And for once, she had no clever defense against either.
Jasper straightened, regaining his composure with visible effort. He gave a small bow as he spoke ceremoniously. “Well, it seemsthe ladies have all in hand. I should take my leave before I prove more hindrance than help.”
Evelyn smiled sweetly, bouncing the baby in her arms. “As you wish, Your Grace. But do not forget, we have dinner this evening, followed by music in the music room. You must not evenconsiderexcusing yourself.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning solemnity. “My lady, I would not dream of such dereliction. The evening will be my highest duty.”
She laughed at his mock gallantry, but Jasper’s eyes had already strayed first to the infant in her arms, then, inexorably, to Matilda. She stood a pace aside, and there was color still high in her cheeks. Now, her lips were curved faintly as though she struggled between amusement and vexation.
The sight struck him harder than he cared to admit. Her laughter still rang in his memory and the image of her pale eyes softened by the child’s presence clung stubbornly to his mind.
It unsettled him. More than unsettled… it shook something deep he had spent years burying.
He bowed again, this time lower, covering the restless beat of his pulse. “Until dinner, ladies.”
Without waiting for reply, he turned on his heel and quit the parlor in a brisk stride. Yet even as the door closed behind him, Jasper could not rid himself of the weight pressing at his chest.
Jasper strode down the corridor, his steps sharper than he intended. He should have gone straight to find Robert, to discharge Grayson’s tedious errand and be done with it. Instead, he found himself climbing the stairs to his own chambers, his mind far too restless for business.
Once inside, he shut the door with more force than was necessary and began to pace. Back and forth, like a caged animal. He dragged off his gloves, tossing them carelessly onto a chair, and flexed his scarred hands as though the tension could be wrung out through his palms.
It was absurd. Entirely absurd. He had held dozens of women, danced with scores, kissed more than he dared count. And never once had it unsettled him, neveroncehad it lingered past the moment of pleasure. Yet one glimpse of Matilda Sterlington cradling her sister’s child, and his chest still burned as if branded.
He stopped at the hearth, bracing a hand against the mantel. His reflection glinted back at him in the glass above: his own face, composed, handsome, the picture of calm. But beneath it, his heart was beating like a drum, louder and louder with every thought of her laugh, of her pale eyes glimmering with reluctant amusement, and of her lips parted in surprise when the baby settled against him.
He cursed under his breath.
This was precisely why he had sworn never to marry, never to tether himself. To feel so raw, so unguarded… he despised it. It was a weakness his father would have punished without mercy.
He raked a hand through his hair and forced a steady breath. He would go to dinner. He would smile, flirt, laugh, drink, and make himself the very image of careless amusement, for that was who he had always been and who he would always remain.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
That evening, the footman had scarcely pulled back her chair before Matilda felt the weight of her company. To her right sat Grayson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury.
She had already com to the conclusion that he carried himself with a weight that seemed to press upon everyone at the table. His shoulders were squared with military precision and though he spoke politely enough, his every word was measured and deliberate, as though he weighed speech in the same manner he might weigh strategy on a battlefield.
“Lady Matilda,” he said as soon as she was settled. “It is an honor.”
She inclined her head with practiced poise. “You are kind, Your Grace.”
The hall shimmered with candlelight, their silver gleaming against white linen, while the voices weaved together in apleasant hum. To anyone watching, she appeared serene. But inwardly, Matilda braced herself.
For across the table, directly opposite, sat Jasper Everleigh.
Already he leaned close to the young lady beside him, who was a pretty creature with golden curls and a tinkling laugh. Jasper said something in a low, teasing drawl, and the girl covered her mouth as she giggled, with her eyes bright with delight.
Matilda turned back to her soup, determined not to look again. Yet her pulse had quickened all the same.
“Lady Matilda,” she heard the Duke of Callbury speal , “I have heard you are fond of reading history. A rare pleasure, in a lady.”
She inclined her head, smiling faintly. “I do read a lot, Your Grace. I find it preferable to idleness.”
“Good. Idleness breeds folly.” His eyes lingered on her a moment longer before turning back to his plate.
It was not flirtation, nor even gallantry. It was something else, akin to practical interest, she thought. As though he examined her suitability for a role rather than her person. Matilda kept answering him with steady civility, all the while aware of the presence across the table.
“Have you family in town, Lady Matilda?” Callbury asked again.
