She wanted one night. Just one, to dazzle, to burn, to make Jasper Everleigh forget his composure and feel every bit as unsettled as she felt now.
For the first time in years, Matilda felt a true, bubbling excitement in her chest. This gown would behers, every stitch, every bead, and it would not be the garment of a shadow.
It would be the gown of a woman daring, for once, to shine.
Chapter Eighteen
“You are rusty,” Greyson remarked, his voice as cool and flat as the polished wood of the billiards table. “I recall you sinking three balls in a row without pause. Now you are lucky if you strike one clean.”
Greyson Thornhill, Duke of Callbury, was a man who carried silence like a weapon. Where other gentlemen laughed to ease a room, Greyson commanded it with little more than a glance. Cold, serious, and impossibly composed, he was both admired and feared in equal measure. A man of principle, practical to his bones, and so respected that few dared speak against him.
To Jasper, however, Greyson was more than his reputation. He was an old friend, the sort of man who had seen him at his best and worst, and remained all the same. Their friendship was an odd one, for Greyson’s severity was as stone to Jasper’s fire, yet the contrast had forged an unlikely but unbreakable bond.
Now the two of them stood in Robert’s parlor, billiard cues in hand, the polished wood gleaming under the afternoon light. A decanter of brandy waited on the sideboard, but neither had touched it yet.
Jasper leaned on his cue with practiced laziness, grinning despite the barb. “I let you win, Greyson. Consider it a gift to celebrate your arrival.”
Greyson’s dark brow arched. “Do not insult me with charity. You play poorly. Admit it.”
The crack of ivory balls echoed as Greyson bent with precise care and sent a red ball straight into the corner pocket. Not so much as a twitch of satisfaction crossed his face.
“Still a tyrant on the billiards table,” Jasper drawled. He reached for his own shot and missed again by a hair’s breadth. He cursed under his breath, straightening. “Tell me, do you treat all your opponents like errant schoolboys, or am I the fortunate exception?”
“You are the only one who requires it,” Greyson replied. Though his tone was cool, a glimmer of amusement flickered deep in his eyes, a sign Jasper knew few others could read.
Jasper smirked, reaching for his glass and finally pouring the brandy. “You always did have a talent for making me feel like a wayward youth.”
Greyson accepted his own glass but did not drink. He studied Jasper for a long moment before speaking. “You are distracted.”
“Am I?” Jasper’s grin widened, careless.
“Yes.” Greyson took his next shot, clean and merciless. “Otherwise you would not play like a man half-drunk.” He replaced his cue with deliberate calm. “What troubles you?”
“Perhaps Iamhalf-drunk,” Jasper said lightly.
Greyson ignored the jest, as he always did. “I have known you long enough to recognize when your thoughts are elsewhere. It seems they are not where they should be.” Greyson chalked his cue with slow, deliberate strokes, then he continued. “I intend to take a more active role in the coming Season.”
Jasper froze mid-sip, lowering his brandy with a snap of disbelief. “You? Active in the Season? What devil has possessed you?”
Greyson bent, lined up his shot, and sent a ball cleanly into the side pocket. “I am looking for a wife.”
For the first time that evening, Jasper barked out a laugh. “A wife? You have gone mad. Utterly mad. Do you know what a wife entails, old boy? Endlessly circling ballrooms, simpering introductions, mothers foisting their daughters at your feet like wares at market. I shall do you a favor and pretend I never heard such nonsense.”
Greyson only straightened. “You may ignore it if you wish. I will not.”
Jasper shook his head, still grinning, though it felt tight on his face. “Well, more power to you, old friend. But I will keep well clear of your folly. The fewer entanglements, the better.”
He lined up his own shot, careless, and struck. It missed by an inch. He swore under his breath, glaring at the table as though it had betrayed him.
Greyson’s silence pressed, but Jasper waved it off with a flourish of his cue. “At any rate, more members of the ton will begin arriving in the coming days. As the baptism draws near, they will flock like starlings, eager to be seen, eager to be heard. I intend to have as little patience for it as possible.”
He leaned against the table, smirking into his glass. “Perhaps I’ll be lucky, and avoid the thrum of society altogether.”
But even as he said it, he knew luck had deserted him, for his thoughts refused to stay clear of one lady in particular, with pale grey eyes and a blush that haunted him more than it should.
Greyson set his cue neatly on the rack, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat. “I will retire for now. The journey was long, and I would like to turn in.”
Jasper let out a groan of mock despair. “You cannot leave me in disgrace, old friend. That game was an annihilation. I demand a rematch.”
