When Callbury bent his head to speak to her, Jasper’s jaw tightened. It was too practiced and far too deliberate. It was the look of a man assessing an investment, not admiring a woman. And yet Matilda listened as a polite lady ought to with her face composed and her lips curved in a mild smile.
Jasper turned from the sight with a muttered curse and made straight for the refreshment table. The footmen lined the wall, offering wine and champagne on silver trays. He took a glass of claret, downed half of it in one swallow, then set it aside with a sharp clink.
He should leave her be. He should let Callbury bore her into submission, let her pretend not to mind. It was no concern of his.
And yet, before he knew it, his feet were carrying him across the room.
“Lady Matilda.” His voice cut smoothly into her conversation, and his bow was deeper than courtesy required. “You look overheated. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
She seemed startled for a moment, and he noticed her pale eyes widening for the briefest instant before narrowing again. “How considerate, Your Grace. I had not realized you were so observant.”
He smiled faintly, enjoying the quick rise in her color. “You underestimate me. I notice far more than you think.”
For a heartbeat, she looked as though she might retort with something sharp enough to cut. But Callbury cleared his throat, turning to Jasper with solemn gravity. “A kind offer, Harrow. But Lady Matilda is in no need of rescuing.”
“No?” Jasper let his gaze linger on her, deliberately provoking. “I should not like to think she must endure thirst as well as your conversation.”
Jasper reached past the footman for a fresh glass, the ruby liquid catching the light. He turned back to her with a flourish that was just this side of insolent.
“Here, Lady Matilda,” he said smoothly, extending the glass. “A remedy for your supposed composure.”
Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowing, but she accepted it. Their fingers brushed. It was just the lightest touch, but the flicker of heat that shot through him was infuriating.
She held the wine without drinking, her lips curving into a smile far too sharp to be sweet. “How gallant, Your Grace. You must be worn to exhaustion after so many rescues in a single evening.”
Jasper grinned. “True. You keep me perilously occupied, madam.” Then, before allowing her to say anything to that, he turned to his friend. “Tell me, Callbury, how do you find the music this evening?”
The duke blinked, his brow furrowing faintly. “Competent. The musicians keep to time, which is the essential matter. Ornamentation, in my opinion, is unnecessary. Discipline is the root of art as well as life.”
Jasper’s smile widened, though his eyes flicked to Matilda, catching the faint tension in her lips. “Ah. So you think delight quite irrelevant, then?”
“Delight,” Callbury said evenly, “is fleeting. Order endures.”
Jasper inclined his head in mock admiration. “A philosophy most admirably suited to crop rotation.”
Matilda’s hand tightened upon her fan, and though she did not look at Jasper directly, he saw the flicker of mirth tugging at her mouth.
Callbury, however, remained unruffled. “Stability, Harrow, is the mark of true success. In estates. In government. And in marriage.” He glanced at Matilda with a weighty gaze. “Would you not agree, Lady Matilda?”
She answered with poise, but Jasper heard the sharpness in her tone. “I think,” she said lightly, “that life without any ornament at all would be intolerably dull.”
Jasper bit back a grin, feeling satisfaction thrumming through him. She had said it herself, without his prompting.
Still, even as triumph warmed him, desire pressed hard against his resolve. For the light in her pale grey eyes when she defied Callbury was the very thing that undid him. He would not say aloud what he thought: that Matilda Sterlington and Grayson Thornhill were as ill-matched as fire and stone.
Before Matilda could summon any further reply, a cluster of gentlemen across the room beckoned Jasper over with hearty waves. He flashed one of his practiced smiles.
“If you will excuse me, Lady Matilda.”
And just like that, he was gone, drawn into their circle. Matilda pressed her fan lightly to her lips, determined not to glance after him. She turned instead to the Duke of Callbury, who remained at her side with his customary composure.
Seeking civility, she asked. “Have you and His Grace of Harrow been friends long?”
“Yes,” Callbury said at once. “We first became acquainted some years ago, when he found himself unhorsed at the meet.”
Matilda blinked. “Unhorsed?”
Callbury inclined his head, and there was a faint curve threatening the corner of his mouth. “He rode at the hedge too hard, misjudged the landing, and was thrown in full view of the field. I had the fortune of being nearest. He rose with such a look of outrage, I thought he meant to strike the hedge itself.”
