For her laughter, once drawn out, had struck him deeper than he cared to admit. And her silence, when he had dared call her perfect, still echoed in his mind like a note left unresolved.
He told himself it was nothing more than sport, a game between adversaries. But even as he stepped into Robert’s study, Jasper knew that games did not leave a man feeling quite so exposed.
Robert crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy, though the hour was barely past breakfast. Jasper accepted his with a grin. Such impropriety was precisely why he liked Robert.
“To the relief of surviving another day in this house filled with ladies,” Robert toasted.
“May it last,” Jasper returned, lifting his glass.
Robert swirled the brandy in his glass, his tone turning from playful to thoughtful. “You know, Evelyn worries for Matilda. She hides it well, but I see it. Matilda’s pride runs deep, and she would sooner lock every door against pity than allow anyone to see her wounds.”
Jasper leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “She hardly appears in need of my sympathy. Her tongue is sharp enough to keep any unwanted concern at bay.”
Robert’s mouth quirked. “Yes. But a sharp tongue can be a shield as much as a weapon from any sort of an entanglement. You of all men must know the difference.”
The words landed too close. Jasper’s hand tightened around his glass, his scarred palms burning faintly against the crystal. He forced a careless laugh. “You are playing the philosopher now, my friend. I assure you, I am the last man in England to offer your sister-in-law any entanglement of that nature.”
“And yet,” Robert said mildly, “you speak of her more than of any other lady in the house.”
Jasper’s retort caught in his throat. He set the glass down with deliberate calm, with his smile firmly in place though his chest had tightened with something unwelcome.
“Then I must correct the oversight,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps I should spend the rest of my time here charming the dowagers, lest anyone imagine me fixated upon one particular lady.”
Robert chuckled, satisfied enough to let the matter drop. But Jasper, though he appeared at ease, could not shake the sting of truth in his friend’s words.
He told himself again it was diversion. Amusement. A game.
But somewhere beneath the brandy’s warmth, a quiet voice asked: if that was all, why did the thought of Evelyn’s worry for Matilda stir in him a protective urge so fierce he could hardly breathe?
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the close of the evening, Matilda felt her composure worn thin. The day had been filled with company: laughter at luncheon, chatter during the walk, card games that seemed endless in their noise. Cordelia’s delightful chaos and Hazel’s brisk sense had kept her occupied, yet by the time the last of the dishes were cleared away, she longed for silence.
So while the others lingered over coffee and conversation, Matilda slipped away. The library was dim but welcoming, its tall windows draped in heavy curtains, and the scent of leather and old paper soothed her frayed nerves. Here, at least, no one expected her to sparkle.
She moved along the shelves, trailing a finger over the spines. She wanted something solid, something to steady her thoughts. A volume of history, perhaps, or essays she could bury herself in. She found a likely title and reached for it, stretching her fingers, and then, she nearly fell back when another hand appeared, claiming the very same book.
Her breath caught. She had not heard the door open, nor the sound of steps behind her. She turned sharply, feeling her heart thudding, and there he was: the Duke of Harrow, far too close, his expression lit with unmistakable amusement.
“Forgive me,” Jasper said softly, though his smile made it clear he meant no such thing. “I did not expect to find you here, Lady Matilda. I thought you preferred lighter company.”
She blinked, gathering herself. “And I did not expect to be interrupted,” she returned, her tone cool though her pulse had yet to steady.
He looked down at the contested volume. “History?” His brow quirked. “I had not thought you inclined toward such dry pursuits.”
“It is not dry,” she said, tightening her grip upon the binding. “It is serious.”
“Serious,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Which is to say dull.” He tugged, just enough to test her claim.
Her chin lifted. “If you came in search of diversion, I suggest you look elsewhere.”
“But troubling you, Lady Matilda, is the most diverting amusement I have yet found,” he replied, with his eyes glinting.
Matilda glared, unwilling to give an inch. Yet her fingers refused to let go of the book, and his grip remained firm.
“Then you had better find another volume, Your Grace,” she said tightly.
His smile deepened, dimples flashing in triumph. “Impossible. I must insist upon this very one.”
