Matilda gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Because I have no wish to make gentlemen risk their coats over roses. I prefer them unbloodied.”
Hazel murmured, “And sensible,” though Cordelia only grinned.
Lady Isabelle smoothed the crimson rose against her gown, her smile bright and certain. “You see,” she continued, “His Grace has always been so obliging. It is no surprise to me, for he has been gallant since we were children.”
Matilda’s teacup paused midway to her lips.
Cordelia leaned forward eagerly. “Children? You knew one another then?”
“Oh yes,” Isabelle said warmly, her dark eyes alight. “Our families were such close friends. I spent many summers at Harrow Hall. My parents and the late duke were inseparable. We were always told how well we suited.”
Evelyn’s brows lifted slightly, though her smile remained gracious. Hazel gave no more than a polite nod.
Matilda set down her cup very carefully, arranging the saucer just so. “How very fortunate,” she said lightly. “It must be rare to find such companionship carried from childhood.”
Isabelle’s smile widened. “Indeed. Why, I used to trail after him at every turn. He was so serious then, always striving to please his father. But I knew—” she broke off with a small laugh. “Well, I suppose it is only natural to admire one’s future.”
Cordelia’s eyes glimmered with mischief, but she held her tongue for once. Evelyn glanced quickly at Matilda again, looking slightly concerned.
Matilda smoothed her glove, willing her pulse to still. She turned her gaze toward the garden. “What happy memories you must have,” she said, the words even, almost careless.
The rose glowed crimson against Isabelle’s pale gown. Matilda lowered her gaze, forcing a smile that felt steady enough.
It was nothing. A flower. A childhood memory. Empty trifles.
She told herself this, again and again. But when the laughter rippled around her, she felt strangely apart from it.
The party began to drift after tea. The gentlemen peeled away toward the stables, cigars and talk of horses luring most of them off. Jasper lingered by the terrace instead, with glass in hand, letting the cool bite of brandy cut through the restless heat in his veins.
He foolishly thought that a moment of solitude might steady him.
But then came the low, masculine voice. “Harrow.”
Jasper turned to find Grayson striding toward him, every inch of him calm and immovable, like a fortress in boots. The Duke of Callbury did not waste words. He inclined his head slightly, then said with the bluntness of a man issuing a command. “I mean to ask Lady Matilda to marry me.”
For a heartbeat Jasper said nothing. He only stared, brandy burning in his throat, the words striking like a blow to the chest.
Then, slowly, he exhaled a laugh, which was sharp and humorless. “Is there something in the water here? Every man seems bent on lunacy here, including myself.”
Grayson’s brow furrowed, but he did not rise to the mockery. “She is well-suited. Intelligent and steady. It would be a sensible match.”
Sensible. The word grated. Jasper tipped his glass back, draining what was left.
“And does Lady Matilda know she is so sensible?” he asked dryly.
“I will speak to her soon,” Grayson replied, his tone unchanged. “But I thought it courteous to tell you first. You are her friend, are you not?”
Jasper’s jaw clenched. Friend. The word twisted in him, bitter and raw.
He set his glass down with deliberate care on the stone ledge. “Yes,” he said at last, his voice even. “Her friend.”
Grayson gave a curt nod, looking satisfied, and turned back toward the house. Jasper remained where he was, staring at the empty glass.
Friend. Sensible. Marriage.
He wondered if every last soul in the place had gone mad or if it was only him.
He had told himself he did not care what she chose for her future. And yet, the thought of Matilda bound to Thornhill, walking beside him with that polite smile, living in a house where conversation was measured like accounts… and the thought set his blood thrumming with restless anger.
