The rest of the meal passed in strained silence. Matilda made several attempts to engage Gilbourne in conversation. The weather, the newspaper, the books in his library.
Each parry was met with a grunt, and no flicker of interest or acknowledgement from his eyes whatsoever.
By the time the final course arrived, she had given up. Her plate of height-of-season fruit looked sweet and delicious, but she listlessly moved the pieces about with her fork.
“I suppose you’re vexed we’re not at some supper party.”
Matilda whipped her head toward the earl. It had been so long since he’d spoken anything more eloquent than a sullen grunt that she’d almost forgot he was capable of the feat.
“I told you,” she said quietly. “I would never ask you to do something you clearly despise.”
Like attend a soirée.
Or kiss Matilda. Again.
“That will be disappointing news to at least two dozen hostesses,” he said as if bored.
“W-what?” she stammered.
“You’ve received a prodigious number of invitations.”
“I have?”
“At least five-and twenty, by my last count.”
“Liar,” she breathed.
What on earth was his game? No one who was anyone had even heard of her. And even if they had, judging by her reception in Marrywell, an invitation to a private party would not be forthcoming.
“Liar?” He raised his dark brows and met her eyes at last. “If you cannot trust my word, do you want to see for yourself?”
She dropped her fork onto her plate and hurried to her feet. “Right this moment.”
He laid his napkin beside his plate with care before rising to his own feet. “Then follow me.”
Matilda followed so close behind she nearly rode on the back of his heels.
Inside Gilbourne’s study, he strode toward a grand mahogany desk. Several stacks of correspondence sat on top. He lifted the largest of the towers and handed it to Matilda without further comment.
All of the wax seals were broken. And inside each folded missive was a rectangular invitation. Some were embossed, some were gilded, and some were plain. And every one of them was addressed to:
Lord Gilbourne
& Miss Dodd
* * *
She gasped and pressed the pile to her chest, her vision suddenly blurry.
“Are you unhappy?” he asked with concern.
“Unhappy? I could just…” She returned the stack to his desk with care, then threw her arms around him and squeezed with all her might. “Thank you.”
At first, he didn’t move. Then one arm curved around her, and then the other. His embrace was loose—no one would confuse it with a proper hug—but she once again found herself back in his arms.
She pressed her cheek against his chest and held on tight. Was this what he had been doing, whilst she had spent a miserable day dying inside, believing he was ignoring and repulsed by her?
Had he been off in his study being kind, for God’s sake?
