Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following morning dawned cold and pale, with a thin mist still clinging to the lawns. Matilda had resolved quite firmly to keep her distance from the Duke of Harrow after the incident of the day before.
It was only sensible. He had unsettled her far too deeply with his overbearing concern, followed by that brief and unnervingly honest conversation about his father. She did not wish to dwell upon it.
She made her way down the wide steps of the terrace, determined to begin her walk before anyone else was astir. Yet, as fate would have it, Jasper Everleigh emerged from the opposite end of the house at that very moment.
“Lady Matilda,” he said with a bow that looked annoyingly pleased with itself. “Up with the sun? I had not thought you inclined to such industrious habits.”
She stiffened. “And I had not thought you inclined to be properly dressed, Your Grace.”
His brows rose, amused. “Indeed? Have I committed a grievous error of fashion?”
Her eyes, against her will, fell to his coat. It was neatly cut, as one would expect of a duke, but he had fastened the middle buttons entirely askew, giving him a lopsided air. She almost smiled… almost.
“Your coat,” she said, with a sharp tilt of her head. “It appears you dressed in the dark.”
He looked down and laughed, that deep, untroubled laugh that made her cheeks warm despite herself. “Well observed. And will you, madam, offer your services in correction?”
Matilda hesitated. It was a ridiculous suggestion and altogether improper. Yet he had stepped closer, and the mist in the morning air made the world seem smaller and closer, as though no one else might ever intrude.
She drew herself up. “I would not risk being mistaken for your valet.”
“Then we must both endure the scandal of my disorder,” he replied smoothly. “Unless, of course, you care for others to believe you walked the grounds with a man so slovenly attired. What would people say?”
His eyes glinted with mischief, his dimples betraying the enjoyment he took in her discomfiture. Matilda sighed, exasperated, though her heart gave an unsteady beat.
“Hold still,” she muttered, stepping forward.
Her pale fingers fumbled with the stubborn buttons. He stood perfectly motionless, save for the faintest quirk of his mouth.
The closeness was unbearable. She was too aware of the breadth of his chest beneath the coat, of the warmth radiating from him, of his gaze fixed intently on her downcast face. Her cheeks burned. She fastened the last button quickly and dropped her hands as though the fabric had stung her.
“There,” she said crisply. “Now you may resemble a duke again, rather than a stable boy.”
He inclined his head with exaggerated gravity. “I am indebted to your skill, Lady Matilda. You have saved me from public disgrace.”
She rolled her eyes, turning away before he could see her traitorous smile. “I should think your reputation already beyond saving.”
“And yet,” he called after her, his tone light, “you persist in improving me.”
She did not answer, but her lips curved despite her will as she walked on into the mist.
Matilda had hoped that by quickening her pace she might escape him, but Jasper Everleigh was not a man so easily dismissed. His longer stride soon carried him to her side. He matched her step as though it were his right.
“You did that deliberately,” she said without turning her head.
“What, allow my coat to suffer such indignity? Never. I confess I had not the least idea it was misbuttoned. That discovery belongs solely to you.”
“And yet you seemed to enjoy the correction far too much.”
He chuckled. “I enjoy few things more than watching you scold me, Lady Matilda. You grow very earnest, and it is most diverting.”
She cast him a sharp glance, though her lips twitched despite herself. “Then I must endeavor to be less diverting.”
“Pray do not. It would deprive me of one of my few amusements.”
His easy manner unsettled her. It was intolerable how quickly he broke past her defenses with little more than a laugh. She turned her eyes ahead, willing her composure back into place.
“If you had any sense of decency, you would return the favor. Point out some fault in my attire, for balance.”
He looked at her then, she could feel it; that weight of his gaze running the length of her figure with such deliberation that she faltered.
“I would return the favor,” he said at last, “but I cannot.”
Something in his tone sent a tremor through her chest. She forced herself to ask, lightly, though her throat felt tight. “And why is that, Your Grace?”
“Because you,” he said, his blue eyes holding hers without flinch or jest, “always look so very perfect.”
Matilda stopped in her tracks. The mist curled about them like a veil, and for once she found no words ready upon her tongue. Her heart gave a wild, traitorous flutter, and she cursed it at once.
Perfect. The word felt foreign, almost cruel, for it was the one she had never believed applied to her.
She drew a breath, striving for composure, for wit, for anything that might undo the moment. But his gaze remained steady, his expression uncharacteristically earnest, and she felt as though he had reached past every wall she had so carefully built.
At last she turned away, continuing forward with a stiffness meant to disguise the tumult within. “You are impossible,” she said, though her voice lacked the sharpness she had intended.
“Undoubtedly,” he replied with a half-smile. Yet he did not press her further, as though he knew he had unsettled her enough.
They walked in silence for several paces, her mind racing to banish the echo of that word perfect. She fixed her eyes on the path, determined to say nothing further, when at last she could no longer bear the tension.
She stopped again, turning sharply toward him. “Do you mean to accompany me for the whole of my walk?” Her tone was incredulous, almost sharp, though it owed more to the sudden pounding of her heart than to any true displeasure.
His mouth curved. “Why, would it be so inappropriate if I did?”
Matilda opened her lips, only to find no answer readily available.
Of course it would be inappropriate: he was a duke, she a widow, and propriety demanded they keep their exchanges light and brief.
And yet, her traitorous heart beat with something perilously close to relief that he had chosen to follow.
She drew herself up, striving for dignity. “You would do better to accompany the gentlemen on their hunt than trouble me with such questions.”
His eyes glinted. “I have no wish to shoot birds this morning. Besides, I find you infinitely better company.”
Her breath caught, and she was furious with herself for it. She forced her gaze away, lest he read the truth upon her face, that some foolish, hidden part of her very much wanted him there.
Before she could summon a clever retort, a voice rang out across the terrace behind them.
“Jasper!”
Both turned. Robert was standing upon the stairwell, his fair hair catching the weak sunlight. He raised a hand in greeting.
“Ah,” Jasper murmured. “Rescued by the Duke. I imagine you are spared my company, Lady Matilda.”
Matilda forced a small laugh, though it sounded thinner than she liked. “Indeed. I can scarcely express the relief.”
His eyes lingered on her, amused, unconvinced. “You wound me, madam. And after I suffered so gallantly through your scolding.”
Robert called again, closer this time, and Jasper gave her a slight bow before turning toward his friend.
She could barely control the wild, disloyal disappointment that had rushed upon her at Robert’s appearance.
And that, she realized with a pang, was the most dangerous revelation of all.
Jasper turned from Lady Matilda with deliberate leisure, concealing the faint pull of reluctance in his chest. Robert descended the steps with the unhurried confidence of a man entirely at ease in his own home.
“You rise early, Jasper,” Robert said with a grin. “Or perhaps you were merely driven from the house by my sister-in-law’s sharp tongue.”
Jasper laughed, shaking his head. “You misjudge me, old boy. I rather enjoy Lady Matilda’s sharp tongue. It is an art few possess, and fewer still dare employ against me.”
Robert cast him a sidelong look as they crossed the terrace together. “So that is your excuse for haunting her morning walk? More amusement?”
“Precisely,” Jasper replied smoothly, though he found his gaze straying back to the faint figure disappearing into the mist. “She grows gloriously furious at the smallest provocation. I should be a fool to deprive myself of such entertainment while we’re all here.”
Robert chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder as they entered the house. “If it is entertainment you seek, I might find you a horse race or a boxing match. Safer ground than sparring with Matilda, I assure you.”
“Safer, perhaps,” Jasper allowed. “But infinitely less diverting.”
They made their way up the broad staircase, Robert speaking of the business he meant to discuss in his study. Jasper nodded at the appropriate intervals, his expression all ease and good humor, but his thoughts wandered treacherously.
He had spoken the truth: he did enjoy rousing Matilda’s ire. The flash in her pale eyes, the steel in her voice, it all stirred something in him, something keen and alive. And yet beneath the pleasure of provoking her, there lingered a sensation he was far less willing to name.
For her laughter, once drawn out, had struck him deeper than he cared to admit. And her silence, when he had dared call her perfect, still echoed in his mind like a note left unresolved.
He told himself it was nothing more than sport, a game between adversaries. But even as he stepped into Robert’s study, Jasper knew that games did not leave a man feeling quite so exposed.
Robert crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy, though the hour was barely past breakfast. Jasper accepted his with a grin. Such impropriety was precisely why he liked Robert.
“To the relief of surviving another day in this house filled with ladies,” Robert toasted.
“May it last,” Jasper returned, lifting his glass.
Robert swirled the brandy in his glass, his tone turning from playful to thoughtful. “You know, Evelyn worries for Matilda. She hides it well, but I see it. Matilda’s pride runs deep, and she would sooner lock every door against pity than allow anyone to see her wounds.”
Jasper leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “She hardly appears in need of my sympathy. Her tongue is sharp enough to keep any unwanted concern at bay.”
Robert’s mouth quirked. “Yes. But a sharp tongue can be a shield as much as a weapon from any sort of an entanglement. You of all men must know the difference.”
The words landed too close. Jasper’s hand tightened around his glass, his scarred palms burning faintly against the crystal.
He forced a careless laugh. “You are playing the philosopher now, my friend. I assure you, I am the last man in England to offer your sister-in-law any entanglement of that nature.”
“And yet,” Robert said mildly, “you speak of her more than of any other lady in the house.”
Jasper’s retort caught in his throat. He set the glass down with deliberate calm, with his smile firmly in place though his chest had tightened with something unwelcome.
“Then I must correct the oversight,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps I should spend the rest of my time here charming the dowagers, lest anyone imagine me fixated upon one particular lady.”
Robert chuckled, satisfied enough to let the matter drop. But Jasper, though he appeared at ease, could not shake the sting of truth in his friend’s words.
He told himself again it was diversion. Amusement. A game.
But somewhere beneath the brandy’s warmth, a quiet voice asked: if that was all, why did the thought of Evelyn’s worry for Matilda stir in him a protective urge so fierce he could hardly breathe?