Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The bells of St. Stephen’s tolled solemnly, their echo rolling across the village green.
Within, the pews filled with parishioners, with the scent of beeswax and evergreens still lingering from last week’s adornments.
Matilda was sitting primly in her place, with her hands folded over the small book resting in her lap.
To all appearances, she was the picture of piety: her posture was upright, her bonnet was tied neatly and her eyes lowered in reverence. Only she knew the truth.
For the little volume, bound in dark leather and stamped with gilt like any ordinary hymnal, did not contain psalms or sermons.
It was, in fact, a novel she had been waiting weeks to finish.
The book had sat reproachfully upon her table, neglected in favor of endless preparations, such as the guest lists, the meals, the rounds of callers leading up to her nephew’s baptism.
This morning, she had told herself sternly that an hour’s reading, tucked safely behind the guise of devotion, would be her reward.
So she had smuggled it in, the trick of the false cover her own small rebellion.
The clergyman began his sermon in a steady, droning cadence, and Matilda carefully opened her hymnal.
At once, the words she had longed for spilled up at her from the page: the heroine was at last confronting her odious guardian.
Matilda’s heart leapt. She could hardly turn the page quickly enough, though she was careful to move slowly and reverently, as though following along with scripture.
A thrill of satisfaction coursed through her. Here, at last, she could breathe. Let everyone else bow their heads in solemn meditation. She, at least, had stolen a measure of freedom.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling outright, with her eyes fixed demurely on the page.
The heroine had at last slipped past her guardian’s watchful eye and found herself alone with the gallant hero in the garden. Matilda’s pulse quickened as the words unfolded: his hand brushing against the lady’s wrist, the soft murmur of his declaration, and then—
Her eyes widened. A kiss.
It was not indecent. No, the prose was tasteful and restrained.
Yet to Matilda, here in the solemn hush of St. Stephen’s, it might as well have been the most scandalous passage in print.
The description was gentle, but thorough enough to paint the warmth, the astonishment, the way the heroine’s heart surrendered to the moment.
Matilda’s pulse thundered. She shifted in her pew, her gloved fingers tightening around the book. The words blurred as heat crept up her neck beneath the edge of her bonnet.
And then she felt it.
That subtle prickle, like a breath at the nape of her neck. She did not dare turn, but she knew that Jasper Everleigh was behind her. He had arrived late, slipping into the pew one row back, and ever since, she had been maddeningly aware of him.
Now, in this very moment, she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her shoulder. She could imagine the curl of his smile if he knew what passage she had just read. Her breath caught, and she snapped the book shut, folding her hands over it as though to imprison its secret.
But she could not still her pulse, nor silence the treacherous thought that he did know. That he was sitting there, eyes alight with wicked amusement, delighting in her discomposure.
And for the rest of the sermon, Matilda dared not open the book again.
The final Amen rippled through the church, and the congregation stirred.
The pews stated creaking as people rose.
Matilda stood quickly, tucking her disguised book against her side as if it were any ordinary prayer book.
She adjusted her gloves, her bonnet, anything to keep from glancing over her shoulder.
But she had scarcely taken a step when she felt his presence at her back, and the brush of air as he leaned closer.
“An unusual choice of hymns this morning, Lady Matilda,” Jasper murmured dangerously.
Her breath caught, and she tightened her grip on the book. “I have no notion what you mean, Your Grace,” she whispered back, her tone sharp with forced composure.
“Oh, I think you do.” His chuckle was low and infuriatingly intimate. “So very… passionate, that particular psalm. I should like to borrow it myself.”
She whirled her head just enough to catch the sparkle in his blue eyes. Her cheeks flamed.
“You are insufferable,” she hissed under her breath.
“And you,” he returned smoothly, “are careless. Do be cautious, Lady Matilda. Some passages are far too stirring for Sunday morning.”
She gasped, scandalized, but before she could retort, he straightened and stepped lightly into the aisle, bowing to a passing matron as though nothing at all had transpired.
She rushed outside into the crisp, autumn air, keeping close to Evelyn, Hazel and Cordelia, and also, keeping her book tucked firmly beneath her arm. If she walked quickly enough, perhaps she could escape before Jasper—
“Ladies,” came his smooth voice behind her.
Her stomach dropped. Of course.
He strolled up with infuriating ease, with his hands clasped behind his back. His damning smile was as disarming as the sunlight slanting through the trees.
“Tell me,” he said lightly, addressing the group, “did any of you share the same prayer book as Lady Matilda this morning? If so, I should very much like to borrow it.”
Matilda nearly tripped. Heat shot to her cheeks as Cordelia’s head whipped around. “Matilda brought a prayer book of her own?”
Hazel gave a pointed sniff, though her gaze was shrewd. “She always does.”
“Yes,” Matilda cut in quickly, with a smile that was razor-sharp. “And no, Your Grace, you may not borrow it. My hymns are quite ordinary and not at all suited to your… sensibilities.”
She darted him a glare sharp enough to fell a lesser man. He only bowed his head slightly, eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
“Ah,” he murmured, “forgive me, Lady Matilda. I must have been mistaken. It only seemed… well, never mind. I would not wish to deprive you of such… stirring devotion.”
Her heart lurched. Evelyn glanced between them, and her brows were lifting slightly, but she said nothing. Cordelia still looked intrigued, though Matilda caught her arm and steered her firmly toward the waiting carriage.
Jasper fell back with a low chuckle, and Matilda knew without doubt: she had not heard the last of this.
That same afternoon, Jasper strode down the corridor, intent on finding Robert in the study. Grayson’s errand still weighed on him, and he meant to be rid of it. But as he passed a tall window overlooking the gardens, something caught his eye.
He stopped short.
There, beyond the glass, Matilda walked at Greyson’s side.
Her pale face was lifted toward him. Although her bonnet was casting a soft shadow, he could still see her calm expression and, damn it all, she was smiling.
Behind them, Cordelia and Hazel strolled a few paces back, laughing together, their presence the perfect chaperonage.
Jasper’s hand curled into a fist against the windowsill.
He told himself there was nothing in it. Politeness, civility, that was all. But he watched her tilt her head slightly at something Greyson said, her lips curving in a manner far too gracious for his liking. She looked… engaged.
The sight sent a flare of heat through him, sharp and unreasoning.
Polite, yes, but her smile was real enough. Greyson’s heavy, deliberate manner did not seem to chafe her. She walked beside him with ease as though she had no care in the world.
Jasper’s jaw tightened.
He had seen her laugh, truly laugh, in the library. He had seen her cheeks flushed with fire when they sparred. That fire belonged with him; it was not to be wasted on Greyson’s cold, tedious conversation.
And yet here she was: smiling, listening and indulging him as though he deserved it.
Jasper leaned a little closer to the glass.
He could feel his entire chest storming.
He searched her face, desperate to catch the flicker of irony he knew so well, or some trace of impatience beneath her politeness.
But he found none. There was only composure, only that smile that should have been his victory.
He swore under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair, turning from the window with a sharp jerk.
It was nothing, nothing at all. Greyson was dull as a ledger, incapable of inspiring more than polite interest. Matilda must surely see it.
And yet, the image of her walking beside the duke lingered like a splinter beneath his skin, and he could not shake the sense that if he did not act, he might lose something he had no right to claim.