration burned itself into his mind, both infuriating and utterly captivating.
Robert, at his side, noticed his stiff posture. “Something amiss?”
Jasper forced a laugh, though it sounded thin. “Only that I was hoping for a distraction today, and instead it seems distraction has decided to chase me.”
The ladies guided their horses closer. Evelyn smiled warmly, Hazel was serene as ever, while Matilda of course wore that cool, composed look that only sharpened the heat rising in Jasper’s chest.
“You cannot be serious,” he muttered as they drew near. His stallion sidestepped, restless beneath his hands. “It is too dangerous.”
Matilda tilted her head, her pale grey eyes glinting. “Dangerous? We are riding, not storming a battlefield.”
“You know very well what I mean.” His tone was sharper than he intended. “This ground is rough. The fences high. If you fall—”
“If I fall,” she interrupted, her voice maddeningly calm, “then I fall doing what I chose to do. Not what you chose for me.”
Jasper clenched his jaw. Banter he could parry, but this, her quiet defiance, left him off balance. She was not wrong, and it rattled him more than he cared to admit.
“Besides,” she added sweetly, leaning just a fraction forward in her saddle, “you had better worry for yourself. I would hate for you to lag behind. It would be most embarrassing for a duke to lose to a dowager.”
Robert barked out a laugh. “I should very much like to see that.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jasper growled, though his lips twitched despite himself.
Matilda smirked. “Afraid, Your Grace?”
“Of you?” he shot back, his voice low. “Never.”
But the truth pressed hard against his ribs as he looked at her, bold and radiant astride her horse. He was not afraid of her. He was afraid for her. And it was proving impossible to disguise it beneath a jest.
Evelyn edged her mare closer, lowering her voice so that only Matilda could hear. “You really ought to have ridden as we did. I fear people will talk.”
Matilda kept her eyes forward, her grip steady on the reins. “Let them. I am done living by what others think I ought to do. I am doing what I want.”
Her sister looked startled at the steel in her tone. Hazel’s gaze softened, but she said nothing, giving Matilda space to speak.
“I used to ride astride,” Matilda admitted, her voice quieter now, as if confessing a secret.
“Back in the country, when my late husband left me alone at the estate. It was one of the very few freedoms I had. No one watched, no one judged, and I found I preferred it. Far better control, far better balance.”
Evelyn’s hand tightened briefly on her reins. “Matilda…”
She shook her head, cutting her off gently. “I know there will be backlash. I know what they will say. But I would rather risk whispers than deny myself the little courage I have managed to gather.”
For a moment, there was silence but for the stamping of hooves and the baying of hounds in the distance. Then Hazel leaned over with a grin. “Well, I for one think you look magnificent. If anyone dares scold you, they’ll have me to contend with.”
Matilda smiled faintly, though her heart beat faster as she caught the edge of Jasper’s gaze from across the riders: fierce, watchful, unrelenting. She could recognize concern in his voice, but it was unnecessary. She could take care of herself and she was happy to show him… to show them all.
As the riders gathered in the clearing, Matilda felt the prickle of eyes upon her. Curious glances, some raised brows, even a pair of whispers muffled behind gloved hands. She braced herself, waiting for the censure to fall, for that sharp remark, that pointed scold about propriety and decency.
But it never came.
The murmurs faded, and conversation resumed as if nothing were amiss. She sat straighter, astonished by the quiet revelation. Of course. She was not a green debutante trembling at her first assembly. She was a widow, a woman of her own household, with liberties no unmarried girl could dare claim.
The realization emboldened her, burning warm in her chest.
With a determined smile, she nudged her mare forward, leaving Evelyn and Hazel behind to drift toward the group of men gathered ahead. They were laughing, wagering loudly on who would bag the most birds.
“I’ll have two by luncheon,” Mason boasted, grinning.
“You will miss every shot as always,” Greyson said flatly, earning a round of chuckles.
Jasper, astride nearby, remained silent, though his eyes flicked to her the moment she approached.
Matilda lifted her chin, her voice carrying clear and steady. “I think it will be I who shoots the first bird.”
The words dropped into the circle like a stone in water. The men turned as one, surprise flashing in their eyes. For a moment, silence. Then the shock softened and shifted into smiles, into good-natured laughter.
“Well said, Matilda!” Mason declared. “Bold claim. Shall we put a wager to it?”
“Indeed,” another gentleman chimed in. “Let us see if she has the mettle to match her spirit.”
Even Greyson’s brow lifted slightly, which was a sign of approval in his otherwise stern features. Jasper said nothing, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed both outrage and admiration.
Matilda’s lips curved as she settled more firmly in her saddle. “Then it is settled. You may keep your wagers, but I’ll keep the bird.”
Their laughter rang again, this time tinged with admiration.
Then, the horn sounded, sharp and clear, and the hounds surged forward.
Horses shifted, as the riders urged them into motion across the open field.
Matilda felt the familiar thrill of the reins in her hands, the wind tugging at her hair and the surge of freedom beneath her.
But almost immediately, Jasper drew near. His stallion matched pace with her mare, his presence looming like a shadow at her side.
She arched an inquisitive brow. “Surely the Duke of Harrow has better things to do than ride nursemaid to me.”
His mouth tightened, though his gaze never left the path ahead. “I don’t trust this ground. It’s uneven, too easy to catch a hoof.”
“How fortunate,” she said lightly, raising her rifle, “that I trust myself enough for the both of us.”
“Confidence and recklessness are not the same thing,” he shot back.
“True,” she said sweetly, “and yet, here you are, keeping up with me for fear you cannot match either.”
That earned her a sharp glance, his jaw working, and she bit back a smile. His worry was genuine. She could see it in the furrow of his brow, the taut line of his shoulders, but teasing him felt deliciously wicked.
The beat of wings startled the group, and several riders lifted their rifles at once. Matilda steadied hers, her pulse quickening. Jasper leaned closer, his voice low enough for her alone.
“Steady. Don’t rush it.”
She didn’t dare look at him, not with her aim fixed. “You’ll see soon enough, Your Grace. I’ve no intention of missing.”
He gave a low huff of laughter. “Prove it, then.”
But the pheasant dropped before she could take her shot, the hounds baying as they dashed forward.
“Lord Whitcombe’s bird!” the keeper called, his sharp voice ringing over the field.
A cheer went up as Whitcombe tipped his hat, grinning broadly. Matilda lowered her rifle, heat rushing to her cheeks not from shame, but from the sharp sting of disappointment. She had been so close.
Beside her, Jasper’s stallion shifted, the duke’s gaze heavy on her. “Steady,” he murmured low, as if sensing her frustration. “It wasn’t yours.”
She snapped her head toward him, eyes flashing. “I know very well whose bird it was, thank you. I needed no reminder.”
His lips curved, infuriatingly amused. “Forgive me. I thought perhaps you needed the comfort.”
She narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin. “Comfort is for the faint-hearted. I daresay the next one will be mine. Try to keep up, Your Grace.”
His jaw flexed, but his smile lingered. “Careful, my lady. Pride goes before the miss.”
She smirked, raising her rifle again as the company prepared for the next round. “Then pray I don’t miss, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
The men around them chuckled, some impressed, some incredulous at her spirit, but none dared speak against her. And though her heart still beat fast with the sting of failure, Matilda felt the thrill of daring course through her veins.
The hunt pressed on. Shots rang out one after another, echoing across the field as pheasants burst skyward in frantic bursts of feathers.
Lord Whitcombe bagged another, earning boisterous congratulations, while Mason fired and missed to a chorus of friendly jeers.
Evelyn and Hazel kept their pace steady, content to ride at the edges, observing the spectacle with composure.
Matilda, however, kept her rifle ready. Her pulse thudded in her ears each time the wings beat overhead, each time someone else’s shot claimed the prize. She ignored Jasper’s watchful presence beside her, ignored the sidelong glances cast her way. She would not miss again.
Then came her chance.
A pheasant broke from the hedgerow, darting upward with a frantic screech. Matilda lifted her rifle, breath steady, the world narrowing to the bird’s path. The trigger gave beneath her finger—
A crack split the air.
The pheasant dropped, tumbling into the field. The keeper’s sharp nod confirmed what she already knew.
“Lady Sterlington’s bird!”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then came the cheers, hearty and impressed, and even a few raised brows of genuine respect.
“Well done!” Mason called, grinning.
“True aim, indeed,” another gentleman admitted.
Matilda lowered her rifle, her cheeks flushed, exhilaration coursing through her veins. She had done it. It was not the first bird, no, but it was hers, nonetheless. And in the rules of the hunt, no one could question a clean shot.
Jasper rode closer, his stallion pacing her mare with ease. His blue eyes searched her face, his expression caught between exasperation and something far less guarded.
She arched a brow, her lips curving in a sly smile. “Well, Your Grace? Still think me reckless?”
His jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I should keep a closer eye on you. Before you shame us all.”
Her laughter rang out, as light and free as she herself was. But suddenly, she heard a crack that was too close and too sharp. Someone’s shot went wrong. The barrel had jerked sideways, smoke belching where it should not have. Deafening sound split the air in her direction.
All she could do was gasp, jerking the reins.