Chapter One #3
“Indeed. She sketches beautifully, though she would be mortified to hear me say so.” A flicker of something—fondness, touched with the faintest trace of regret—crossed his features.
“There’s always been a streak of artistic sensibility in the family, I suppose.
I have never had Eliza’s hand for drawing, but I’ve always had a certain fondness for artistic expression—much like my twin brother.
Though, unlike me, he was inclined to seek.
.. less conventional outlets for it, particularly in our younger years. ”
He paused—a light, deliberate beat—and though Thalia could not have said exactly why, she sensed mischief in the spaces between his words.
“Our parents were never quite sure what to make of it,” he added, with a faintly wry smile. “And I daresay my brother the duke sees little merit in such eccentricities.”
Before Thalia could formulate a response to this unexpected revelation, a commotion arose from the garden outside her windows, the sound of raised voices drifting through the glass with enough urgency to draw her immediate attention.
She could distinguish at least three different speakers, one of them clearly distressed, though the exact nature of their discussion remained unclear from her position within the study.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, Lord Jasper, it sounds as though some difficulty has arisen among my residents, and I must see what assistance they might require,” Thalia said, moving swiftly toward the French doors that opened onto the stone terrace overlooking her carefully tended gardens.
“Of course, and please allow me to accompany you, for perhaps I might be of some assistance in resolving whatever difficulty has presented itself,” Lord Jasper replied, following closely behind her.
It was in his evident haste to keep pace with her determined stride that disaster struck with the inevitable force of gravity itself.
As Thalia stepped through the doorway onto the terrace, Lord Jasper somehow managed to catch his foot upon the edge of the Persian carpet that graced her study floor, stumbling forward with arms windmilling wildly in a desperate attempt to regain his balance, only to collide directly with the small side table that held the room’s oil lamp with its delicate glass chimney and carefully trimmed wick.
Time seemed to slow to the pace of honey dripping from a spoon as Thalia watched in horrified fascination while the lamp toppled from its secure perch, its glass chimney shattering against the polished wooden floor with a crash that seemed to echo through the sudden silence.
The flame, freed from its protective cage like some malevolent spirit released from bondage, licked hungrily at the oil that spread across her favourite Persian rug with alarming speed, sending tendrils of smoke curling toward the plastered ceiling.
“Good grief!” Lord Jasper exclaimed, leaping forward with the obvious intention of stamping out the flames with his expertly polished boots—a gesture that would have been admirably heroic had it not resulted in spreading the burning oil even further across the expensive carpet in a pattern that resembled nothing so much as a small but enthusiastic bonfire.
Thalia, drawing upon reserves of composure that she had not known she possessed until this very moment, seized the water pitcher from her washstand and doused the flames in three swift, efficient movements that spoke of a practical nature hidden beneath her ladylike exterior.
The acrid smell of smoke filled the air like an unwelcome guest, and a substantial portion of her favourite rug now bore permanent testament to Lord Jasper’s misguided rescue attempt.
They stood in the sudden silence that followed this domestic catastrophe, both breathing heavily from exertion and shock, surveying the damage with expressions that ranged from dismay to outright horror.
Lord Jasper’s face had gone quite pale beneath his natural healthy colour, and his hands trembled slightly as he attempted to smooth his dishevelled hair back into some semblance of order.
“Lady Greaves,” he began, his voice hoarse with smoke and mortification, “I cannot begin to express how deeply sorry I am for this inexcusable accident, and I must insist upon making full recompense for all the damage I have caused—”
“Please do not,” Thalia interrupted, holding up one hand while her voice maintained an unnatural calm that belied the tempest of emotions raging beneath her composed exterior. “I find I cannot bear another word on the subject. Not at this moment.”
“But surely I must make amends for such destruction, and the cost of replacing your beautiful carpet alone—” he persisted with the determination of a man who recognised the full magnitude of his blunder.
“Lord Jasper.” She turned to face him with an expression that caused his protestations to die upon his lips like flowers touched by frost. “In the space of less than a quarter hour since your arrival, you have succeeded in destroying my entrance hall, interrupting a crucial business meeting upon which the very future of this establishment depends, subjecting me to what amounts to an interrogation regarding my household arrangements and the propriety thereof, and now you have managed to set fire to my study. I find myself compelled to ask whether you are perhaps the advance guard of some invading army bent upon conquest, or if this level of destruction is simply your customary approach to paying social calls upon unsuspecting ladies?”
He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, his mouth slightly agape with surprise at her forthright assessment of his performance, and then, to her complete and utter astonishment, he began to laugh with genuine, helpless mirth that transformed his entire countenance from shame-faced embarrassment to something approaching boyish charm.
“Advance guard of an invading army,” he gasped between fits of laughter that seemed to bubble up from some deep well of amusement. “Goodness, madam, you are absolutely magnificent in your fury.”
“I beg your pardon?” Thalia blinked at him in confusion, uncertain whether to be insulted by his apparent lack of proper contrition or impressed by his remarkable resilience in the face of social disaster.
“Magnificently terrifying,” he clarified with a grin that seemed to illuminate his entire being, despite the smoke and destruction that surrounded them both.
“Most ladies of my acquaintance would be succumbing to hysterics by now, or at the very least demanding their smelling salts and calling for their maids to attend them, but you—you stand there like some avenging goddess of domestic order, utterly composed despite the fact that I have just attempted to reduce your home to ashes through sheer incompetence.”
Thalia found herself at a complete loss for words, uncertain how to respond to such an unexpected reaction to what she had intended as a crushing setdown. “You find this situation amusing, Lord Jasper?”
“I find you remarkable beyond all description,” he said with simple sincerity that made her breath catch in her throat, “though I suspect you hear such declarations rather frequently from gentlemen who have had the privilege of witnessing your extraordinary composure under fire, so to speak.”
“On the contrary, I am far more frequently described as formidable, managing, or—my personal favourite, courtesy of my late husband—catastrophically ornamental,” she replied before she could stop herself, immediately regretting the admission that revealed far more of her private pain than she had intended to share with this virtual stranger.
“Catastrophically ornamental?” Lord Jasper’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline in an expression of genuine incredulity. “Who on earth would describe you in such terms, for they clearly possess neither eyes to see nor sense to appreciate what stands before them?”
“My late husband, among others who shared his particular perspective on the proper role of wives in maintaining household harmony,” Thalia admitted with a bitter laugh, the words slipping past her defences before she could recall them to safety.
Instead of the predatory gleam she had learned to expect from gentlemen when presented with any hint of vulnerability or dissatisfaction with her marriage, Lord Jasper’s expression softened with something that looked remarkably like genuine sympathy mixed with righteous indignation on her behalf.
“Then your late husband,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to wrap around her like a comfortable shawl, “was clearly a fool of the highest order—and I can only be grateful that you are no longer subject to such undeserved censure.”
The unexpected kindness in his voice nearly unravelled her composure.
She had grown so accustomed to pity, awkward condolences, and the sort of patronising concern that cast her as something to be managed rather than respected, that this gentle dismissal of her husband’s criticism struck her with the force of revelation.
She found herself staring at Lord Jasper with something close to wonder, as though seeing him clearly for the first time since his rather dramatic entrance into her carefully ordered world.
The silence stretched between them like a bridge neither quite dared to cross, broken at last by the sound of rapid footsteps approaching the French doors, accompanied by voices raised in what appeared to be considerable excitement or alarm.
“My lady!” The voice belonged to Hopkins, her long-suffering butler, who appeared in the doorway with his usually impeccable appearance somewhat dishevelled and his expression one of barely controlled panic.
“Forgive the intrusion, but a letter has arrived by express messenger, and the young man insisted it was of the utmost importance and could not wait for a more convenient moment.”