Matilda tugged the book toward her, only to find his grip immovable. His hand covered part of the spine.
“This is absurd,” she said. “Surely there are a hundred other volumes in this room, and you must quarrel with me over this one?”
Jasper’s mouth curved maddeningly. “I assure you, Lady Matilda, I came here in search of thisprecisebook.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A history of the Thirty Years’ War? Forgive me, but I cannot believe you capable of such deliberate scholarship.”
“I am full of surprises,” he murmured. His voice had dropped lower, enough to send a treacherous warmth up her spine. “And, as fate would have it, my surprises always seem to require your company.”
She drew herself up. “Then it seems you will be disappointed, for I intend to read it alone.”
“Alone?” His brows rose, and there was mock astonishment in every line of his face. “Impossible. I could not allow you to hoard so weighty a tome all to yourself. No, Lady Matilda, we mustshareit.”
The word sent a shiver through her. It was ridiculous, really, to be undone by so simple a suggestion. But she was far too aware of the nearness of him, the faint scent of brandy on his breath, the shadow of a dimple threatening each time his lips curved.
Her fingers pressed harder into the book. “I do not share well, Your Grace.”
“Then it is fortunate that I do.” He leaned a fraction closer, and his voice was now a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall I read aloud to you? Spare you the effort?”
Her heart thudded. “I cannot imagine anything worse.”
“Excellent,” he said, without missing a beat. “For nothing pleases me more than doing precisely what you dread.”
He freed the book with one swift tug, and before she could protest, opened it in his hands. His expression grew exaggeratedly solemn as he began to read, his voice deliberately pompous:
“In the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and eighteen, the Bohemian nobility did most rudely defenestrate the imperial envoys?—”
Matilda clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh that threatened. “You sound like a schoolboy reciting under duress.”
“Do I?” He glanced at her sidelong, mischief alive in his eyes. “Perhaps you should come closer and correct me.”
She caught herself noticing absurd things: the faint roughness of his jaw where he had shaved in haste, the way lamplight gleamed in the waves of his hair, the long line of his throat above his cravat. Every detail struck her at once, leaving her far too aware of how little space separated them.
She folded her arms, willing her voice to become steady. “Your Grace, I should rather listen to the scratching of mice in the walls than to your butchery of that poor text.”
Jasper’s voice grew more theatrical with each line, rising and falling in such dreadful mockery of solemnity that Matilda pressed her lips tightly together, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“The Protestant Union, greatly affronted, did rouse themselves into a most spirited fury—” He paused dramatically, widening his eyes at her like an actor on the stage.
That did it. The sound escaped her before she could stop it. It was a sharp burst of laughter, bright and unrestrained. It startled her as much as it seemed to startle him. She clapped a hand to her mouth, mortified.
He stilled, the book drooping in his hand. His eyes fixed on her, not with triumph, not with jest, but with something altogether different. It was a quiet wonder, as though the rarest treasure had just been placed before him.
Matilda’s cheeks flamed. “I should not have…” she began, lowering her hand. “But you sound ridiculous, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps,” he said softly, and there was no mockery in it now. “But I would endure ridicule every day of my life, if only to hear you laugh like that again.”
Her breath caught. It was utterly absurd that such a simple thing could unravel her. And yet, under the golden lamplight, with his gaze fixed so intently upon her, she felt exposed in a way she had not in years.
She turned abruptly, reaching for another book to occupy her hands, her voice sharper than she intended. “You imagine yourself very clever, sir. But I assure you, you will not make sport of me again.”
“Well, Lady Matilda, if you find my delivery so offensive, there is but one solution.”
She did not turn as she busied herself at the shelves. “To cease speaking altogether?”
“To hand the book to you, of course,” he said cheerfully. “And beg you to read aloud in my stead.”
Her hand froze upon the shelf. She looked over her shoulder incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”
