As always, she could feel the muscles of his arm tense beneath her fingers, through three layers of fabric. No one else would know by looking at him how he despised being the center of attention, even for a moment.
Or rather, he always looked as though he’d rather be doing literally anything besides participating in a society event. Which made his mask look more like unapologetic misanthropy than the shy discomfort of a man who felt defined by the raised scars crisscrossing half his face.
He thought his face marked him as a killer and an outcast, but when Matilda looked at him, all she saw was a compassionate soul who had suffered more than enough and deserved to let himself find happiness.
For the moment, however, everyone else in the ballroom had just discovered them.
Peers surrounded Gilbourne as if they hadn’t just seen him earlier that day or the day before, so eager were they to compliment him on his forceful speeches in the House of Lords and the positive social changes his hard-won bills set in motion throughout England.
The unmarried lords also took the opportunity to sign Matilda’s dance card before the bevy of waiting bucks and dandies could beat them to it.
Ever since she’d first arrived at a ball with Gilbourne at her side and one of Madame Theroux’s creations enveloping her frame, Matilda had been in high demand. A dream come true—for someone else.
As much as she enjoyed all the dancing, she wished Gilbourne were one of her partners. He had the advantage of traveling with her in the same carriage every night, during which he could lay claim to any minuet or waltz he pleased.
He never did.
So tonight, just like every other night, her dance card filled with name after name until there were no free sets left. And not one of those names belonged to the tense, stone-faced earl at her side.
“Five minutes,” he said. “A new record.”
“Have you been timing my invitations to dance?” she said in surprise.
“They’re too eager. It’s unbecoming. Jackals, all.”
“You introduced me to each one of them.”
“I believed they possessed a modicum of decorum.”
“You believed they were terrified of you, and you were right. It took a full week for them to stop trembling every time they ventured close enough to ask me for a dance.”
“I never stopped them,” he protested.
“You glare a hole right through their faces.”
He was unrepentant. “If they cannot tolerate casual visual contact, how can they expect to make you a proper husband?”
“They’re inviting me to the dance floor, not to the altar.”
“That’s the first step,” he muttered. “It’s in the rulebook.”
“And besides, there’s nothing casual about making visual contact with you. Your glare reaches through their eye sockets and rattles their skulls.”
He sent her a sharp look. “Is that how it feels when I look at you?”
“No,” she said softly. “Your gaze feels like a caress. Sometimes warm, sometimes soft, and sometimes highly improper.”
His eyes glittered wickedly before he blinked his obvious interest away and sent her a look of icy disdain. “Such flights of fancy.”
“Is it? Here comes Lord Thackery to collect me for the first dance. Try not to bore a hole through the back of his head with your glaring.”
Lord Thackery sent a wary look toward the earl. “Gilbourne, fine day. And you, Miss Dodd. Exquisite as always.” He lifted Matilda’s gloved fingers to his lips, then placed them on his arm. “Shall we?”
“Please. You are all that is kind.”
Gilbourne was not gazing at Lord Thackery as though the marquess was kind. Gilbourne glowered at him as though he longed to peel him like an orange and squeeze the pulp between his fingers.
Lord Thackery increased his pace. “Come, dear heart. Shall we find our spot?”
