For a long while, he simply stood there, staring at the wood grain. Once, perhaps not even that long ago, he might havelet her stay. He might have welcomed the distraction, the easy numbness that came from being wanted without feeling. But the thought of it now turned his stomach.
Because she wasn’ther.
He raked a hand through his hair, his reflection in the darkened window staring back like a stranger’s. The brandy sat untouched on the sideboard. With a low, restless curse, he turned and strode for the door. If he stayed another moment in that room with its silence, its ghosts, and the lingering scent of a woman he didn’t want, he would go mad.
The corridors were quieter now, as most of the guests still gathered in the great ballroom below. He told himself there was no reason to hurry, and yet he did. Each step felt taut with a strange, restless energy, as though if he reached the ballroom fast enough, he could undo whatever had begun to unravel between them.
The sight that met him was a study in elegance: the chandeliers were still burning brightly, couples were still moving languidly across the floor, laughter rippling like champagne. To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing at all had changed.
But Matilda was not there. He could feel her absence as sharply as if the air itself had shifted.
He looked over the crowd once, then again, before his gaze found Cordelia and Hazel near the refreshment table. Cordelia was gesturing animatedly with her fan, while Hazel watched her withthe faintly resigned expression of one long accustomed to her friend’s dramatics.
“Has Lady Matilda retired?” he asked without preamble.
The question caught her off guard. “Oh, yes, I believe so. She received word, something about her late husband’s business affairs, I think. Urgent correspondence from her solicitor in London.” Cordelia fluttered her fan, though her eyes flickered uncertainly toward Hazel. “A dreadful bore, poor thing. She said she had to leave immediately.”
Jasper stared at her, the words sinking in too slowly. “Leave?”
“Yes,” Cordelia said, still smiling, though the incredulous sound of his voice seemed to make her falter. “Some tiresome matter regarding the Forth estates, I imagine. She insisted it could not wait.”
He looked from her to Hazel. There was no surprise in her eyes, no attempt at pretense, only a quiet, weary disapproval that struck him like a blow. It was that look, more than the words, that told him the truth.
“Is that so?” he said softly, though his throat felt tight.
Hazel inclined her head just enough to be polite. “It seems Lady Matilda is quite resolved.”
The faintest tremor of guilt Cordelia blinked. “Why, London, of course. Where else?” stirred beneath his ribs. He forced his voice to remain calm. “Did she… did she say where she was bound?”
Cordelia blinked. “Why, London, of course. Where else?”
He exhaled slowly, the sound almost a sigh, and inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Cordelia looked from one to the other, clearly sensing what she did not understand. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” Jasper said. “Not at all.”
He turned away before either could stop him.
She knows,he thought grimly.They both know.
And they were right. Hehaddone something wrong. He had frightened the only woman who had ever looked at him without expectation, and he had driven her to flee, just as he had sworn never to do to anyone.
He reached the corridor once more. Somewhere far away, Matilda was already traveling alone, determined and beyond his reach.
He pressed a hand to his temple, closing his eyes briefly. “God help me,” he murmured. “What have I done?”
But there was only silence in reply. And in that silence, he knew he could not let her go.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When at last the carriage turned off the main road, the landscape changed. The fields gave way to a low stone wall, with ivy creeping thickly over it, and beyond that rose the pale silhouette of St. Brigid’s Abbey.
It was not large, nor imposing. The stone was weathered but clean, softened by time and moss and morning light. A small chapel stood at its heart, its bell tower slender against the sky, and a neat garden spread beyond the cloisters, already bright with early autumn roses.
Matilda’s chest tightened at the sight. It was utterly, blessedly quiet.
When the carriage drew to a stop, a woman in a grey habit came to meet her. She was of middle years, and her face was plain but kind. What struck Matilda the most were her bright eyes beneath the linen coif.
