“Most women would find you to be in every way a desirable specimen, my lord, but I’m not… That is… Please just take me home. If our paths should cross again, we will pretend we did not have this conversation.”

“But we did,” Tremont said, “and though you are mistaken about my intentions, this discussion convinces me more than ever that you are the perfect candidate for the position I have in mind. You have fortitude and integrity, and you are tolerant.”

Matilda was prepared to push his lordship into the water if he made a pestilence of himself, but Tremont remained at a proper distance, and his expression held only faint puzzlement. No sneering, no leering.

“You aren’t considering me for the post of mistress?”

“I am not.” He looked as if he might say more, but he remained silent, and his gaze went to Tommie, still whipping rocks into the water.

Matilda sank back onto the bench. “I have just made a first-class cake of myself, haven’t I? Put my foot in my mouth and covered myself with mortification. I apologize, my lord.”

He came down beside her. “I apologize on behalf of my gender, because apparently, others have been less than respectful toward you. The fact is, I need your help, Mrs. Merridew. I honestly, sincerely need your help, and I am happy to pay you for it.”

Tommie was picking through his pile of pebbles and choosing several to stash in his pockets. What sort of boy hoarded rocks? A very poor boy.

“I’m listening, my lord. I am a hard worker, and I set my pride aside the day I realized I was to become a mother.”

“No, you did not, which I understand more than you might think. Let’s take this discussion to a tea shop, shall we? Major MacKay has acquainted me with several in the area, and I believe Tommie will fall in with the suggestion readily enough.”

Tremont rose and offered Matilda his hand. His gloves were spotless and likely lined with fur. Matilda allowed him to assist her and took his proffered arm, all the while trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

So that’s how a man propositions a woman.

Tremont could not express that thought, but it circled in his brainbox on wings of consternation.

The boy Tommie babbled away, about skipping stones across the Channel, someday owning a kite big enough to take a boy into the sky, porridge being much better with butter and honey, and at Christmas last year he’d had his oats with cinnamon.

Tremont, meanwhile, wondered who had presumed on Mrs. Merridew’s good name.

“You must forgive me, my lord,” Mrs. Merridew said quietly. “I leap into situations, make unsupported assumptions, and build castles in Spain. My father said imagination was my besetting sin and that I would pay for it.”