Hazel set her cup aside. “Cordelia is ridiculous, as usual, but she is not wrong. If you wished, you could remarry. You need not be under your sister’s roof, nor your parents’, nor mine. There is no reason to imagine yourself dependent forever.”
For a moment, Matilda said nothing. Her fingers tightened in her lap until her knuckles blanched. Then, lifting her chin, she gave her friends a look at once calm and implacable.
“I will never remarry.”
The room grew still.
“Never?” Evelyn’s voice trembled with disbelief. “Dearest, you cannot mean that.”
“I do. I will never again place my life in the hands of a man. I will never let one dictate what I may do, or whom I may see, or what happiness I am allowed. Marriage is not freedom, it is a cage, and I have already been trapped once. I will not walk into it again.”
Cordelia’s lips parted, her usual smile slipping away. Hazel looked troubled, but said nothing.
Evelyn, however, shook her head with a fervor born of love. “You cannot speak so. Not every marriage is as yours was. Look at mine, at Cordelia’s. We are not caged. On the contrary, we are cherished. To believe yourself forever unlovable is—” She broke off, allowing her voice to soften even more. “It wounds me to hear it, Matilda.”
Matilda’s pale eyes met her sister’s bright green ones. She almost softened… almost. But the words would not be unsaid. “It is the truth. Some hearts are made for love. Mine is not.”
“Do not say such things!” Evelyn cried, horrified. “Do not doom yourself so. Promise me you will not.”
There was a pause. Matilda could feel the weight of all their gazes pressing against her, insistent and suffocating. She wishedto rise and leave, but her pride forbade it. And so she managed the smallest smile, and then, the faintest nod.
“Very well,” she murmured. “If it pleases you, I shall not say it again.”
Her sister sighed in relief, Cordelia brightened, Hazel relaxed. The conversation drifted on to lighter matters, and the storm seemed to have passed.
But in Matilda’s heart, the words echoed still.
Never again.
“Ladies, I come bearing peace offerings,” announced Jasper Everleigh, Duke of Harrow, striding into the drawing room with the careless ease of a man very certain of his welcome. He held aloft a ribboned box in triumph, allowing its contents to exhale the sweet promise of butter and sugar.
“Cookies?” one of the ladies exclaimed with delight.
“From Grafton’s,” Jasper confirmed, setting the box upon the tea table with a flourish. “I had to wrestle three schoolboys and a rather determined governess for the last batch, but I emerged victorious, though alas, scarred in spirit.” He held out his hands dramatically, as though displaying fresh wounds. The ladies laughed, and his dimples deepened with satisfaction.
His stepmother, the Dowager Duchess of Harrow, shook her head but smiled. “Do not listen to him, ladies. He likely charmed the shop girl into parting with them at once.”
“Madam,” Jasper replied, pressing a hand to his heart in mock offense, “you wound me. Must you reveal all my secrets?”
The room rippled with laughter again. He was in his element here, among ladies who were too wise and too experienced to be beguiled beyond amusement. Their laughter was fond, indulgent, and free of expectation. He thrived on it.
One of the ladies, a lively widow with sparkling eyes, leaned forward. “You rascal. Forever buying confections and scattering smiles. Tell us, when will you cease breaking hearts and finally choose one to keep?”
“Ah,” Jasper drawled, sinking into a chair as though preparing for a duel, “but if I chose only one heart, then what would become of the rest of England’s ladies? They would be left defenseless. And I am nothing if not dutiful.”
The chorus of giggles and mock scolding pleased him. He lifted his teacup, the picture of unrepentant charm. “Besides, I am far too young to consider such serious matters.”
“Young?” another lady scoffed, fanning herself. “At one and thirty? That is prime marrying age, Your Grace. You are hardly a callow youth any longer.”
He gave her a dazzling smile. “One and thirty, Lady Hurley, but not yet decrepit. Allow me a few more years of reckless liberty before you chain me to domestic bliss. I assure you, I shall make a far better husband when I am thoroughly worn out.”
His answer, deliberately evasive, drew a fresh bout of laughter. They thought him teasing, and indeed, he meant them to. But behind the laughter lay the naked truth. He would never marry. He had sworn it long ago, with clenched fists and bloodied palms, when his father’s voice had thundered in his ears, demanding perfection, demanding obedience, demanding that he become a man who could not bend, could not err and most importantly, could not love.
Perfection was a lie. Love, a trap. Lineage, a curse.
So he smiled and kept the mask in place. Better to be known as a charming rake than to reveal the vow that had shaped his very soul.
He leaned back, lifting his cup of tea as though it were fine brandy. “Ah, yes… nothing refreshes a weary soul like polite conversation and ladies’ laughter,” he said with such solemn gravity that the ladies tittered all over again. “Though I must confess, I fear I have delayed you from far weightier matters, such as gossiping about absent friends.”
