“Surely now you can call me Matilda,” she murmured into his cravat.
“I shall not.”
She tilted her face up, resting her chin on his lapel so she could gaze up at him. “Miss Candied Orange?”
“No.”
“Miss Sour Lemon?”
“No.”
“Miss Citrus Peel?”
“No.”
“Miss Eats-the-Part-Everyone-Else-Throws-Away?”
Unbelievably, the edges of his lips quirked.
It was not a proper smile, not fully, not really, but Matilda felt as though she’d battled a dragon and stolen its treasure all the same.
“How about ‘Miss—’” she began.
“Dodd,” he interrupted firmly. “I shall refer to you, now and always, as Miss Dodd.”
She slid her arms about his neck and rose up on her toes. “You might at least have denied that my kiss tasted of sour lemon.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “You know very well that you taste only of sweet—” He stiffened, removed her arms from his person, and pushed her away. “That’s enough, Miss Dodd.”
She frowned. “But you—”
“—are complying with my duty as your guardian. Nothing more. The more potential suitors you meet, the sooner you’ll be out of my hair. This isn’t a favor to you. It’s expediency for me.”
Oh. Ouch.
He didn’t want another kiss. He wanted her to marry someone else, and disappear from his life as swiftly as possible.
She slumped into the armchair before his desk, pulling the stack of invitations back into her lap. This time, the missives felt dull and heavy.
“Thank you all the same,” she murmured. “I appreciate your efforts when faced with such an annoyance.”
“Not nearly off-putting enough,” he muttered, as he sank gracefully into his own chair. “I don’t dislike you, Miss Dodd. But there is no room for you in my life.”
“Are you never lonely?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t the right question.
She didn’t want him to keep her close out of loneliness or apathy. She wanted him to choose her. She wanted to be with someone who could have anyone in the entire world and who nonetheless wanted her above all others. As viscerally as she yearned for him.
“I lost my right to complain about loneliness long ago,” he said lightly.
She frowned. “How can anyone lose the right to hate loneliness?”
He smiled, but it was not the smile she had longed to see. It was a cold smile, a hard smile, a brittle smile. A smile that was secretly a frown. Or a sob. A smile of masked sadness, deeper than she could imagine.
“If I tell you, will you leave it be?” he asked.
She set down the invitations and nodded, folding her hands in her lap.
He pointed at his cheek. “Do you know how I got my scars?”
