Her grey eyes snapped to his, sparking with fire. He felt the thrill of it ripple through him. And then, at last, she began.
“He demanded an ode to his name,
A forfeit to heighten his fame,
So here is my song,
To prove him all wrong,
For vanity’s ever his game.”
The room erupted. Jasper blinked, his step faltering for half a beat. He had expected grudging words, stumbling effort, not a polished rhyme that landed as neatly as a rapier thrust.
Matilda’s lips twitched, her composure trembling at the edges. She pressed on.
“He struts and he boasts, with a dimple to spare,
Yet his boots are oft muddied, cravat in disrepair,
A duke he may be, with a title so grand,
But he cannot quite manage to keep out of the sand.”
A roar of applause surrounded them momentarily, but Jasper could hear nothing but the sound of her voice. His grip tightened just slightly at her waist as they spun. Shock, yes. But beneath it, something far more dangerous: admiration.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “You should insult me more often, Lady Matilda. It suits you.”
Jasper leaned close, his breath warm against her ear as they turned once more across the carpet. He could feel the tension in her frame, the defiance in every line of her body, yet beneath it all, the flutter of her pulse against his palm. It tempted him past reason.
Her rhyme ended to thunderous laughter, but Jasper kept his voice low, meant for her alone. “Tell me, Lady Matilda, was it truly my arrogance that sent us tumbling into the pond? Or did you secretly wish for an excuse to let me catch you?”
Her eyes flew wide, grey as storm clouds, and in them he saw both shock and fury. Her cheeks burned with sudden color. “How dare you,” she whispered, sharp as a blade.
He smiled, entirely unrepentant. “Because it is true.”
She pulled back so abruptly that he almost lost his grip on her hand. She tore it free as though scorched, and turned to their astonished audience.
“You must excuse me. The room is warm. I need a breath of air.”
Hazel half rose at once. “Shall I come with you?”
Matilda forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “No, dearest. I will be quite well. Only a moment.”
Before anyone could protest further, she swept from the room. Jasper remained where he was, bowing with lazy ease as if nothing were amiss. Yet his gaze followed her retreat, feeling a slow heat curling in his chest. He had struck a nerve. He knew it. And though she might despise him for it, the memory of her pulse beneath his hand, her blush, her fury, her flight, every bit of it told him she felt the pull as keenly as he did.
And that knowledge was delicious.
Chapter Thirteen
How dare he!?
Matilda’s heart pounded so furiously she feared it might betray her. To imply she had wanted his embrace, as though she were one of those silly, sighing creatures who fluttered and blushed whenever Jasper Everleigh so much as crooked a smile…
No! She wasnotthat sort of woman. She wouldneverbe that sort of woman.
Even if, for one shameful instant, she had been aware of his hand steady at her waist, of his nearness, of the heat in his voice… No, she would not think on it. He had treated her like a conquest, like a jest to be made in company, and she would not stoop so low as to play along.
She swept through the nearest doors, the night air rushing cool against her flushed cheeks. The terrace was blessedly empty, the gardens spread wide and shadowed, with the scent of rosesdrifting on the breeze. She clutched the balustrade, drawing breath after breath, willing herself to calm.
