That was most certainly all he wished to say. To say any more would invite a host of questions and demands for answers from her. He drummed his fingers on the desk a moment. “You obviously think there should be more.”
The slightest bit of blush crept up into her cheeks, and she brushed the back of her hand across one. “I wouldn’t presume. And I’d not like to speak out of turn.”
“Interesting that after these last two weeks you would fret about that now. But do go on, Miss Woodchurch. I would like to hear your thoughts.”
She frowned a little. “She’s your mother.”
“I am aware.”
“And you obviously enjoy her company.”
“That is not at all obvious. Are you chastising me, Miss Woodchurch?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “I beg your pardon—I’ve offended you. Even though you did invite my opinion.”
“I—”
“Heaven help me,” she said, and threw up both hands. “You needn’t say it. Once again, I am speaking when I have no business speaking. I—”
“Miss Woodchurch,” he inserted calmly, before she spiraled off into an explanation he knew from experience would be lengthy. “I did invite your opinion.”
“I don’t want to give it.”
“You clearly do.”
“No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “I have said too much.”
Now he was feeling a little stubborn about it. “Then perhaps you will tell me what you’d write if this letter had come from your mother?”
“Mymother?”
“Sí, tu madre.If she had written you from Paris with news of her friends and purchases, and asked only one question of you? Please, I should like to know how you would respond.”
“Oh. I...” She uneasily tugged on her earlobe. “I would ask her what on earth she was doing in Paris, as she has never been. My mother is vastly different from yours.”
“Interesting. How would you know?”
Her cheeks pinkened. Mateo was both amused by her chagrin and intrigued about why she was trying to avoid her mother. “My mother is...umm, she is...” Miss Woodchurch looked up to the ceiling and sighed. “It’s a bit tricky, isn’t it? Our mothers bring us into this world, but as time goes on, one discovers that they...”
“Are meddlesome?” Mateo dryly finished for her.
“Precisely,” she said with another sigh. “Sometimes it can be amusing, but sometimes not.”
“I only find meddlesome mothers amusing if they are not my own. It would seem that perhaps our mothers are not so different. You must see my reluctance to write a lengthy response, which will only invite more scrutiny and more opinions.”
“I understand. If I were to write my mother, I would natter on with details of things that would exhaust her or cause her to lose interest in any further interrogation of me.” She shrugged. “One must resort to such methods.”
“Natter on?”
“I mean...talk idly,” she explained. “And at length.”
“Ah,charla,” he said.
“But I wouldn’t recommend that for you, my lord. I’d guess that your mother is probably accustomed to very little from you, and if you were to natter on, it would arouse all her suspicions. If I may be so bold to say.”
“You’ve already been so bold to say.”
Her smile widened. “I suppose I have. I’m endeavoring to be bold in many things.”
