They’d been destined for one another.
To kiss.
And at the time, she’d thought… so much more.
The Earl of Willoughby stared out the window as his elegant coach rambled into the heart of London. The girls were both sleeping. Eloise was on the rear facing bench, and Althea was beside him, resting her head on his lap. He abstractly threaded his fingers through the downy softness of her hair, black, identical to his.
How had he not recognized her right away? Tilde. Matilda. She’d been introduced to him as Miss Fortune. At Vauxhall, just a few weeks before he’d left for the Continent.
Had she remembered? Or had he merely seemed familiar to her, as well.
Eleven years.
A lifetime.
He recalled that he’d considered her beautiful. She hadn’t been, even then, but she’d affected him as no other woman up until that point in his life.
She had been pretty, but it had been her eyes that captured him. Smiling, mischievous and daring eyes––so out of place on the face of a young debutante. She’d not been forward, nor acted inappropriately in any way. She’d merely had this look to her… As though daring life to upset her joy.
They’d walked together through the lantern-lit paths.
He smiled sadly to himself. Throughout the course of one’s youth, a person happens upon magical moments without realizing how uniquely special they were. That was how he remembered that night.
As he’d grown older, he’d dismissed it as something nonsensical. There had been champagne and wine, yes, but he’d had his wits about him.
She’d not allowed him to take her arm until they turned onto a darker, less travelled path. Already, they’d invited one another to call the other by their given name.
“Matilda,” she’d said, “but my friends call me Tilde.”
“Call me Jasper.”
He shook his head at his impetuous attitudes back then. His own wife had hardly ever referred to him by anything other than Willoughby. And his closest of friends, called him Will. He’d come into the title while still in school. It had been freeing to cast the mantle away for a night. To have a pretty girl like him, not the earldom.
He’d thrilled when she’d tested his name on her lips.
Jasper.
Had she recognized him today? Surely his appearance wasn’t so very greatly altered.
Eleven years. Ah, but yes, a lifetime ago.
Tilde had crossed his path like a mirage. He’d kissed her. Oh, yes. He’d led her into the dark forest and then off the path altogether. She’d leaned against the smooth bark of a tree. She’d not been acting coquettish, no, they’d been enjoying one another’s company.
Immensely.
And then he’d covered the empty space between the two of them and placed his hands on the tree, above her head. Both of them had stared into one another’s eyes, not touching, but… feeling. Feeling the visceral energy sparking between their bodies.
His, lean and hard. Hers, yielding and soft.
He’d inhaled her fragrance, thinking to memorize it. Now he remembered how the fragrance had made him feel, although not the actual fragrance itself.
“I can’t tell if your eyes are brown or green.”
She’d gazed up at him and licked her lips. “Hazel.”
“Lovely.” He’d whispered. He remembered how hoarse his voice had sounded.
He’d been utterly besotted with her.
