“No,” she said, her tone steadying into something almost serene. “You have had your choice, Your Grace, and now I have mine.”
“Matilda—”
“I do not wish to marry you,” she said, so quietly that only he could hear her. “Ever.”
The final chord of the waltz swelled around them, the music cresting as though to mark her words. She dipped in a graceful curtsey, for this perfect lady had delivered her perfect speech.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
And before he could move, before he could plead or reason or even breathe, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the glittering crowd.
He had thought himself beyond heartbreak. But as he watched her go, he understood with brutal clarity that what he had feared all his life had already happened: he had destroyed the one heart that had ever been willing to trust him completely.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The laughter and applause of the ballroom faded behind her like the echo of some distant, meaningless dream.
She had no idea how she reached her chamber, but she did. She shut the door and leaned back against it. For an endless moment, she simply stood there, staring into the dimly lit room, just trying to breathe.
Honor.
She had heard that word so many times before. Her hands began to tremble as old memories pressed forward. Her husband’s voice full of false gentleness echoed through her mind.
You must understand, Matilda, appearances matter. This is what is right. What is honorable.
It was the same voice that had tricked her into believing he loved her. It was the same deceit that had convinced her she was cherished, even as he used her to wound her sister.
She remembered the dizzying rush of that betrayal, and then, the slow, subsequent dawning horror of realizing she had been a pawn in another man’s vanity. She had sworn never again to be misled, never again to mistake charm for care, to confuse a man’s will with affection.
And yet here she was, fooled once more by a different sort of man, a better liar perhaps, one who used silence instead of flattery.
Jasper Everleigh had not promised her anything, and somehow that made it worse. He hadlookedat her as if she mattered,kissedher as if she were the only woman in the world and now claimed the only way to make things right was to offer marriage as if it were reparation for a sin.
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, swallowing hard against the tightness in her chest.
“Fool,” she whispered to herself. “You absolute fool.”
Crossing to the wardrobe, she opened it with more force than necessary and began pulling down gowns, then folding them with trembling fingers. The motion steadied her. If she packed, she would not think. And if she did not think, she would not feel.
She would leave tonight. She would return to London, to quiet, to distance and finally move on with her plan. She would simply have to come up with a good reason for her sister to understand this sudden departure. Cordelia and Hazel would protest, but they always meant well. They would forget her soon enough.
It was better this way. It always was.
The sound of the door opening behind her startled her so violently that she dropped the gown in her hands.
“Matilda?” Hazel’s calm, measured voice cut through the silence.
She closed the door gently and took in the scene: the open trunk, the gowns strewn across the bed, the Dowager Viscountess standing amid it all like a ghost.
“What on earth has happened?” Hazel asked softly, stepping closer.
Matilda drew a deep breath, her voice shaking despite herself. “Nothing that has not happened before.”
Hazel’s brow furrowed. “That isn’t an answer.”
Matilda sank down onto the edge of the bed. “I thought I was past it,” she said after a moment. “Past being so easily deceived. But I was wrong.”
Hazel said nothing, only waited.
