Chapter Twenty-Three
Ah, my constant companion. Scorn.
Whispers followed Matthew as he made the rounds in Duke Kendall’s ballroom. The small favor he had gained from his societal rise in Almack’s evaporated. As far as society was concerned, he was no more than a rake who had strung Lady Jasmine along for a week and then abandoned her.
Ladies in gemstone-colored dresses and sparkling baubles smothered the room, vastly outnumbering the men.
Every unmarried Miss in London wished for her own Cinderella story, while single gentlemen circled, waiting to pick up Duke Kendall’s scraps.
Keeping his head on a swivel, Matthew searched for his sisters.
Around him, servants walked by in purple velvet livery, carrying silver trays of sandwiches, biscuits, and candied fruits. His stomach growled. He plucked a ham sandwich from one tray, then a macaroon from another, but the bite-sized refreshments did little to sate his appetite.
He had missed dinner.
General Ortiz had requested a tour of the factory that afternoon, and it ran late into the evening. Contracts were well underway, but the success of having such a big client felt empty. The chase was over, and now all it meant was more paperwork.
As he walked the ballroom, the heat of someone’s gaze burned through him, pulling him from his thoughts. Lifting his eyes, he met Rothwell’s sneer. Matthew returned the expression with equal vitriol.
The damned ingrate. He should thank me.
Although Rothwell had no financial concerns, his social currency was worthless.
When Matthew’s family fought, they attacked as a pack.
Blackmoor went digging and struck gold. Well-to-do peers might have outstanding debts at a gentlemen’s club or two, but Rothwell held unpaid house accounts at multiple brothels.
And thanks to Honora and Caroline, everyone in the ton knew which ones.
The strike to Rothwell’s reputation wouldn’t heal quickly. He held his nose high, but even from a distance Matthew could tell it was crooked. The bruising had faded, but every time Rothwell looked in the mirror, he would think of Jasmine’s fist colliding with his face.
That was consolation, if nothing else.
Not finding his sisters in the crowd, he settled in a space next to the wall, with a clear view of the entrance.
He took a glass of punch from a passing footman.
The liquid coated his tongue with a spike of sugar-sweetened rum and citrus.
Not enough alcohol to make him drunk, unfortunately, but it gave him something to do with his hands.
Tapping his fingertips against the glass to the rhythm of the music, he closed his eyes and listened to the melody of strings and flutes.
Calming himself, he took a deep breath.
And smelled cloves.
Matthew opened his eyes and suppressed a groan.
Don Lorenzo stood next to him as if they were old friends. The Spaniard had embraced the spirit of the ball, with gold rings adorning each of his fingers and a diamond stud in his left ear. He preened like a peacock in a sapphire-blue tailcoat, with a court sword fashioned to his belt.
Flashy, but useless.
“Buenas noches, Lord Lincolnshire. I’ve been trying to speak with you, but you’re never alone.” He made a show of looking around. “Where are your beautiful sisters?”
Matthew sipped from his glass and pretended the other man wasn’t there.
Don Lorenzo chuckled.
“You are as ruthless as they say.” He leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “What you did to Lord Rothwell was a work of art. A costly mistake, was it not?”
Matthew gritted his teeth.
“How fortunate you earned it back in one day. I heard all about your acquisition this morning. I should congratulate you. General Ortiz is purchasing weapons from you—and at the quite the sum.” Don Lorenzo lowered his voice. “It’s a shame the contract wasn’t awarded to someone Spanish.”
Every time Don Lorenzo was in the same room with him, he tried to pick a fight, but Matthew was in no mood to tolerate it.
“Why are you still here?” he asked. “You know Jasmine is never going to choose you as a husband.”
“So she keeps saying.” Don Lorenzo shrugged, unbothered. “I’m not here for her. I have business in London that doesn’t concern Lady Jasmine. But her mind is fickle, she may yet change it.”
Matthew scoffed. “Jasmine isn’t fickle.”
“No?” Don Lorenzo clucked as if speaking to a small child. “When she first arrived in Spain, she favored me. A fortnight ago, she favored you.” His voice took on a questioning tilt. “Do you know where her favor is tonight?”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” Matthew snapped.
Don Lorenzo raised his arms in surrender and smirked.
“I’m weighing the competition—there is so much of it lately,” he said. “You and I need not be enemies. We’re in pursuit of the same goal. ‘If mutual interests align, all parties benefit.’ Those are your words. I’ve come here to offer you partnership, Lord Lincolnshire.”
Matthew thought back to the partnership Don Lorenzo had offered Rothwell at the start of the season when they tried to oust him as a suitor.
“I’ve no interest in being your ally in a battle I’ve won.” He curled his lip in distaste. “Jasmine is marrying me.”
“You are blind, Asesino, and you never listen. Tonight, you’ll see—we’ve both lost.” Don Lorenzo chuckled to himself once more, then walked away. “We’ll speak again when your vision is clear.”
Good riddance.
The man spoke in riddles, and Matthew wouldn’t waste any time on them. He swallowed the rest of his punch and handed the empty glass to a footman. Turning his attention back to the entrance of the ballroom, he caught sight of Cassandra and Caroline walking through the door.
Caroline wore a white dress, her golden tresses in loose ringlets. Cassandra walked by her side in an amethyst-colored dress. With a pinched brow and a frown, her gaze traveled the ballroom. She wore the same expression whenever—
Something is wrong.
Matthew moved without thinking. It took seconds to reach their side. A flash of relief crossed Cassandra’s face when she saw him, but Caroline bit her lip, nervously looking around.
“What is it?” Matthew asked.
Cassandra pulled him and Caroline to the side of the room. “Have you seen Jasmine?”
Nausea formed in the pit of his stomach at Cassandra’s worried tone.
“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Is she all right? Is she ill?”
“She’s all right,” Cassandra whispered. “Listen, I need to tell you—”
A collective gasp drowned out whatever Cassandra meant to say next, followed by a loud rumbling of conversation.
The chorus of spreading gossip rose to a crescendo, accompanying the orchestra.
Everyone shifted to face one direction, and Matthew did as well, searching the ballroom for the interruption.
Next to him, Caroline’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped. “Matthew.” She pointed at the staircase. “Is that…?”
His gaze followed Caroline’s finger.
The air left his lungs, strangling his heart. He was in a dream—a terrible nightmare. No other reason could account for the impossible reality of what his eyes beheld.
Jasmine stood at the top of the golden staircase, as she had weeks before. Her long black hair flowed down her back like a veil, and a black dress covered her from her neck to the floor—as if someone had dipped her in ink.
And on her arm…
Duke Kendall.
Dazzling in a white suit with a gold waistcoat, he smiled down at Jasmine as if she were his wife. They descended the steps together—a perfect juxtaposition of light and dark.
Duke Kendall’s eyes found Matthew’s in the crowd. He gave a cordial smile, then returned his attention to Jasmine—and he smirked.
The Phoenix and the Duke.
Sounds like a fairy tale.
He fought the beastly urge to rush up to them and yank her away. His eyes watered and burned as if someone had ground salt into them. Jasmine should be on his arm. She promised she would wait for him.
Did she lie?
Matthew stood transfixed as Duke Kendall brought Jasmine to the center of the room, with his hand splayed wide over her back. And God, he couldn’t bear it. He had forgotten how much it hurt to watch her dance with someone else.
“Is she through with me, sister?” he forced the question out. “Tell me truthfully.”
Cassandra shook her head and gave a sad sigh.
“She cares for you, Matthew,” she said. “She told me to tell you that she’s yours.”
“It doesn’t bloody well look like it!” he snapped. Anger replaced his hurt, and he tried not to yell. “What is she doing with Duke Kendall?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Cassandra placed a hand on her hip and scowled. “If you want to know, ask her.”
Oh, he would.
Jasmine might have said she was his, but she wasn’t his. Not at all. Until she married him, she could marry anyone else! And they should be betrothed already!
Only one man stood in his way.
“I’ll start with her father,” he bit out.
He scanned the room and found Lord Dorchester in the wide ring of guests around Jasmine and Duke Kendall.
Matthew left his sisters, marched up to Lord Dorchester, and squared his chest. Ignoring the guests nearby, Matthew forwent all formalities and barked his demand.
“Give her back.”
Lord Dorchester’s grey eyes met his, guarded and firm. “Give her back?”
“I’ve done what you asked. I’ve transferred his assets back to him. I signed the last paper this morning,” Matthew said. “You gave me your word, now honor it.”
“Matthew,” Lord Dorchester warned. “Keep your voice down.”
But he couldn’t. Unwanted images flashed in his mind of Jasmine in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle to a monster. He wanted to scream at the injustice of getting to hold her in his arms, only for her to be ripped from him once more.
“You cannot allow her to marry Duke Kendall. I would rather her marry Don Lorenzo than see whatever Duke Kendall has in store for a wife. At least with Don Lorenzo she’ll stand a chance.”