Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
The following day brought a fresh round of carriages rattling up the drive, as more guests spilled into the great hall with their trunks and chatter.
Jasper endured the commotion with his usual detachment, offering a bow here, a careless smile there, though in truth his mind was elsewhere. He had scarcely slept because his thoughts were plagued by the memory of Matilda’s blush, her laughter, and the sharp edge of her words.
He was halfway down the staircase, intent on slipping away before the crowd thickened, when a figure detached herself from the arriving company and glided toward him with evident purpose.
“Your Grace.”
The voice was light, lilting, and all too familiar. He slowed, turning toward the foot of the stairs.
Lady Isabelle Tinton stood there, with ribbons fluttering from her bonnet and her smile bright with unguarded triumph.
Waterbury’s widow, barely nineteen, still in her first bloom of beauty.
She had already startled him once before, cornering him in a library during a ball, pressing far too close with an eagerness that belonged more to a girl’s fantasy than a widow’s discretion.
She dipped a perfunctory curtsey. “I wondered if you would pretend not to know me again.”
Jasper inclined his head. “I do know you. Waterbury’s widow.”
A shadow crossed her expression, quickly smoothed into a pout. “How dull, to be remembered only for that. I was in your father’s house often, long before I was married. Surely you recall?”
Jasper searched his memory, but there was nothing. He smiled faintly, without warmth. “I cannot say I do.”
Her lips curved as though she found this amusing. “You were older, of course, and I was told not to expect your notice then. But I was assured the day would come when I needn’t remain invisible.”
His jaw tightened at the phrasing. “Who assured you of that?”
She shrugged, a careless little gesture. “People talk. Parents dream. Futures are discussed.” Her gaze flicked up to meet his, soft yet insistent. “You were always part of mine.”
Jasper’s chest constricted. His father. Always with his damned schemes. Always arranging, promising, maneuvering. Isabelle’s words had the stale taste of those chains he had broken long ago.
He forced a thin smile. “Then I must disappoint you. Whatever was spoken in those days, I gave no consent to it.”
Lady Isabelle tilted her head, studying him with almost childlike defiance. “Perhaps you did not. But one day, you may wish you had.”
Before Jasper could reply, another guest called her name. She left with a swirl of skirts, throwing him a last, lingering glance over her shoulder.
Jasper exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Another ghost from his father’s legacy, another shadow clawing at his heels.
Jasper remained at the foot of the stairs for a moment longer after Lady Isabelle drifted away, his expression schooled into the easy charm everyone expected of him. He had bowed, he had smiled, he had said all the right things.
And yet… something in it had felt wrong.
In the past, he would have handled her with the same careless confidence he used on every woman who sought his attention: a teasing remark, a flash of dimples, perhaps even an invitation to prolong the game.
He had been the rake, the practiced charmer, the man who flirted because it cost him nothing.
But when Isabelle had leaned close, reminding him of a childhood he scarcely remembered, of some promise he had never made, he had not felt that familiar ease. Instead of amusement, he had felt the faint prickle of irritation. Instead of interest, only weariness.
And beneath it all, an odd awareness of how hollow his charm suddenly seemed.
His smile had been practiced, his words courteous, but there had been no spark behind them. He had not wanted one.
It unsettled him more than Isabelle’s persistence.
Jasper’s gaze strayed again, unbidden, across the crowded hall. Matilda stood among Evelyn, Cordelia, and Hazel, her head bent slightly as she listened to them talk. She did not seek notice, and she did not play the game. And yet Jasper’s chest tightened in a way no practiced flirtation ever had.
His father’s son would have answered Isabelle with readiness, with that same careless appetite for attention. But Jasper was not his father’s son at all.
The next afternoon brought fine weather, the kind that invited the household into the gardens.
Chairs had been carried out beneath the trees, tables had been set with tea and small cakes and the ladies gathered in cheerful groups to talk and admire the flowers.
The gentlemen, as was expected, kept a little apart, with their cigars glowing faintly.
As usual, their conversation drifted toward politics, horses, and land.
Robert gestured with his cigar, as he soke. “If the Commons carry it through, the landlords will be expected to shoulder the costs. And I, for one, say it’s a dangerous precedent.”
Grayson inclined his head gravely. “It is not precedent alone, but principle. Once Parliament seizes upon one interference, they will not stop there.”
A third gentleman gave a wry laugh. “God save us all from principle at the expense of profits.”
The group chuckled. Jasper added the appropriate smile, though his mind was elsewhere. His gaze drifted across the lawn.
There she was… Matilda. She was sitting with Evelyn, Cordelia, and Hazel.
She was not speaking just then, only listening, and her profile was turned in thoughtful stillness.
The sunlight caught in her brown hair, the loose strands bright against her pale cheek.
And then she smiled at something Evelyn said and Jasper’s chest tightened like a fist.
“Harrow,” Grayson’s voice cut in, and Jasper snapped back to the circle of men. “What do you say? Should the tenancies be managed more strictly in such cases?”
Jasper cleared his throat, forcing his attention into line. “Strict management has its place,” he said evenly, “though one risks breeding discontent if one squeezes too tightly.”
Robert laughed. “A diplomat’s answer. You should sit in the Lords and smooth their tempers.”
“I prefer the outdoors,” Jasper returned, managing a grin.
But the moment their eyes turned from him, he found his gaze sliding back across the garden.
Robert clapped him suddenly on the shoulder. “You’ve been damned quiet, Harrow. Are the rest of us so dull?”
The men laughed. Jasper forced a smile, flicking ash from his cigar. “On the contrary, I’m entranced. Who would not be, when principle, profit, and politics are all aired at once?”
They laughed again, content with his answer.
But Jasper’s eyes had already strayed back to her, searching for the next curve of her smile.
He had just let his gaze linger long enough that Matilda, turning her head suddenly, caught him.
Their eyes locked across the garden. A faint crease formed between her brows, and he felt the sharp twist in his chest, equal parts ache and defiance.
“Your Grace?”
The honeyed voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Lady Isabelle Tinton stood before their circle in practiced sweetness. She sank into a graceful curtsey, her dark eyes fixed on Jasper with unmistakable possession.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” she told them charmingly. “Might I steal His Grace of Harrow for just a moment? I find myself in rather a dilemma.”
Robert smiled indulgently, lifting his cigar. “By all means, Lady Isabelle. We should not stand in the way of damsels in distress.”
Jasper arched a brow, already wary. “What sort of dilemma?”
She clasped her gloved hands together with a little sigh.
“I was admiring the roses near the south wall, but I am told the blooms have begun to climb too high for cutting. I wondered,” she tilted her head with practiced innocence, “if you might help me reach one? A rose always looks best in a gentleman’s hand, after all. ”
The men chuckled at her boldness. Robert waved him off. “Go on, Harrow. Rescue the roses.”
Jasper forced a polite smile, though inside his jaw tightened. “If Lady Isabelle insists,” he said smoothly, bowing slightly.
Her answering smile was triumphant. “I do.”
Lady Isabelle led him down the gravel path with the air of one who already owned his attention.
She kept her voice bright and easy, but Jasper did not miss the quick glances she cast over her shoulder, toward the lawn where the rest of the party lingered.
She knew they were watched, and she meant them all to see her walking with him, the rose garden their stage.
They stopped at the south wall, where the roses climbed high and tangled, heavy with late blooms. Isabelle pointed upward with a little sigh.
“There, do you see? The loveliest is always just out of reach. I thought only you would be tall enough to fetch it.”
Her tone was sweet, not sultry; her smile was coy, not brazen. Every word, every look was chosen with care, enough to flatter him while never crossing into scandal. A widow might be bold, yes, but not reckless when so many eyes were upon them.
Jasper reached up and snapped the stem with practiced ease. He presented the rose with a bow. “Your rose, Lady Isabelle.”
She took it with a breathy laugh, holding it lightly against her glove. “So gallant, Your Grace. Just as I remember you as a child. Do you?”
“No,” Jasper said simply. He truly did not.
Her smile faltered for the barest instant before she drew it back into place, tilting her head at him. “Memory is fickle. But in time, you will recall. Some things were not meant to be forgotten.”
She leaned in then, close enough for her perfume to reach him, close enough to suggest intimacy, yet her hands remained demurely clasped around the rose, her posture chaste. Bold, yes, but only within the boundaries of propriety that the garden audience would accept.
Jasper stepped back, reclaiming his space with deliberate courtesy. “The rose suits you, Lady Isabelle. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must return to Robert.”
She dipped her head prettily, the rose poised against her gown like a trophy. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He turned on his heel, striding back toward the lawn. Relief coursed through him, but it was not escape that steadied his pulse. It was the sight, across the tea tables, of Matilda, who was still seated serenely, with her lips curved in that polite smile that revealed nothing.
And yet he saw it, how her fingers tightened just slightly on her teacup, how her shoulders lifted with tension she tried to mask.
Everyone might believe Lady Isabelle had won a moment of his attention.
But Jasper knew better.