The gentleman watching her from the shadows of a potted fern, though… Now he was interesting.
She darted another glance in his direction. He hadn’t exactly swept her off her feet—he hadn’t even approached her yet, much less spoken to her—but every time he thought she wasn’t looking, his dark gaze settled upon her once more.
Obviously she was the one who would need to take action.
She popped another small square of candied peel into her mouth for strength. All right, three candied peels. Maybe five. She had no idea what she was doing, but she was determined to see it through. After all, she was less than a month shy of her majority. The day she turned one-and-twenty, she’d be able to live life on her own terms. As her new self: Miss Matilda Dodd, impossible-to-tie-down adventure-seeker. No one, not even her stuffy new guardian, would be able to hold her back.
She turned slightly. The terrifyingly handsome gentleman with the scarred face caught her looking.
He didn’t look away.
Matilda gave him a fleeting, tentative smile.
His dark gaze only increased in intensity, scalding her with its heat until she was certain the diced peels in her reticule had melted into lemonade.
His skin was white, but his scars were whiter. A crisscross of raised webbing from his left temple to the base of his jaw. His hair was a dark brown, his eyes even darker. Almost black. The combination of light and dark was striking, but then, so was the rest of him. He was incredibly tall, and intimidatingly broad. A massive wall of a man, encased in buttery soft black superfine. A dazzlingly white cravat with knife-sharp folds fell from his chin to his chest.
And what a chest it was. Muscular and broad, tapering to a trim waist that led to equally powerful thighs.
Where Matilda was from, these were the muscles of someone who broke wild horses and rowed oars for hours. Was this man from the country, as well? Despite his brawn, he appeared much too fine to be the sort who sloshed through rivers and mucked out stalls. But muscles like that didn’t form from lounging about gentlemen’s clubs drinking port and playing whist.
Without taking her eyes from his, she inched toward him until most of her body was hidden from the public behind the first of the potted ferns.
He did the same on his side, though the six-foot ferns barely reached his forehead.
Matilda gave him her most winning grin. “How do you do?”
“I’m still deciding.” His voice was a deliciously low rumble. He looked as though he wanted to swallow her whole.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she blurted out, although he had not asked. She rallied and tried again. “What’s your name?”
“No.” His tone was final.
She blinked. “Your name is… ‘No’?”
“If you don’t know it, I shan’t give it. I don’t want yours, either.”
She swallowed. “Then what do you want?”
His stern lips tightened rather than respond, but his smoldering gaze held the answer. Her. He wanted Matilda.
A frisson of—awareness? danger? reckless abandon?—danced across her skin. This was much better than being some stodgy recluse’s cloistered ward. Flirting wasn’t nearly as difficult as she’d imagined. When Matilda married, it would be someone she chose on her own terms. Perhaps this gentleman right here.
Over his shoulder, a not-too-distant trio of ostrich feathers poked into the air. Aunt Stapleton. She was out of the retiring room and looking for Matilda. It wouldn’t take her long to try the refreshment area.
With alacrity, Matilda hurried to hide herself deeper behind the ferns… and promptly tripped over her own feet.
In the space of a blink, the scarred stranger was right there to save her. He caught her against his broad chest and wrapped his thick arms ever so gently about her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Or let her go.
“My hero,” she added, and lifted her chin to kiss the cheek closest to her mouth.
He flinched and turned his head—either because he hadn’t realized it was only a simple kiss, or because he didn’t want her lips to touch his scars. But in turning his cheek away, he brought his mouth closer. Their lips touched.
At first, Matilda was too startled to pull away. When she finally regained some semblance of her wits, she was too intrigued to pull away. She’d never kissed a man before, and so far, she quite liked it. His lips were somehow both soft and firm. His embrace, strong and warm.
