Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the close of the evening, Matilda felt her composure worn thin.
The day had been filled with company: laughter at luncheon, chatter during the walk, card games that seemed endless in their noise.
Cordelia’s delightful chaos and Hazel’s brisk sense had kept her occupied, yet by the time the last of the dishes were cleared away, she longed for silence.
So while the others lingered over coffee and conversation, Matilda slipped away. The library was dim but welcoming, its tall windows draped in heavy curtains, and the scent of leather and old paper soothed her frayed nerves. Here, at least, no one expected her to sparkle.
She moved along the shelves, trailing a finger over the spines.
She wanted something solid, something to steady her thoughts.
A volume of history, perhaps, or essays she could bury herself in.
She found a likely title and reached for it, stretching her fingers, and then, she nearly fell back when another hand appeared, claiming the very same book.
Her breath caught. She had not heard the door open, nor the sound of steps behind her. She turned sharply, feeling her heart thudding, and there he was: the Duke of Harrow, far too close, his expression lit with unmistakable amusement.
“Forgive me,” Jasper said softly, though his smile made it clear he meant no such thing. “I did not expect to find you here, Lady Matilda. I thought you preferred lighter company.”
She blinked, gathering herself. “And I did not expect to be interrupted,” she returned, her tone cool though her pulse had yet to steady.
He looked down at the contested volume. “History?” His brow quirked. “I had not thought you inclined toward such dry pursuits.”
“It is not dry,” she said, tightening her grip upon the binding. “It is serious.”
“Serious,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Which is to say dull.” He tugged, just enough to test her claim.
Her chin lifted. “If you came in search of diversion, I suggest you look elsewhere.”
“But troubling you, Lady Matilda, is the most diverting amusement I have yet found,” he replied, with his eyes glinting.
Matilda glared, unwilling to give an inch. Yet her fingers refused to let go of the book, and his grip remained firm.
“Then you had better find another volume, Your Grace,” she said tightly.
His smile deepened, dimples flashing in triumph. “Impossible. I must insist upon this very one.”
Matilda tugged the book toward her, only to find his grip immovable. His hand covered part of the spine.
“This is absurd,” she said. “Surely there are a hundred other volumes in this room, and you must quarrel with me over this one?”
Jasper’s mouth curved maddeningly. “I assure you, Lady Matilda, I came here in search of this precise book.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A history of the Thirty Years’ War? Forgive me, but I cannot believe you capable of such deliberate scholarship.”
“I am full of surprises,” he murmured. His voice had dropped lower, enough to send a treacherous warmth up her spine. “And, as fate would have it, my surprises always seem to require your company.”
She drew herself up. “Then it seems you will be disappointed, for I intend to read it alone.”
“Alone?” His brows rose, and there was mock astonishment in every line of his face. “Impossible. I could not allow you to hoard so weighty a tome all to yourself. No, Lady Matilda, we must share it.”
The word sent a shiver through her. It was ridiculous, really, to be undone by so simple a suggestion. But she was far too aware of the nearness of him, the faint scent of brandy on his breath, the shadow of a dimple threatening each time his lips curved.
Her fingers pressed harder into the book. “I do not share well, Your Grace.”
“Then it is fortunate that I do.” He leaned a fraction closer, and his voice was now a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall I read aloud to you? Spare you the effort?”
Her heart thudded. “I cannot imagine anything worse.”
“Excellent,” he said, without missing a beat. “For nothing pleases me more than doing precisely what you dread.”
He freed the book with one swift tug, and before she could protest, opened it in his hands. His expression grew exaggeratedly solemn as he began to read, his voice deliberately pompous:
“In the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and eighteen, the Bohemian nobility did most rudely defenestrate the imperial envoys—”
Matilda clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh that threatened. “You sound like a schoolboy reciting under duress.”
“Do I?” He glanced at her sidelong, mischief alive in his eyes. “Perhaps you should come closer and correct me.”
She caught herself noticing absurd things: the faint roughness of his jaw where he had shaved in haste, the way lamplight gleamed in the waves of his hair, the long line of his throat above his cravat. Every detail struck her at once, leaving her far too aware of how little space separated them.
She folded her arms, willing her voice to become steady. “Your Grace, I should rather listen to the scratching of mice in the walls than to your butchery of that poor text.”
Jasper’s voice grew more theatrical with each line, rising and falling in such dreadful mockery of solemnity that Matilda pressed her lips tightly together, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“The Protestant Union, greatly affronted, did rouse themselves into a most spirited fury—” He paused dramatically, widening his eyes at her like an actor on the stage.
That did it. The sound escaped her before she could stop it. It was a sharp burst of laughter, bright and unrestrained. It startled her as much as it seemed to startle him. She clapped a hand to her mouth, mortified.
He stilled, the book drooping in his hand. His eyes fixed on her, not with triumph, not with jest, but with something altogether different. It was a quiet wonder, as though the rarest treasure had just been placed before him.
Matilda’s cheeks flamed. “I should not have…” she began, lowering her hand. “But you sound ridiculous, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps,” he said softly, and there was no mockery in it now. “But I would endure ridicule every day of my life, if only to hear you laugh like that again.”
Her breath caught. It was utterly absurd that such a simple thing could unravel her. And yet, under the golden lamplight, with his gaze fixed so intently upon her, she felt exposed in a way she had not in years.
She turned abruptly, reaching for another book to occupy her hands, her voice sharper than she intended. “You imagine yourself very clever, sir. But I assure you, you will not make sport of me again.”
“Well, Lady Matilda, if you find my delivery so offensive, there is but one solution.”
She did not turn as she busied herself at the shelves. “To cease speaking altogether?”
“To hand the book to you, of course,” he said cheerfully. “And beg you to read aloud in my stead.”
Her hand froze upon the shelf. She looked over her shoulder incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly so,” he replied, eyes dancing. “You mocked my poor efforts, so surely you will do better.” He held out the volume, open and waiting, like a challenge.
“I will not,” she said firmly.
“Cannot, you mean?” His smile deepened. “Ah, you fear you will stumble. That your voice will quaver.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not stumble.”
“Prove it,” he murmured, pressing the book into her hands before she could protest further.
She glared at him but, out of pure stubbornness, lowered her gaze to the page. “In the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and eighteen…”
The words came more smoothly than she expected, and her voice echoed clearly in the hush of the library. Jasper leaned one shoulder against the shelf, watching her with infuriating attention.
She faltered, feeling that familiar heat creeping into her cheeks. “Why are you staring so?”
“Because,” he said simply, “I was right. You make even the driest history sound… compelling.”
Matilda’s throat tightened. “You are intolerable.”
“And yet you keep reading,” he pointed out.
She snapped the book shut, thrusting it at him. “There. Satisfied?”
He caught it easily, his grin utterly unrepentant. “Not nearly.”
Her breath came faster, her composure hanging by a thread. It was ridiculous that a man so insufferable could leave her feeling as though the ground shifted beneath her feet.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said sharply, turning to leave before he could see the flush in her cheeks.
“Sleep well, Lady Matilda,” he called softly after her. “And do dream of glorious battles. I shall expect a full report.”
She did not look back, but the sound of his laughter followed her down the corridor. Matilda hurried down the corridor, clutching at her shawl as if it might shield her from the confusion boiling inside her. She needed air and distance, anything to cool the heat in her cheeks.
But fate was not kind.
“Matilda?”
She stopped short. Evelyn stood just beyond the drawing-room doors, her gown of pale blue gleaming in the lamplight, and her expression softened with surprise.
“You look flushed,” her sister remarked, stepping closer. “Have you been walking about again? At this hour?”
Matilda forced a laugh that sounded brittle in her own ears. “I sought the library. That is all. A book seemed preferable to more whist and chatter.”
Evelyn’s brow lifted, too perceptive by half. “A book?”
“Yes,” Matilda said, a touch too quickly. “What else would one do in a library?”
From behind, she thought she heard a low chuckle, the scrape of a chair. It was Jasper, no doubt, listening. Her skin prickled. She pressed forward, linking arms with her sister to draw her away before Evelyn could notice.
“I only meant to steal a quiet moment,” Matilda continued, striving for calm. “Do not trouble yourself.”
Evelyn studied her face with the tender scrutiny only a sister could wield. “You look very much as though your quiet moment was interrupted.”
Matilda stiffened. “Certainly not.”
But Evelyn smiled knowingly and did not press her. She only squeezed Matilda’s arm, guiding her toward the stairs.
Evelyn spoke when they reached the landing. “I had meant to ask you something, Matilda. Tomorrow morning, might you help me with the baby? Robert is to meet with the steward, and I should be grateful for another pair of hands.”
Relief washed over Matilda like cool water. At last, a task she could lose herself in, something useful, something untainted by the Duke of Harrow’s meddling.
“Of course,” she said at once, with more eagerness than she intended to show. “I would be glad to.”
Evelyn squeezed her hand. “Thank you, dearest. He is a good baby, but still—” She broke off with a fond little sigh. “It is all so very new.”
They parted for the night, with Evelyn retreating into her chambers while Matilda continued to her own.
Once alone, she sank into her chair by the window, letting the quiet settle around her.
Tomorrow would be simple. She could rock the infant, assist Evelyn, and hide herself from the whirl of company if she pleased.
And certainly, Jasper Everleigh would not intrude upon such a scene. A rakish duke with no inclination for family duties… he would not be caught dead in the same room as a squalling babe unless forced.
Matilda allowed herself a small, satisfied breath. At last, some peace. A morning without his eyes upon her, without his voice provoking her into wit or worse… laughter.
Her heart steadied at the thought. Yes, tomorrow she would finally have quiet.
Or so she believed.