“Yes?”
There was no delicate way to say it. “Madam...you talk too much.”
She stared at him. “Pardon?”
“Youtalktoo much. It is impossible to think with so many words flying about.” It really was impossible, but...at the same time, he instantly regretted his words.
“Ah.” She looked stricken and lowered her gaze to her lap. “I apologize.”
He felt like an ass. “It’s quite—”
“It’s a terrible habit I have when I am in the company of someone who speaks not at all,” she said, and lifted her gaze.
It took him a moment to realize she was criticizing him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have noticed about you the very thing you have noticed about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not being clear, which is another bad habit of mine, I will admit. But what I’m trying to say is that it’s difficult to converse when someone doesn’t speak at all, my lord. You’re a very quiet person. And I have an unfortunate tendency to fill the silence when others won’t speak. At the Iddesleigh School for Exceptional Girls, I was forever speaking for the girls who didn’t want to or weren’t confident to speak, until my friend took me aside and told me I was explaining too many things. I do thank you for the reminder that I should not.”
He stared at her, uncertain if she was arguing with him or not. It didn’t seem so. It seemed more like she was...speaking her mind? Without the slightest bit of hesitation. Extraordinary. He could name on one hand the people who easily spoke their mind in his presence, and they were mostly related to him. He put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her.
“But I won’t utter another word,” she said, and with that, she mimed locking her lips and flicking away a key. And then she smiled.
His gaze narrowed. “You won’t be able to keep it locked.”
Her eyes widened slightly. But then she shrugged.
“You are right, Miss Woodchurch, I do not speak often. And you speak all the time. Your tendency is to fill the room with more words and mine is to fill them with fewer.”
She smiled but uttered not a word.
He picked up his pencil. But he stole a glance at her. She had turned her attention to the books on his table. She was craning her neck one way to read the spines. With a finger, she moved the book on top, angling it a little away from her to better read it. She was frowning, as if trying to make out the words in French.
“Le vicomte de Bragelonne: ou, dix ans plus tard,”he said. “By Alexandre Dumas. In English, it isThe Viscount of Bragelonne: Or, Ten Years Later.”
“Really?” She looked up with surprise. “One of my favorite books!” She suddenly gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “Lord, there I go again, talking.” But then her gaze narrowed. “Did you trick me?”
“Tricking you is unnecessary. The odds were strongly in my favor.”
“Touché.” She smiled, pleased.
And surprisingly, he smiled, too. With his chin, he indicated the book. “You’ve read the work?”
“I have indeed. In English, of course. My favorite part isThe Man in the Iron Mask. Did you know that there really was such a prisoner?”
Now this woman had his undivided attention. “I’m reading that part now.L’homme au masque du fer.”
“I envy anyone who has the capacity to speak different languages. Imagine, to read a book in French! I only speak one language, and, as I am given to understand, I speak quite a lot of it.”
His smile deepened. “You’re quite...cheeky.” That was a word he’d learned since coming to London. “It’s common in Santiava to speak both Spanish and French, given our proximity to both countries. And my mother, as you know, is English.”
“I still maintain it’s remarkable,” she said. “It would take meagesto read an entire book in another language, no matter how proficient I was.”
Mateo realized that he enjoyed the way she spoke so freely to him. It was as if he was speaking to his sister, or a cousin. So many women he met in the course of his everyday life spoke only when spoken to. It made for some awkwardly long pauses, being who he was. “What did you think of the book?”
“I was captivated. Quite a lot of intrigue, wasn’t it? And what an unbearable existence the poor man suffered. It was weeks before I could keep from dwelling on his plight, a life spent inside an iron mask. Who was he really, do you think?”
