Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Matilda lifted her teacup with steady hands, feeling the coolness of the porcelain against her fingers. She smiled where required, nodded at Hazel’s observation, even laughed lightly when Cordelia spilled a few crumbs of cake upon her gown. To all appearances, she was the very model of composure.
But her eyes betrayed her.
Across the garden, every movement was visible: the stroll to the roses, the way Lady Isabelle tilted her head, ribbons dancing, her expression artfully sweet. The way Jasper reached effortlessly for a bloom and presented it like a knight in some blasted troubadour’s tale.
Matilda’s grip on her cup tightened until she feared it might crack.
“Do be careful,” Hazel murmured beside her. As always, her sharp gaze missed nothing. “The china is innocent.”
Matilda forced a smile, loosening her hold. “Of course.”
Cordelia, distracted as ever, leaned forward. “She is bold, isn’t she? Bold and very pretty. One cannot fault her for trying.”
Matilda’s smile wavered, but she agreed smoothly. “A rose garden is an ideal stage for such displays. Very poetic, I must say.”
Hazel’s brows arched ever so slightly, but she said nothing more.
Matilda set her cup down with deliberate care, arranging her skirts as if all her thoughts were on propriety.
But her gaze slipped again to Jasper, just in time to see him step back from Lady Isabelle, bow politely, and turn away.
The widow held her rose aloft as though it were a prize.
Jasper, however, did not look back at her.
His eyes had already lifted toward the tea tables and toward Matilda herself.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze at once, fussing with her gloves. It meant nothing. He was merely surveying the company. He looked at everyone that way.
Everyone.
Still, her heart beat far too fast for the lie to settle easily.
On his part, Jasper returned to the gentlemen’s circle with his usual careless grace, as though fetching roses for insistent young widows were part of the day’s routine. He clasped Robert on the shoulder, laughed at some jest, and drew on his cigar with all the ease of a man unbothered.
Lady Isabelle drifted back to the ladies’ circle, with the crimson rose held delicately against her glove.
One of the village girls leaned forward. “What a beautiful bloom, Lady Isabelle!”
Isabelle smiled sweetly. “His Grace was kind enough to fetch it for me. He does have such a gallant way.”
Cordelia’s eyes danced with mischief. “Gallant indeed! Matilda, how have you never persuaded him to climb walls for your amusement?”
Matilda gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Because I have no wish to make gentlemen risk their coats over roses. I prefer them unbloodied.”
Hazel murmured, “And sensible,” though Cordelia only grinned.
Lady Isabelle smoothed the crimson rose against her gown, her smile bright and certain. “You see,” she continued, “His Grace has always been so obliging. It is no surprise to me, for he has been gallant since we were children.”
Matilda’s teacup paused midway to her lips.
Cordelia leaned forward eagerly. “Children? You knew one another then?”
“Oh yes,” Isabelle said warmly, her dark eyes alight. “Our families were such close friends. I spent many summers at Harrow Hall. My parents and the late duke were inseparable. We were always told how well we suited.”
Evelyn’s brows lifted slightly, though her smile remained gracious. Hazel gave no more than a polite nod.
Matilda set down her cup very carefully, arranging the saucer just so. “How very fortunate,” she said lightly. “It must be rare to find such companionship carried from childhood.”
Isabelle’s smile widened. “Indeed. Why, I used to trail after him at every turn. He was so serious then, always striving to please his father. But I knew—” she broke off with a small laugh. “Well, I suppose it is only natural to admire one’s future.”
Cordelia’s eyes glimmered with mischief, but she held her tongue for once. Evelyn glanced quickly at Matilda again, looking slightly concerned.
Matilda smoothed her glove, willing her pulse to still. She turned her gaze toward the garden. “What happy memories you must have,” she said, the words even, almost careless.
The rose glowed crimson against Isabelle’s pale gown. Matilda lowered her gaze, forcing a smile that felt steady enough.
It was nothing. A flower. A childhood memory. Empty trifles.
She told herself this, again and again. But when the laughter rippled around her, she felt strangely apart from it.
The party began to drift after tea. The gentlemen peeled away toward the stables, cigars and talk of horses luring most of them off. Jasper lingered by the terrace instead, with glass in hand, letting the cool bite of brandy cut through the restless heat in his veins.
He foolishly thought that a moment of solitude might steady him.
But then came the low, masculine voice. “Harrow.”
Jasper turned to find Grayson striding toward him, every inch of him calm and immovable, like a fortress in boots. The Duke of Callbury did not waste words. He inclined his head slightly, then said with the bluntness of a man issuing a command. “I mean to ask Lady Matilda to marry me.”
For a heartbeat Jasper said nothing. He only stared, brandy burning in his throat, the words striking like a blow to the chest.
Then, slowly, he exhaled a laugh, which was sharp and humorless. “Is there something in the water here? Every man seems bent on lunacy here, including myself.”
Grayson’s brow furrowed, but he did not rise to the mockery. “She is well-suited. Intelligent and steady. It would be a sensible match.”
Sensible. The word grated. Jasper tipped his glass back, draining what was left.
“And does Lady Matilda know she is so sensible?” he asked dryly.
“I will speak to her soon,” Grayson replied, his tone unchanged. “But I thought it courteous to tell you first. You are her friend, are you not?”
Jasper’s jaw clenched. Friend. The word twisted in him, bitter and raw.
He set his glass down with deliberate care on the stone ledge. “Yes,” he said at last, his voice even. “Her friend.”
Grayson gave a curt nod, looking satisfied, and turned back toward the house. Jasper remained where he was, staring at the empty glass.
Friend. Sensible. Marriage.
He wondered if every last soul in the place had gone mad or if it was only him.
He had told himself he did not care what she chose for her future. And yet, the thought of Matilda bound to Thornhill, walking beside him with that polite smile, living in a house where conversation was measured like accounts… and the thought set his blood thrumming with restless anger.
He muttered a curse under his breath and pressed his palms against the cold stone ledge.
The soft sound of footsteps on gravel made him stiffen. He turned his head, expecting one of the footmen or perhaps Evelyn come to call the ladies in.
It was Matilda.
She did not see him at first. Her expression was unguarded and thoughtful, touched with a melancholy that struck him hard in the chest.
For one reckless moment, Jasper nearly spoke. He nearly told her what Greyson had just said, nearly warned her, nearly… something.
But the words stuck. What right had he? He was no better than Greyson, and no less dangerous in his own way. So he leaned back into the shadows, schooling his face into its familiar mask as she drew nearer.
“Lady Matilda,” he said at last. “Do you make a habit of haunting gardens at dusk, or is this a rare indulgence?”
She started slightly, turning toward him, her hand tightening on her shawl. Then, catching herself, she lifted her chin with practiced composure.
“Do you make a habit of lurking in them, Your Grace?” she returned with equal composure.
And just like that, they were back in their sparring rhythm, yet beneath it, Jasper felt the weight of what he knew pressing hard against his ribs.
He smiled before replying. “Have you had enough of the gaiety, my lady?”
Matilda nodded just once. “Quite. I find that a surfeit of conversation leaves me most fatigued.”
His eyes beamed at her. “A surprising admission at a garden party.”
“Not surprising at all, I think,” she said, her tone mild. “Though I confess I am astonished to find you here, Your Grace, and not surrounded by admirers. Are you lost?”
He took the liberty of sitting at the far end of her bench. “Not lost. Merely seeking refuge from adoration. It grows tiresome, being so universally admired.”
Her brow arched. “Your modesty humbles us all.”
Jasper laughed, a rich, unguarded sound. “There it is, the sting of Lady Matilda’s wit. I had almost missed it.”
She gave him a look of mock offense. “You flatter me. I am not witty, only truthful.”
“Then I must hope you never turn that truth upon me,” he said lightly. “I doubt my pride could survive it.”
“Your pride seems in excellent health, Your Grace. A little honesty might do it good.”
He cleared his throat. “You know, Lady Matilda, there are those who would say your company is more dangerous than a garden of thorns.”
She looked unimpressed. “You should choose better companions, then.”
He laughed again, though it sounded rougher now. “Perhaps I already have.”
A small silence fell over them, lighter than cobweb. The faint music drifted from beyond the hedges, carrying the laughter of others belonging to an easier world, far removed from this quiet corner.
At last, she voiced herself. “You should return to them, Your Grace. Someone might fear you have been kidnapped.”
“By whom? You?” His grin returned once more.
“I should not care to be accused of such recklessness.”
“No?” He leaned a little closer. “Then allow me to remain your captive a while longer.”
Matilda’s lips parted in protest or perhaps amusement, but before she could reply, a breeze stirred the roses, and the scent of them filled the air. She turned away, and he saw the faintest trace of color in her cheeks. It brought him immense satisfaction to know he was the cause of it.
“You know,” he continued, “if I were a gossip, which, mercifully, I am not, I might say you and Greyson have been spending an inordinate amount of time together. And with you smiling at him the way you do, that is practically a declaration of love where you are concerned. It’s enough to send the ladies into mourning. ”
Matilda gave a soft huff of laughter. “You have quite the imagination, Your Grace.”
“I assure you, it is the talk of the hour. If you continue in this scandalous friendship, people will start ordering new gowns for the wedding.”
“Then I fear the modistes will be disappointed.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, teasing but curious. “Is the rumor false? Or merely premature?”
She hesitated a fraction too long for comfort. He caught it instantly, and the light in his eyes dimmed with genuine interest. “You are not toying with the poor man, are you?”
“No,” she said simply. Then, after a pause, she added as if that might clarify everything. “Nor am I in danger of marrying him.”
“Good,” Jasper said, leaning back, relieved though he could not have said why. “He is a decent fellow, but dull as an old sermon. You’d die of politeness within the month.”
She smiled faintly, but her fingers twisted together in her lap. “Death would hardly trouble me. I’ve made other plans.”
Something in her tone made him sit straighter. “Other plans?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am to join a convent.”