Something bleak passed through Matilda’s eyes. “You must not say that. Any day, you could be run down by a passing coach. You could catch a lung fever or fall from your horse. A cousin you despise will inherit everything you and your father worked so hard to safeguard. Your mother will lose her home, and Marcus, it isn’t in you to let that happen.”

Oh, for the love of honking geese. “I survived years at war, Matilda. I risked an ignominious death by firing squad. I survived living in the damned stews, where I should have been a lamb to slaughter. I’ve turned around a sizable estate my dear relations were sailing straight into ruin, and I’ve dodged London’s most determined matchmakers for months. I will not succumb to a cold.”

Matilda offered him a slight, though genuine, smile. “Hardly the recitation of a gentrified cipher, is it, my lord?”

Well, no, which was neither here nor there. “Needs must, and you haring off to Nova Scotia won’t solve anything.”

Her smile faded to sadness. “We define the problem differently, my lord.”

Stop my-lording me. “The problem is how we can legally marry, such that our offspring are legitimate and you are not committing bigamy. I agree with you that Harry’s death—his actual death from natural causes—would facilitate those aims.”

When debating, always concede common ground to build good will with one’s opponent.

Matilda shook her head. “The problem is how to ensure that your honor is not compromised by devotion to a woman you haven’t known all that long. Suppose you do contract that lung fever? As you lay dying, no heir save your scurrilous cousin, will you be comforted to know that you could have ensured better for your mother, your dependents, and tenants?”

“Mama has been amply provided for by trusts I’ve established and by her dower portion. No scurrilous cousin can imperil her welfare.”

Matilda rose and went to the window, which looked out on a gray winter day. “Your mother pawned her jewelry before, Marcus. Dorcas shared that with me. Lady Tremont and Lady Lydia had to scheme and scrape to keep the estate afloat. Heirlooms that had been in the family for generations were discreetly sold on Ludgate Hill or given to your cousin to cover his debts. That estate is your mother’s link with your father’s memory, and you put it at risk with your loyalty to me.”

“Then Mama will have to do as many widows have done and cope with her grief. My father was a living, breathing man who loved her dearly. He was not a pile of granite and some rural vistas. She is welcome to bide with Lydia and Sir Dylan, and in winter, she often does just that.”