Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
From the moment the christening ended, Jasper had scarcely been able to take his eyes off her.
Matilda moved through the crowd with grace so effortless it seemed to mock him.
Every time he thought she might look his way, she didn’t.
Every time he thought she might speak, she found someone else to attend to.
Her composure was flawless, her smile polite and her tone warm enough to deceive anyone who didn’t know her.
But Jasper did know her, at least a little. He knew her enough to recognize the precision with which she could build a wall no man could climb. And today, those walls were unbreachable.
She was cold, yes, but not cruel. She simply treated him as though the garden, the rain, and the kiss that had nearly undone him had never happened at all.
It should have been a relief. He had told himself so more than once during the long ceremony of the very sort of holy occasion he had no business attending, let alone tarnishing with thoughts as unholy as his. But it wasn’t relief he felt. It was regret.
He had meant to speak to her. He’d looked for the moment before the service, after the blessing, during the luncheon when the guests were busy complimenting Evelyn and passing glasses of champagne. But each time, she slipped away, guided by friends or by chance or perhaps, by intent.
And really, who could blame her?
He had kissed her as though she were the air he’d been starving for, then left her with nothing but silence. What must she think of him now?
He had seen the glimmer of hurt behind her calm, though she’d hidden it well. And he had felt it himself, that sting of disappointment that came with knowing he had ruined something fragile before it ever had the chance to begin.
He had wanted to tell her so many things: that she was remarkable, hat she had been wrong all her life to think herself unloved or unwanted, that she deserved laughter, a home filled with warmth, children, peace, that she deserved to be cherished, not cloistered away in some convent out of misplaced penance.
But what right had he to say any of that?
He would only ruin her. He, who could not trust his own heart, who had been raised to mistake affection for weakness and love for a kind of pain. He doubted he even knew what love truly was.
No. Better she despised him now or forgot him altogether. Better she thought him cold than learn how broken he truly was.
And yet, when he saw her smile across the lawn, his resolve faltered. When she turned her head, his breath caught as though he were still sixteen and foolish enough to dream. She avoided him at very turn, and still, he couldn’t stop seeking her out that afternoon or that evening.
The great hall of Aberon House glowed with candlelight.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, their reflections caught in the gilt mirrors that lined the walls.
Music rose and fell in graceful waves, while violins and flutes weaved through the murmur of voices and the rustle of gowns. It was the perfect celebration.
Jasper stood near the edge of it all, with one hand resting on the back of a chair. His glass of champagne, however, was untouched. He had spent the better part of the evening trying not to look at her.
It was useless.
Every time he turned his head, his gaze found her surrounded by her friends.
The pale lavender of her gown caught the light with each breath she drew, and the faint silver embroidery traced her figure in a way that was elegant without the slightest impropriety.
He could see her laughing at something Cordelia said, while the fan in her hand moved with delicate precision, like the hands of a clock.
He thought of the woman he had kissed among the roses and wondered if he had only imagined her.
And now, seeing her in that ballroom, so beautiful and untouchable, he knew with brutal clarity that he could not let her go without a word.
He straightened, set his glass aside, and crossed the room.
Conversation dimmed a little as he passed.
Men nodded respectfully, while women’s glances followed him.
He ignored them all. His gaze never left her.
Cordelia saw him first. Evelyn smiled too, though more gently, and Hazel looked as though she already disapproved of whatever he meant to do. Matilda saw him last. The moment her eyes met his, her fan stilled. Her expression remained calm, but he saw the faint tension in her throat.
He stopped before her and bowed. “Lady Matilda.”
“Your Grace,” she said, offering him a smile that was too perfect to be real.
He inclined his head. “You look utterly breathtaking this evening.”
She gave a faint nod. “You are kind to say so.”
Her friends pretended to busy themselves with their glasses, though every one of them was listening. Jasper hesitated only a moment before extending his hand. “Will you do me the honor of this dance?”
Matilda’s eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “I believe I have sat out most of the evening.”
“Then it is time you joined it.”
“I am rather tired.”
Cordelia interjected at once. “Nonsense! You’ve barely moved from this spot. Come now, Matilda, it’s a celebration! Surely you can spare one waltz for His Grace.”
Evelyn smiled warmly. “Indeed, sister. You’ll hurt his pride if you refuse.”
Hazel sighed, shaking her head. “If she doesn’t dance with him, the rest of the room will think there’s been a scandal. Better to prevent one than confirm it.”
Jasper said softly, “I promise to behave. Entirely within the bounds of propriety.”
Matilda’s eyes narrowed, and he wondered if he saw the faintest spark of annoyance or amusement. He decided to accept either.
“That would be a novelty, Your Grace.”
He smiled faintly. “You might even enjoy it.”
Cordelia gasped in mock offense. “Matilda! He’s flirting with you in front of us all. You must accept him, if only to prove you can outwit him on the floor.”
It was hopeless. She could not refuse him now without drawing the whole room’s attention.
Matilda’s sigh was soft but eloquent. “Very well. One dance.”
Jasper bowed, his relief masked as grace. “I am honored.”
She placed her hand upon his arm cautiously, and despite that, he still felt it through the layers of fabric as though her touch were flame.
They moved together to the center of the floor as the orchestra began the first strains of a waltz.
Around them, silk whispered and laughter rippled, but to Jasper, the world had narrowed to the sound of her breath and the delicate pressure of her hand.
“You are relentless,” she said quietly as he led her into the first turn.
“Only when it matters,” he murmured back.
“And when it flatters your pride, no doubt.”
He smiled despite himself. “You wound me, my lady.”
“Do I?” she said lightly. “Then I fear your pride is more delicate than I thought.”
They moved in time to the music, their steps so perfectly measured that no one watching would have suspected anything was amiss. To all appearances, they were the picture of poise: a duke and a lady, gliding through candlelight as gracefully as any couple in the room.
But Jasper felt the chill from her the way others might feel the cold from an open window.
He had expected some distance, perhaps a hint of wounded pride, but this polite, glacial composure was something else entirely.
Her gaze never lingered on him and when he guided her through a turn, she followed with mechanical precision.
This was the same woman who once had laughed at his teasing, whose wit had kept pace with his own so effortlessly, who now danced with him as if he were a stranger performing a duty.
He tried to pierce it.
“You are very quiet this evening,” he said lightly, as the waltz drew them into another slow turn.
Her eyes flicked up to his, without any interest. “Am I?”
“Yes,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I was beginning to worry you’d exhausted your sharp remarks at luncheon.”
“I reserve my sharp remarks for those who deserve them, Your Grace.”
“Then I should be grateful to have been spared,” he returned endeavoring to sound lighthearted, while he was anything but.
She didn’t smile. Her gaze slipped past him, as though she were searching for someone else entirely.
The faint humor in his chest faltered. “You seem displeased with me,” he said softly.
“I seem precisely as I wish to be,” she replied steadily. “Nothing more.”
“Now that,” he pointed out, forcing a faint laugh, “sounds like something rehearsed for society columns.”
Still, no smile. And worse yet, no spark.
He studied her face more closely and realized with a sinking feeling that she was not angry. At least, not merely angry. She looked hurt and wounded in a way that pride could not quite conceal.
The realization hit him harder than he expected.
When the music softened, he leaned closer. “Matilda,” he murmured. “What is wrong?”
She blinked heavily. Her head tilted slightly, and for a moment he thought she would laugh in that low, disbelieving sound she made when she thought him absurd. But instead, she looked at him as though she could scarcely believe he’d asked.
“You do not know?” she said quietly.
He frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Her lips parted, then closed again. She turned her gaze away, and he felt her fingers tightening fractionally in his grasp. “Then perhaps I was wrong to think you clever.”
The words were soft, but they landed with more weight than a blow.
He stopped them mid-step, barely noticeable to anyone else, and for a heartbeat they stood still in the turning circle of dancers.
“Talk to me,” he said under his breath. “Please.”
Pain and disbelief flickered in her eyes, but she drew in a steadying breath and forced a smile for the benefit of those watching.
“Do not make a scene, Your Grace,” she said in a voice sweet enough to fool anyone nearby. “The entire room is watching.”
Her composure was flawless, but her tone was glass: beautiful, brittle, and sharp enough to cut.
He swallowed, tightening his hold on her hand only slightly, as if that might anchor her. “Matilda—”
But she cut him off. “It is Lady Matilda, if you please. And just so you know, I heard you.”
He felt her words before he understood them. “You—?”
“In the study,” she interrupted him calmly. “You were speaking with Robert.”
His breath caught. “You were—”
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze now sternly. “I was.”
He couldn’t look away. Her eyes held his with a steadiness that both accused and broke him.
“I thought…” she started, then hesitated to continued. “I never thought that you would take such liberties with me unless you intended… something.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You are right.”
The admission came in a hoarse tone of voice. When he opened his eyes again, she was still watching him, though her expression wavered between anger and something more fragile.
“Matilda,” he said, his voice roughened with restraint, “I would never… God, I would never wish to see you hurt. Not by me, not by anyone. What happened… I lost sense of myself. I thought only of you. And that was… wrong.”
He took a slow breath. “You deserve peace, not scandal. So, I will do what is right. The honorable thing.”
Her eyes flared. “Do not dare.”
He blinked, startled by the venom in her whisper.
“Do not dare to speak of honor now,” she said, while her entire body trembled with barely contained fury.
Her smile remained perfectly composed for the watching eyes around them, but her words cut sharp beneath it.
“You think offering for me would make amends? That I should be grateful for the rescue of my reputation by a man who has already declared to the world that he will never love, never marry?”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.
“No,” she said, her tone steadying into something almost serene. “You have had your choice, Your Grace, and now I have mine.”
“Matilda—”
“I do not wish to marry you,” she said, so quietly that only he could hear her. “Ever.”
The final chord of the waltz swelled around them, the music cresting as though to mark her words. She dipped in a graceful curtsey, for this perfect lady had delivered her perfect speech.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
And before he could move, before he could plead or reason or even breathe, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the glittering crowd.
He had thought himself beyond heartbreak. But as he watched her go, he understood with brutal clarity that what he had feared all his life had already happened: he had destroyed the one heart that had ever been willing to trust him completely.