Matilda scoffed again. Louder and scoffier. Ha! Double ha! If this encounter had taught her anything, it was that she shouldn’t give the slightest encouragement to any priggish stick-in-the-mud suitor whom the Earl of Gilbourne determined possessed a “firm hand” capable of keeping Matilda in check.
She had no interest in being controlled, or reined in, or even citified. She would meet the right man on her own, and in good time. If it took years, so be it. She was twenty-one days away from a small fortune and complete independence. She would soon be having far too much fun with her newfound freedom to give two figs about the shocked sensibilities of know-all men like the Earl of Gilbourne.
He wrapped his enormous hand about her upper arm.
She glared at him.
“Come,” he ordered, as if she were his trained pet. “We’re leaving.”
Matilda wanted to do nothing more than dig the heels of her dancing slippers into the parquet and stand her ground, but such a tantrum would do little to convince him that she was not a child in need of a nanny.
In desperation, she sent a beseeching look at her great-aunt. “Please. I want to stay.”
“You’re not my ward anymore,” replied Aunt Stapleton gently. “What happens next is up to you and Lord Gilbourne.”
Which meant, up to Lord Gilbourne, period. He clearly had no intention of inquiring after Matilda’s desires, much less catering to them.
“We’re leaving,” he said sternly.
His fingers tightened around her arm. Not hard enough to bruise, or even to cause discomfort. Just enough pressure to convey I am in charge and you are not.
“We’ll see about that,” Matilda muttered beneath her breath.
She allowed him to steer her from the ballroom, but sent him no shortage of icy glares, so that he would know exactly how she felt about his unsympathetic high-handedness.
Her frostiest glares did not seem to bother him in the slightest.
The moment the trio stepped foot out-of-doors, the earl barked, “My carriage.” at a boy half Matilda’s age.
“How’s he supposed to know which—” she began.
The lad took off running. Seconds later, the sound of horse hoofs rose in the air. A stately coach-and-four driven by a man old enough to be Matilda’s father pulled into view.
The driver tipped his hat at Matilda. “Your trunk is in the carriage, madam.”
She stared at him. “But I left all of my… How did you…”
“Well, then,” said Aunt Stapleton briskly. “It looks as though Titus has the situation under control. He’s a good man, Matilda. You’ll have a lovely time… or at least a new experience. Try to enjoy your evening. I’ll be returning home to Shropshire myself after the tart-and-pie competition tomorrow.”
With that, Aunt Stapleton gave each of them a kiss on their cheeks and disappeared back inside the crowded assembly rooms to enjoy the music and the dancing, without an apparent care in the world.
Matilda stared after her in disbelief.
“Get into the carriage,” the earl growled in her ear.
She turned to chide him for being so demanding, only to see that the driver was indeed standing at the ready, one hand holding open the door whilst the other arm clutched his hat to his chest as he bent in a bow.
Cheeks heating in embarrassment, she hurried forward and allowed the driver to hand her inside. Lord Gilbourne climbed in after her and scowled when he saw where she had seated herself.
“I must take the rear-facing seat, mustn’t I?” she blurted self-consciously. “I’m the one of lower rank.”
“Sit on the forward-facing seat,” he ordered.
“But you’re an earl—”
“And you’re a woman.”
“But you’re older—”
