“Lies, my lady, will not earn you any cookies. Truth might. And I will keep your secret.”
Her grey eyes flashed, wary but curious. She tilted her head as though weighing his words, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Very well. If my honor rests upon biscuits…”
Almost reluctantly, as if each movement cost her courage, she drew her hands forward. Her fingers were small, dainty, stained faintly with streaks of blue and silver paint.
Jasper stepped closer, drawn in despite himself. He caught her wrists lightly, lowering her hands to the light. The delicate bones, the softness of her skin, the tremor in her breath… he felt the sudden, startling urge to lift her fingers to his lips. The desire struck him hard and sharp, but he fought it down, schooling his features into careful neutrality.
He cleared his throat. “The paint, Lady Matilda. What is it for?”
Her voice was quieter now, almost shy. “I thought to make some alterations to my gown for the ball. There is no time for embroidery, so I decided to paint what I might otherwise have stitched. The shape can be changed, too, just slightly. Enough to… make it different.”
Jasper’s mouth curved faintly. “Ah. So this is the infamous shawl business from two days ago, when the wheel broke.”
A flush crept up her neck, but she met his eyes with a kind of helpless honesty. “It was. Yes.”
Jasper chuckled softly, letting her wrists go with deliberate slowness. “Well, I suppose that does sound more diverting than actually repairing a shawl.”
Her lips pressed together as though she meant to scold him, but she said nothing. Only the faint paint stains glimmered between them, and the knowledge that for once, she had allowed him to see her secret.
Chapter Nineteen
Matilda hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “I have something to ask you. Since we are being truthful.”
His eyes glinted with amusement. “By all means. Ask.”
“Why were you so… different while fixing the wheel?” The words came out softer than she intended, but steady. “You were not your usual mocking and provoking self.”
He paused, as though her question had struck somewhere unexpected. “I was simply… focused.”
Matilda reached across the table and lifted the jar of biscuits toward herself, tucking it close to her chest. “The same rules apply,” she declared. “Only truth-sayers are granted cookies.”
His grin deepened. “Fair enough. But that is a deep conversation, one for friends.”
“Are we not friends?” she asked quickly, surprising herself with the question.
His gaze lingered on her, as if her face might reveal the answer before her lips could. “I don’t know… perhaps.”
Something playful and perhaps reckless rose within her then. She set the jar down, gathered her skirts with one hand, and swept into a graceful little curtsey.
“In that case, I am Lady Matilda Sterlington,” she said, her lips curving, “at your service.”
He blinked at her before comprehension dawned, and the corner of his mouth twitched. With a half-bow, he replied, “Jasper Everleigh, Duke of Harrow. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Matilda straightened, with a spark of laughter in her eyes. “There. You see? We can work toward being friends now.”
He only looked at her for a long moment, as though uncertain whether to laugh or protest.
Matilda tilted her head, mischief stirring. “Now then. If we are to be friends, we must do what friends do and that is ask questions.”
His brows rose, amused. “Questions?”
“Yes,” she nodded, tapping the jar of biscuits. “To get to know each other. I shall begin. What is your favorite sweet?”
He gave a short laugh. “That is easy, these very biscuits, as you well know. And you?”
“Chocolate drops,” she confessed, her lips twitching. “Though I hardly ever admit it. People find it childish.”
“Not at all,” he said, leaning one hip against the table. “You’ve good taste.”
