Still, no smile. And worse yet, no spark.
He studied her face more closely and realized with a sinking feeling that she was not angry. At least, notmerelyangry. She looked hurt and wounded in a way that pride could not quite conceal.
The realization hit him harder than he expected.
When the music softened, he leaned closer. “Matilda,” he murmured. “What is wrong?”
She blinked heavily. Her head tilted slightly, and for a moment he thought she would laugh in that low, disbelieving sound she made when she thought him absurd. But instead, she looked at him as though she could scarcely believe he’d asked.
“You do not know?” she said quietly.
He frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Her lips parted, then closed again. She turned her gaze away, and he felt her fingers tightening fractionally in his grasp. “Then perhaps I was wrong to think you clever.”
The words were soft, but they landed with more weight than a blow.
He stopped them mid-step, barely noticeable to anyone else, and for a heartbeat they stood still in the turning circle of dancers.
“Talk to me,” he said under his breath. “Please.”
Pain and disbelief flickered in her eyes, but she drew in a steadying breath and forced a smile for the benefit of those watching.
“Do not make a scene, Your Grace,” she said in a voice sweet enough to fool anyone nearby. “The entire room is watching.”
Her composure was flawless, but her tone was glass: beautiful, brittle, and sharp enough to cut.
He swallowed, tightening his hold on her hand only slightly, as if that might anchor her. “Matilda?—”
But she cut him off. “It isLady Matilda, if you please. And just so you know, I heard you.”
He felt her words before he understood them. “You?—?”
“In the study,” she interrupted him calmly. “You were speaking with Robert.”
His breath caught. “You were?—”
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze now sternly. “I was.”
He couldn’t look away. Her eyes held his with a steadiness that both accused and broke him.
“I thought…” she started, then hesitated to continued. “Ineverthought that you would take such liberties with me unless you intended…something.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You are right.”
The admission came in a hoarse tone of voice. When he opened his eyes again, she was still watching him, though her expression wavered between anger and something more fragile.
“Matilda,” he said, his voice roughened with restraint, “I would never… God, I would never wish to see you hurt. Not by me, not by anyone. What happened… I lost sense of myself. I thought only of you. And that was… wrong.”
He took a slow breath. “You deserve peace, not scandal. So, I will do what is right. Thehonorablething.”
Her eyes flared. “Do not dare.”
He blinked, startled by the venom in her whisper.
“Do notdareto speak of honor now,” she said, while her entire body trembled with barely contained fury. Her smile remained perfectly composed for the watching eyes around them, but her words cut sharp beneath it. “You think offering for me would make amends? That I should be grateful for the rescue of my reputation by a man who has already declared to the world that he will never love, never marry?”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.
