Hazel folded her hands. “And him?”
The question hung heavy in the air.
Matilda didn’t answer at once. She closed the trunk with a quiet click, resting her palm upon the smooth wood.
“He will not come to me,” she said finally. “He said he meant to be honorable. Men like him always mistake distance for virtue.”
Hazel looked at her with something close to sorrow. “And if he does come?”
Matilda’s lips trembled before she caught herself. “Then I would still go,” she said softly. “Because I could not bear to watch him do the right thing for the wrong reason.”
Hazel’s expression gentled. She reached out and took Matilda’s hand, giving it a firm, brief squeeze. “You are braver than you think,” she told her.
Matilda shook her head, feeling her composure slipping for just a moment. “No. Only tired.”
Hazel brushed a faint bit of dust from her gown. “Then rest tonight. I’ll send word for a carriage at dawn. You can be on your way before anyone wakes.”
Matilda shook her head. “No, I will go as soon as I have spoken with Evelyn. And Hazel… thank you.”
Hazel looked as if she were about to cry. “You needn’t thank me. Just promise you’ll write.”
Matilda hesitated. “If I can.”
Hazel gave a rueful little smile. “Then at least pray for me. I imagine you’ll have time enough for that.”
That earned her a genuine laugh. “I will. Every day.”
Hazel leaned forward and kissed her cheek, a rare show of affection, then turned toward the door. “Matilda… if you change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
Hazel nodded. “Then God go with you, my dear.”
When the door closed behind her, the silence returned. Matilda sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, listening to the far away sounds of music and laughter. They already seemed to come from a world that no longer belonged to her.
She rose, extinguished the last candle, and stood for a moment in the dark, with her hand resting on the closed trunk.
She would leave and never look back.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jasper had never been more grateful for solitude.
He had left the ballroom as soon as propriety allowed, which was after the final set, and after far too many forced smiles and polite nods. He had retreated through the corridors of Aberon House like a man escaping a siege, his thoughts a relentless storm of her voice, when she’d said:
I do not wish to marry you.
In his chamber, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood before the window, staring out into the night. The air outside was sharp, the lawns silvered by moonlight, and from below he could still hear the faint echo of the orchestra. As always, life went on, oblivious to the pain or suffering it was causing.
He told himself that time was all they needed.
She had been angry, yes, and wounded. He could not blame her for that. Perhaps after the heat of humiliation had faded, when they were both calmer, they could speak as they once had. He would explain that his words to Aberon had not been about her, that they had been abouthim, about his own failures, and eventually, about his fear of becoming his father.
If she would only give him a chance to say it, perhaps she would understand.
He drank deeply, the brandy biting his throat.
He remembered the way she had looked that evening. She had been magnificent, but unreachable. The cold dignity of her rejection had left him feeling smaller than he’d thought possible. And yet, beneath it all, he had seen something flicker. It was pain, not hatred. That meant there was still a chance… perhaps. He could find her later, when the guests began to retire, when her anger might have cooled and his words might not fail him.
