He muttered a curse under his breath and pressed his palms against the cold stone ledge.
The soft sound of footsteps on gravel made him stiffen. He turned his head, expecting one of the footmen or perhaps Evelyn come to call the ladies in.
It was Matilda.
She did not see him at first. Her expression was unguarded and thoughtful, touched with a melancholy that struck him hard in the chest.
For one reckless moment, Jasper nearly spoke. He nearly told her what Greyson had just said, nearly warned her, nearly…something.
But the words stuck. What right had he? He was no better than Greyson, and no less dangerous in his own way. So he leaned back into the shadows, schooling his face into its familiar mask as she drew nearer.
“Lady Matilda,” he said at last. “Do you make a habit of haunting gardens at dusk, or is this a rare indulgence?”
She started slightly, turning toward him, her hand tightening on her shawl. Then, catching herself, she lifted her chin with practiced composure.
“Do you make a habit of lurking in them, Your Grace?” she returned with equal composure.
And just like that, they were back in their sparring rhythm, yet beneath it, Jasper felt the weight of what he knew pressing hard against his ribs.
He smiled before replying. “Have you had enough of the gaiety, my lady?”
Matilda nodded just once. “Quite. I find that a surfeit of conversation leaves me most fatigued.”
His eyes beamed at her. “A surprising admission at a garden party.”
“Not surprising at all, I think,” she said, her tone mild. “Though I confess I am astonished to findyouhere, Your Grace, and not surrounded by admirers. Are you lost?”
He took the liberty of sitting at the far end of her bench. “Not lost. Merely seeking refuge from adoration. It grows tiresome, being so universally admired.”
Her brow arched. “Your modesty humbles us all.”
Jasper laughed, a rich, unguarded sound. “There it is, the sting of Lady Matilda’s wit. I had almost missed it.”
She gave him a look of mock offense. “You flatter me. I am not witty, only truthful.”
“Then I must hope you never turn that truth upon me,” he said lightly. “I doubt my pride could survive it.”
“Your pride seems in excellent health, Your Grace. A little honesty might do it good.”
He cleared his throat. “You know, Lady Matilda, there are those who would say your company is more dangerous than a garden of thorns.”
She looked unimpressed. “You should choose better companions, then.”
He laughed again, though it sounded rougher now. “Perhaps I already have.”
A small silence fell over them, lighter than cobweb. The faint music drifted from beyond the hedges, carrying the laughter of others belonging to an easier world, far removed from this quiet corner.
At last, she voiced herself. “You should return to them, Your Grace. Someone might fear you have been kidnapped.”
“By whom? You?” His grin returned once more.
“I should not care to be accused of such recklessness.”
“No?” He leaned a little closer. “Then allow me to remain your captive a while longer.”
Matilda’s lips parted in protest or perhaps amusement, but before she could reply, a breeze stirred the roses, and the scent of them filled the air. She turned away, and he saw the faintest trace of color in her cheeks. It brought him immense satisfaction to know he was the cause of it.
“You know,” he continued, “if I were a gossip, which, mercifully, I am not, I might say you and Greyson have been spending an inordinate amount of time together. And with you smiling at him the way you do, that is practically a declaration of love where you are concerned. It’s enough to send the ladies into mourning.”
