“Why is the right thing not the fair thing?” he muttered, pulling his shirt over his head. “Right by whose standards? The right thing to do is supposedly to offer one’s life in the defense of the crown. The fair thing would be for Fat George to sell his art collection and at least pay for a few cannon instead of burdening John Bull with that expense.”

“You are vexed,” Matilda said, taking his shirt and folding it neatly over the privacy screen.

“I am hoist on my own petard. I have prided myself on enjoying logical puzzles and moral conundrums. At this moment, logic and honor are no comfort.”

Matilda had emerged from the privacy screen wearing her chemise and Tremont’s favorite night-robe, a quilted blue going shiny at the elbows. Her hair was in a single dark braid over her shoulder, and the sight of her, ready for bed and for bedding, was both delight and torment.

To never again behold her thus, to know that Harry Merridew had that honor… That wouldn’t be fair or right or honorable, but it was all too possible.

“Love is a comfort,” Matilda said. “When I was at my worst, early in my marriage to Harry, we’d be spatting about his philandering or the coalman’s bill, and I’d despair. What had I done, marrying that scoundrel? Then Tommie would give me a kick,”—she put a hand on her belly—“and I would be fortified. No matter what nonsense Harry dished out to me, I was free of my father, and I had dodged ruin. For Tommie, I would make a go of the situation.”

Tremont drew her into his arms. “And you did, as you always have.” As she would again, if necessary. The thought made him bilious—and very determined.

“It won’t come to that, Marcus. I won’t let it come to that. Please kiss me.”

Matilda did not give him time to comply with her order. She got hold of him by the hair and commenced kissing him witless. Her kiss tasted of desperation and courage and told Tremont that she wanted loving, not philosophy, not courtship, not gentlemanly affection.

He scooped her up and deposited her on the bed, then came down atop her.

“If you want finesse from me today,” he began as Matilda drew her knees up along his flanks, “I fear I am unable to oblige.”

“I want your damned breeches off.”

He was naked in ten seconds flat, and Matilda used the time to slip out of his robe. She lay on the bed, cheeks flushed, knees up, the chemise about her waist.

“To hurry this moment is criminal,” Tremont said, crouching over her. “To refuse it would be… incomprehensible.” He settled closer so they were belly to belly and breast to chest, and still that wasn’t close enough.