Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jasper had never been more grateful for solitude.
He had left the ballroom as soon as propriety allowed, which was after the final set, and after far too many forced smiles and polite nods. He had retreated through the corridors of Aberon House like a man escaping a siege, his thoughts a relentless storm of her voice, when she’d said:
I do not wish to marry you.
In his chamber, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood before the window, staring out into the night.
The air outside was sharp, the lawns silvered by moonlight, and from below he could still hear the faint echo of the orchestra.
As always, life went on, oblivious to the pain or suffering it was causing.
He told himself that time was all they needed.
She had been angry, yes, and wounded. He could not blame her for that.
Perhaps after the heat of humiliation had faded, when they were both calmer, they could speak as they once had.
He would explain that his words to Aberon had not been about her, that they had been about him, about his own failures, and eventually, about his fear of becoming his father.
If she would only give him a chance to say it, perhaps she would understand.
He drank deeply, the brandy biting his throat.
He remembered the way she had looked that evening.
She had been magnificent, but unreachable.
The cold dignity of her rejection had left him feeling smaller than he’d thought possible.
And yet, beneath it all, he had seen something flicker.
It was pain, not hatred. That meant there was still a chance…
perhaps. He could find her later, when the guests began to retire, when her anger might have cooled and his words might not fail him.
He moved to the sideboard and poured another measure. The glass trembled faintly in his hand. He told himself it was the brandy.
Then came the knock.
It was a single, firm rap against the door, but enough to startle him. He turned, frowning. It was too late for servants and too soon for the house to have quieted. The music below still carried to prove that.
“Come in,” he called, setting the glass down.
The door opened slowly.
For the briefest instant, some desperate, foolish part of him hoped that it might be her, that she had come, against her better judgment, to say the things they both had left unsaid.
But it wasn’t her.
“Your Grace.”
Lady Isabelle Fairleigh stood framed in the doorway. Only a blind man could not notice how the candlelight caught the shimmer of her hair and the daring cut of her gown. She smiled in the way of a woman who had never once been denied. Yet, despite all pf that, his expression darkened momentarily.
“Lady Isabelle,” he said curtly. “It’s late.”
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a small, decisive click.
“So it is,” she purred. “And yet you are awake.”
He set his glass down with care. “I was about to retire.”
She drifted closer, and her sickly sweet perfume filled the room. “You’ve been brooding all evening. I could see it from across the ballroom. Everyone could.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought perhaps you might appreciate a little company.”
“Your concern is unnecessary,” he said, keeping his tone even.
“Unnecessary?” she echoed, feigning hurt. “Oh, but I hate to see you troubled. I know how heavy things weigh on you. All that honor, all that restraint…” She took another step closer, and he could almost feel the scent of her perfume gripping him by the throat. “Surely even you need a reprieve.”
Before he could step back, she lifted a hand and brushed her fingers lightly over his chest. “I can give you that reprieve,” she murmured, her breath warm against his throat. “You need only ask.”
Jasper’s reaction was instinctive. He caught her wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough that she stilled, and then stepped back, putting space between them.
“Enough, Lady Isabelle.”
She blinked, and her smile immediately faltered. “Enough?”
He released her. “You should not be here.”
She tilted her head, still trying to recover her composure. “Why not? We both know what you are, Your Grace. You’ve never been one to cling to appearances.”
“Then you’ve been paying poor attention.” He warned her. “Whatever you’ve imagined, I assure you it isn’t this.”
Her eyes narrowed faintly. “You cannot mean to play the saint now. Not after all your—” She stopped short, watching him with confusion as he moved past her toward the door.
“Go back downstairs, Lady Isabelle,” he said quietly. “Before someone sees you here.”
She laughed in a thin, brittle sound that used to satisfy him. “And what if they did? Perhaps it would be good for you to be seen with someone who actually wants you.”
He turned sharply at that, and for the first time, she seemed startled by what she saw in his face. There was no anger. Just disgust.
“Do not ever presume to know what I want.”
He brushed past her, opened the door, and held it wide. “Goodnight, Lady Isabelle.”
For a moment she stood motionless, her cheeks flushed with more than embarrassment. Then, gathering what dignity she could, she lifted her chin and swept past him into the corridor. He shut the door behind her, the latch clicking into silence.
For a long while, he simply stood there, staring at the wood grain. Once, perhaps not even that long ago, he might have let her stay. He might have welcomed the distraction, the easy numbness that came from being wanted without feeling. But the thought of it now turned his stomach.
Because she wasn’t her.
He raked a hand through his hair, his reflection in the darkened window staring back like a stranger’s.
The brandy sat untouched on the sideboard.
With a low, restless curse, he turned and strode for the door.
If he stayed another moment in that room with its silence, its ghosts, and the lingering scent of a woman he didn’t want, he would go mad.
The corridors were quieter now, as most of the guests still gathered in the great ballroom below.
He told himself there was no reason to hurry, and yet he did.
Each step felt taut with a strange, restless energy, as though if he reached the ballroom fast enough, he could undo whatever had begun to unravel between them.
The sight that met him was a study in elegance: the chandeliers were still burning brightly, couples were still moving languidly across the floor, laughter rippling like champagne. To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing at all had changed.
But Matilda was not there. He could feel her absence as sharply as if the air itself had shifted.
He looked over the crowd once, then again, before his gaze found Cordelia and Hazel near the refreshment table. Cordelia was gesturing animatedly with her fan, while Hazel watched her with the faintly resigned expression of one long accustomed to her friend’s dramatics.
“Has Lady Matilda retired?” he asked without preamble.
The question caught her off guard. “Oh, yes, I believe so. She received word, something about her late husband’s business affairs, I think.
Urgent correspondence from her solicitor in London.
” Cordelia fluttered her fan, though her eyes flickered uncertainly toward Hazel.
“A dreadful bore, poor thing. She said she had to leave immediately.”
Jasper stared at her, the words sinking in too slowly. “Leave?”
“Yes,” Cordelia said, still smiling, though the incredulous sound of his voice seemed to make her falter. “Some tiresome matter regarding the Forth estates, I imagine. She insisted it could not wait.”
He looked from her to Hazel. There was no surprise in her eyes, no attempt at pretense, only a quiet, weary disapproval that struck him like a blow. It was that look, more than the words, that told him the truth.
“Is that so?” he said softly, though his throat felt tight.
Hazel inclined her head just enough to be polite. “It seems Lady Matilda is quite resolved.”
The faintest tremor of guilt Cordelia blinked. “Why, London, of course. Where else?” stirred beneath his ribs. He forced his voice to remain calm. “Did she… did she say where she was bound?”
Cordelia blinked. “Why, London, of course. Where else?”
He exhaled slowly, the sound almost a sigh, and inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Cordelia looked from one to the other, clearly sensing what she did not understand. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” Jasper said. “Not at all.”
He turned away before either could stop him.
She knows, he thought grimly. They both know.
And they were right. He had done something wrong. He had frightened the only woman who had ever looked at him without expectation, and he had driven her to flee, just as he had sworn never to do to anyone.
He reached the corridor once more. Somewhere far away, Matilda was already traveling alone, determined and beyond his reach.
He pressed a hand to his temple, closing his eyes briefly. “God help me,” he murmured. “What have I done?”
But there was only silence in reply. And in that silence, he knew he could not let her go.