He preferred to take all meals alone in his chamber.
The noise and the congestion did not simply annoy him. He must hate it. Viscerally. The same way she could not stand the sight or even the mention of spiders. The violent panics her phobia caused were beyond her control. And it wasn’t a frivolous overreaction—her body’s reactions to bites were far worse than the average person’s. If Gilbourne reacted to fashionable crushes as she reacted to a spiderweb, then the man deserved sainthood for coming to collect her at the height of one of the biggest fairs in England.
She was dying to ask further questions to prove or disprove her theory. But she despised talking about spiders almost as much as spiders themselves. Nor did she wish to risk spoiling the cease-fire by bringing up the very topic he most wished to forget.
“These are my first botanical gardens, as well,” she offered, then glanced up at Lord Gilbourne cautiously.
Normally, such a comment would be met with a frosty glare, and perhaps a snide comment about loquaciousness or unnecessary babble.
Instead of any of that, he replied, “Oh, it’s not my first garden. My family and I spent many afternoons in Hyde Park and Vauxhall when I was small.”
He could have knocked Matilda over with a feather.
Two pleasant sentences in a row! Offering unsolicited personal details about himself and his past! Without a single glare!
The Earl of Gilbourne was not nearly as dreadful a beast as everyone seemed to think. They simply came in contact with him in the precise circumstances guaranteed to put him at odds with the world: crowded streets, crowded ballrooms, possibly even the crowded House of Lords. If she was right, then fulfilling his comital duties to Parliament was nothing short of daily torture during the long eight months of the legislative season.
In fact, Parliament was still in session. By being here instead of there, Matilda was taking the earl away from important responsibilities.
Yet he looked content to stroll through the cool, shady hedgerows for hours if need be.
“I’d like to be friends,” she blurted out.
He sent her a look. Not a cruel look. A confused look. “I don’t have friends.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s already done. We’re friends now. No sense fighting facts. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
He looked amused, rather than annoyed, at this. “The other party need not accept the offer?”
“Usually there is no formal offer,” she explained. “Friendships happen by themselves, oftentimes wholly by accident. It would be highly unusual to draw up some sort of official contract outlining specific rules of engagement.”
“And yet there must be rules,” he said. “Everything has rules.”
“You could first-name me,” she offered. “Friends often do that. I’m Matilda. Try it.”
“I shall refrain, Miss Dodd.”
“If ‘Matilda’ is too long, you can call me ‘Tilda’.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Just ‘Da’,” she suggested.
“No.”
“Or ‘Till’,” she offered.
“No. Nor will I call you ‘Ma’, Miss Dodd.”
Three noes in a row, yet he still wasn’t scowling.
Matilda was positively giddy. If this kept up—
They turned another corner and the magic spell evaporated like a burst bubble. Noise and sunlight spilt through a wide gap in the hedgerows. They’d reached the center of the labyrinth.
Huzzah.
The change in Lord Gilbourne was instantaneous. The lines in his forehead were back, the clench of his jaw, the tic in his scarred temple. His posture was tense, wary, and dangerous. A surly bear minding its own business who would not hesitate to lash out at the slightest provocation.
