Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jasper straightened from his bow, never once taking his eyes from her.
Matilda rose gracefully, and there was nothing in her pale eyes to reveal what had passed between them.
But he had seen it: the flush in her cheeks, the fire sparking when she answered him and the breath that had caught in her throat.
God help him, he had felt it too.
The company clapped politely as the musicians struck up another tune. Jasper let Callbury escort Matilda back toward the chairs at the edge of the floor, and every step of that grave, dignified duke grated like sand in his chest.
When Callbury bent his head to speak to her, Jasper’s jaw tightened. It was too practiced and far too deliberate. It was the look of a man assessing an investment, not admiring a woman. And yet Matilda listened as a polite lady ought to with her face composed and her lips curved in a mild smile.
Jasper turned from the sight with a muttered curse and made straight for the refreshment table. The footmen lined the wall, offering wine and champagne on silver trays. He took a glass of claret, downed half of it in one swallow, then set it aside with a sharp clink.
He should leave her be. He should let Callbury bore her into submission, let her pretend not to mind. It was no concern of his.
And yet, before he knew it, his feet were carrying him across the room.
“Lady Matilda.” His voice cut smoothly into her conversation, and his bow was deeper than courtesy required. “You look overheated. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
She seemed startled for a moment, and he noticed her pale eyes widening for the briefest instant before narrowing again. “How considerate, Your Grace. I had not realized you were so observant.”
He smiled faintly, enjoying the quick rise in her color. “You underestimate me. I notice far more than you think.”
For a heartbeat, she looked as though she might retort with something sharp enough to cut. But Callbury cleared his throat, turning to Jasper with solemn gravity. “A kind offer, Harrow. But Lady Matilda is in no need of rescuing.”
“No?” Jasper let his gaze linger on her, deliberately provoking. “I should not like to think she must endure thirst as well as your conversation.”
Jasper reached past the footman for a fresh glass, the ruby liquid catching the light. He turned back to her with a flourish that was just this side of insolent.
“Here, Lady Matilda,” he said smoothly, extending the glass. “A remedy for your supposed composure.”
Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowing, but she accepted it. Their fingers brushed. It was just the lightest touch, but the flicker of heat that shot through him was infuriating.
She held the wine without drinking, her lips curving into a smile far too sharp to be sweet. “How gallant, Your Grace. You must be worn to exhaustion after so many rescues in a single evening.”
Jasper grinned. “True. You keep me perilously occupied, madam.” Then, before allowing her to say anything to that, he turned to his friend. “Tell me, Callbury, how do you find the music this evening?”
The duke blinked, his brow furrowing faintly. “Competent. The musicians keep to time, which is the essential matter. Ornamentation, in my opinion, is unnecessary. Discipline is the root of art as well as life.”
Jasper’s smile widened, though his eyes flicked to Matilda, catching the faint tension in her lips. “Ah. So you think delight quite irrelevant, then?”
“Delight,” Callbury said evenly, “is fleeting. Order endures.”
Jasper inclined his head in mock admiration. “A philosophy most admirably suited to crop rotation.”
Matilda’s hand tightened upon her fan, and though she did not look at Jasper directly, he saw the flicker of mirth tugging at her mouth.
Callbury, however, remained unruffled. “Stability, Harrow, is the mark of true success. In estates. In government. And in marriage.” He glanced at Matilda with a weighty gaze. “Would you not agree, Lady Matilda?”
She answered with poise, but Jasper heard the sharpness in her tone. “I think,” she said lightly, “that life without any ornament at all would be intolerably dull.”
Jasper bit back a grin, feeling satisfaction thrumming through him. She had said it herself, without his prompting.
Still, even as triumph warmed him, desire pressed hard against his resolve. For the light in her pale grey eyes when she defied Callbury was the very thing that undid him. He would not say aloud what he thought: that Matilda Sterlington and Grayson Thornhill were as ill-matched as fire and stone.
Before Matilda could summon any further reply, a cluster of gentlemen across the room beckoned Jasper over with hearty waves. He flashed one of his practiced smiles.
“If you will excuse me, Lady Matilda.”
And just like that, he was gone, drawn into their circle. Matilda pressed her fan lightly to her lips, determined not to glance after him. She turned instead to the Duke of Callbury, who remained at her side with his customary composure.
Seeking civility, she asked. “Have you and His Grace of Harrow been friends long?”
“Yes,” Callbury said at once. “We first became acquainted some years ago, when he found himself unhorsed at the meet.”
Matilda blinked. “Unhorsed?”
Callbury inclined his head, and there was a faint curve threatening the corner of his mouth.
“He rode at the hedge too hard, misjudged the landing, and was thrown in full view of the field. I had the fortune of being nearest. He rose with such a look of outrage, I thought he meant to strike the hedge itself.”
Matilda’s brows lifted despite herself. “And what did you do?”
“I handed him back his whip,” Callbury said gravely. “And remarked that at least he had given the hounds a moment’s amusement.”
Matilda’s hand flew to cover her mouth, a laugh slipping through before she could stop it. The idea of Jasper, always so controlled, so insufferably certain, scowling at a hedge while covered in mud… it was utterly unlike him.
Callbury’s eyes softened, almost warm for once. “He laughed as well, though through clenched teeth. We have spoken often since. He is not without faults, but he does endure them with a curious humor.”
Matilda’s heart gave an odd twist. She had thought herself alone in seeing Jasper’s other faces, the cracks beneath the charm. And here was Callbury, calm and stern, sharing a story that made Jasper seem almost… human.
Callbury seemed content to let the silence settle for a moment. Then, with the same practical ease he applied to every subject, he continued. “It is a curious thing, Lady Matilda. Friendship, I mean. One does not always choose it, yet when it proves useful, one cultivates it.”
Matilda tilted her head, intrigued in spite of herself. “Useful?”
“Yes.” His tone was calm, unembellished. “A man such as Harrow has… presence. He gathers people about him, whether he intends it or not. That is valuable in society, though perhaps not in governance. A friend such as he can balance a man like me, whose nature is less inclined to charm.”
Matilda folded her fan with deliberate care. “You speak of friendship as though it were a business arrangement, Your Grace.”
“Not business,” he corrected, though his expression did not change. “Companionship. That is the foundation of all sound partnerships, be it friend, ally, or wife. That is what endures when the glitter fades. Affection is pleasant, but it is not reliable. Respect and stability are.”
She felt her lips twitch. “You make marriage sound rather like a treaty, Your Grace.”
“A treaty, when well-drawn, prevents wars,” Callbury replied evenly. “And so does a good marriage. Two parties of equal mind, each honoring their duty. I see no reason why such a bond should not prosper.”
Matilda could not help but smile, though it was edged with irony. “You make it sound so very tidy.”
“It ought to be tidy,” he said simply, his deep voice sounding utterly serious. “Disorder breeds unhappiness. Whereas stability, Lady Matilda… stability breeds peace.”
Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, to the far side of the room. Jasper was there, with a wineglass in hand, gesturing animatedly as he made his circle of companions roar with laughter. His very being seemed the opposite of tidy. And yet, her heart gave that restless little tug all the same.
She forced her eyes back to Callbury, whose composure had not faltered once. He was respectable, steady; everything her mother would call a prize.
So why did he feel like a chill draught beside a roaring fire?