A slow grin spread across his face, and the dimples appeared. He leaned in just slightly, the faintest touch of challenge in his tone. “And pray, Lady Matilda, why do you concern yourself with my flirtations? Should I be so affronted by your sudden interest in my… manhood?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she looked away, straightening her back as if to hide her flush. He could not resist.
“I assure you,” he continued smoothly, “I have no wish to measure my manhood by anyone’s standards but my own. And yet… it appears you are quite invested in its… proper display.”
Matilda opened her mouth, but no words came. She flushed deeper, and the faintest tremor of frustration passed through her shoulders. Jasper’s laughter escaped him despite himself.
She had caught him off guard, and he had no intention of letting her maintain the upper hand. Rogue though he was, he could not resist the dance, not with her. Not when every blush, every sharp glance, every barely restrained glare was a challenge he could not refuse.
He allowed himself one last, teasing quip as they walked. “Perhaps I should inquire why doyoucare so much what I do with other ladies? I should think your sensibilities safe from my attentions.”
And as always, her expression, which was part scandal, part exasperation and entirely captivating, drew him further in than he would ever admit aloud.
“The last thing I want,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “is to give you or anyone else the wrong impression.”
Jasper tilted his head, curiosity teasing at the edges of his amusement. “And why is that? Why, Lady Matilda, do you care so greatly for the opinions of others? Surely a lady of your wit could disregard all but her own judgment.”
Her lips pressed together, and for a moment she looked almost distant, as if weighing her response. “Because it is a recipe for disaster,” she said finally.
“Disaster?” he repeated, intrigued, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of challenge. “And by disaster, pray tell, you mean?—”
“Scandal,” she finished, her grey eyes narrowing just slightly. “Nothing else. A single misstep, a careless word, and the consequences may ruin more than just a reputation.”
Jasper’s laughter escaped before he could stop it again. It was a low, warm chuckle that turned the words into a playful tease rather than a reprimand. “Ah, I see. You fear scandal more than… than my flirtations, then?”
Matilda’s frown deepened, though her flush betrayed her irritation. “It is not your flirtations I fear,” she said sharply, “but the opinions they might provoke in the foolish, the careless, the malicious.”
He leaned just slightly closer, the teasing glint in his blue eyes brightening. “And yet here you are, walking beside me, thinking of me. I can only conclude you enjoy being vexed… deliberately, of course.”
Her lips parted, indignant, but she looked away, cheeks pink as roses in the morning sun. Jasper had to resist the urge to grin widely, for the lady’s outrage, so sweet and restrained, was a temptation far greater than any other amusement he had known. It occurred to him again, with that same mix of astonishment and undeniable pleasure, that no woman had ever captivated him so completely with such quiet defiance, nor unsettled him so thoroughly while appearing so proper.
Matilda bristled, though her tone held a sharp sweetness. “I assure you, Your Grace, I derive nothing from annoyance, deliberate or otherwise.”
“Nothing at all?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Not even the exquisite pleasure of seeing you blush?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away with a snap of her head. “Your Grace, you are insufferable.”
“Insufferable, yes,” he agreed lightly, “and entirely, irrevocably myself. But tell me, have you never considered tiring of insufferable men?”
She shot him a sideways glance, eyes flashing. “I have considered it. And I find the notion most agreeable. You need not trouble yourself with my tolerances.”
Jasper laughed softly. “I take it, then, that marriage is equally unthinkable for you?”
Her lips pressed together firmly. “Equally unthinkable. I would never marry again.”
“Excellent,” he said with mock solemnity, letting the words hang. “Because I, too, would never marry. Never willingly, at least. The idea of being chained permanently and endlessly to another, even the cleverest of women…” His gaze flicked to hers. “…intolerable.”
Her grey eyes widened slightly, reflecting a rare surprise. “Yes… absolutely intolerable,” she agreed, the words spilling out with quiet conviction.
A brief silence fell. Jasper’s lips twitched with a restrained laugh. “Well, Lady Matilda, it seems that on one matter, at least, we are perfectly aligned. Our fates remain free.”
“And dreadfully so,” she murmured, the faintest wry lift to her mouth betraying the tiniest amusement.
Electricity hummed in the space between them not from agreement alone, but from the knowledge that here was someone as fiercely independent, as unyielding, and as exasperating as himself.
Chapter Eight
“Matilda, Jasper,” Evelyn said brightly across the breakfast table, “I have just the thing for both of you. I want the flower beds by the west terrace prepared for the baptism. You shall see to the arrangements yourselves, and make sure the paths are not overgrown and the roses are tied properly.”
