“Of you?” he shot back, his voice low. “Never.”
But the truth pressed hard against his ribs as he looked at her, bold and radiant astride her horse. He was not afraidofher. He was afraidforher. And it was proving impossible to disguise it beneath a jest.
Evelyn edged her mare closer, lowering her voice so that only Matilda could hear. “You really ought to have ridden as we did. I fear people will talk.”
Matilda kept her eyes forward, her grip steady on the reins. “Let them. I am done living by what others think I ought to do. I am doing what I want.”
Her sister looked startled at the steel in her tone. Hazel’s gaze softened, but she said nothing, giving Matilda space to speak.
“I used to ride astride,” Matilda admitted, her voice quieter now, as if confessing a secret. “Back in the country, when my late husband left me alone at the estate. It was one of the very few freedoms I had. No one watched, no one judged, and I found I preferred it. Far better control, far better balance.”
Evelyn’s hand tightened briefly on her reins. “Matilda…”
She shook her head, cutting her off gently. “I know there will be backlash. I know what they will say. But I would rather risk whispers than deny myself the little courage I have managed to gather.”
For a moment, there was silence but for the stamping of hooves and the baying of hounds in the distance. Then Hazel leaned over with a grin. “Well, I for one think you look magnificent. If anyone dares scold you, they’ll have me to contend with.”
Matilda smiled faintly, though her heart beat faster as she caught the edge of Jasper’s gaze from across the riders: fierce, watchful, unrelenting. She could recognize concern in his voice, but it was unnecessary. She could take care of herself and she was happy to show him… to showthemall.
As the riders gathered in the clearing, Matilda felt the prickle of eyes upon her. Curious glances, some raised brows, even a pair of whispers muffled behind gloved hands. She braced herself, waiting for the censure to fall, for that sharp remark, that pointed scold about propriety and decency.
But it never came.
The murmurs faded, and conversation resumed as if nothing were amiss. She sat straighter, astonished by the quiet revelation. Of course. She was not a green debutante trembling at her first assembly. She was a widow, a woman of her own household, with liberties no unmarried girl could dare claim.
The realization emboldened her, burning warm in her chest.
With a determined smile, she nudged her mare forward, leaving Evelyn and Hazel behind to drift toward the group of men gathered ahead. They were laughing, wagering loudly on who would bag the most birds.
“I’ll have two by luncheon,” Mason boasted, grinning.
“You will miss every shot as always,” Greyson said flatly, earning a round of chuckles.
Jasper, astride nearby, remained silent, though his eyes flicked to her the moment she approached.
Matilda lifted her chin, her voice carrying clear and steady. “I think it will beIwho shoots the first bird.”
The words dropped into the circle like a stone in water. The men turned as one, surprise flashing in their eyes. For a moment, silence. Then the shock softened and shifted into smiles, into good-natured laughter.
“Well said, Matilda!” Mason declared. “Bold claim. Shall we put a wager to it?”
“Indeed,” another gentleman chimed in. “Let us see if she has the mettle to match her spirit.”
Even Greyson’s brow lifted slightly, which was a sign of approval in his otherwise stern features. Jasper said nothing, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed both outrage and admiration.
Matilda’s lips curved as she settled more firmly in her saddle. “Then it is settled. You may keep your wagers, but I’ll keep the bird.”
Their laughter rang again, this time tinged with admiration. Then, the horn sounded, sharp and clear, and the hounds surgedforward. Horses shifted, as the riders urged them into motion across the open field. Matilda felt the familiar thrill of the reins in her hands, the wind tugging at her hair and the surge of freedom beneath her.
But almost immediately, Jasper drew near. His stallion matched pace with her mare, his presence looming like a shadow at her side.
She arched an inquisitive brow. “Surely the Duke of Harrow has better things to do than ride nursemaid to me.”
His mouth tightened, though his gaze never left the path ahead. “I don’t trust this ground. It’s uneven, too easy to catch a hoof.”
“How fortunate,” she said lightly, raising her rifle, “that I trust myself enough for the both of us.”
“Confidence and recklessness are not the same thing,” he shot back.
