Matilda’s brows lifted despite herself. “And what did you do?”
“I handed him back his whip,” Callbury said gravely. “And remarked that at least he had given the hounds a moment’s amusement.”
Matilda’s hand flew to cover her mouth, a laugh slipping through before she could stop it. The idea of Jasper, always so controlled, so insufferably certain, scowling at a hedge while covered in mud… it was utterly unlike him.
Callbury’s eyes softened, almost warm for once. “He laughed as well, though through clenched teeth. We have spoken often since. He is not without faults, but he does endure them with a curious humor.”
Matilda’s heart gave an odd twist. She had thought herself alone in seeing Jasper’s other faces, the cracks beneath the charm. And here was Callbury, calm and stern, sharing a story that made Jasper seem almost… human.
Callbury seemed content to let the silence settle for a moment. Then, with the same practical ease he applied to every subject, he continued. “It is a curious thing, Lady Matilda. Friendship, I mean. One does not always choose it, yet when it proves useful, one cultivates it.”
Matilda tilted her head, intrigued in spite of herself. “Useful?”
“Yes.” His tone was calm, unembellished. “A man such as Harrow has… presence. He gathers people about him, whether he intends it or not. That is valuable in society, though perhapsnot in governance. A friend such as he can balance a man like me, whose nature is less inclined to charm.”
Matilda folded her fan with deliberate care. “You speak of friendship as though it were a business arrangement, Your Grace.”
“Not business,” he corrected, though his expression did not change. “Companionship. That is the foundation of all sound partnerships, be it friend, ally, or wife. That is what endures when the glitter fades. Affection is pleasant, but it is not reliable. Respect and stability are.”
She felt her lips twitch. “You make marriage sound rather like a treaty, Your Grace.”
“A treaty, when well-drawn, prevents wars,” Callbury replied evenly. “And so does a good marriage. Two parties of equal mind, each honoring their duty. I see no reason why such a bond should not prosper.”
Matilda could not help but smile, though it was edged with irony. “You make it sound so very tidy.”
“It ought to be tidy,” he said simply, his deep voice sounding utterly serious. “Disorder breeds unhappiness. Whereas stability, Lady Matilda… stability breeds peace.”
Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, to the far side of the room. Jasper was there, with a wineglass in hand, gesturinganimatedly as he made his circle of companions roar with laughter. His very being seemed the opposite of tidy. And yet, her heart gave that restless little tug all the same.
She forced her eyes back to Callbury, whose composure had not faltered once. He was respectable, steady; everything her mother would call a prize.
So why did he feel like a chill draught beside a roaring fire?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The bells of St. Stephen’s tolled solemnly, their echo rolling across the village green. Within, the pews filled with parishioners, with the scent of beeswax and evergreens still lingering from last week’s adornments. Matilda was sitting primly in her place, with her hands folded over the small book resting in her lap.
To all appearances, she was the picture of piety: her posture was upright, her bonnet was tied neatly and her eyes lowered in reverence. Only she knew the truth.
For the little volume, bound in dark leather and stamped with gilt like any ordinary hymnal, did not contain psalms or sermons. It was, in fact, a novel she had been waiting weeks to finish. The book had sat reproachfully upon her table, neglected in favor of endless preparations, such as the guest lists, the meals, the rounds of callers leading up to her nephew’s baptism. This morning, she had told herself sternly that an hour’s reading, tucked safely behind the guise of devotion, would be her reward.
So she had smuggled it in, the trick of the false cover her own small rebellion.
The clergyman began his sermon in a steady, droning cadence, and Matilda carefully opened herhymnal. At once, the words she had longed for spilled up at her from the page: the heroine was at last confronting her odious guardian. Matilda’s heart leapt. She could hardly turn the page quickly enough, though she was careful to move slowly and reverently, as though following along with scripture.
A thrill of satisfaction coursed through her. Here, at last, she could breathe. Let everyone else bow their heads in solemn meditation. She, at least, had stolen a measure of freedom.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling outright, with her eyes fixed demurely on the page.
The heroine had at last slipped past her guardian’s watchful eye and found herself alone with the gallant hero in the garden. Matilda’s pulse quickened as the words unfolded: his hand brushing against the lady’s wrist, the soft murmur of his declaration, and then?—
Her eyes widened.A kiss.
It was not indecent. No, the prose was tasteful and restrained. Yet to Matilda, here in the solemn hush of St. Stephen’s, it might as well have been the most scandalous passage in print. The description was gentle, but thorough enough to paintthe warmth, the astonishment, the way the heroine’s heart surrendered to the moment.
Matilda’s pulse thundered. She shifted in her pew, her gloved fingers tightening around the book. The words blurred as heat crept up her neck beneath the edge of her bonnet.
And then she felt it.
