Tremont didn’t smile, but Matilda suspected he was happy. So, oddly enough, was she.

“Ask me anything,” she said.

When the various wraps and accessories had been stored, Tremont did not offer his arm. He, the soul of gentlemanly decorum, took Matilda by the hand, and she, the soul of genteel propriety, linked her fingers with his… and rejoiced.

As Tremont led his guest to the formal parlor, he began a mental exegesis on the topic of wooing a lady. A gentleman seeking to earn a woman’s favor must be charming, witty, gracious, and… something else. Not alluring—that was for courtesans. Not wealthy, else fellows of modest means would never wed.

Further analysis of the subject eluded him because he was simply too absorbed with the pleasure of having Matilda’s hand in his. Her fingers were cold, which made him want to place them directly on his person. He’d put her palms flat on his chest, inside his shirt, and cover them with his own, and feel her touch with each inhalation and exhalation…

Steady on, soldier.

“The formal parlor,” he said, stopping outside a carved oak door. “Not because I am a formal sort of host, but because I know it won’t be strewn with newspapers, my favorite pair of slippers, and three different books that I am reading at different times of the day.”

“You enjoy reading?”

How to answer that? “I immersed myself in the philosophers as a youth and grew quite convinced of the wisdom of the Stoics. Then I went to war, and came home, and… It’s complicated. I started off reading as a way to replace the wisdom of an absent parent, but now I read as some people enjoy meals. Sustenance for the mind.”

Matilda went directly to the fire and splayed her hands before its warmth. Tremont tugged the bell-pull three times—tray with all the trimmings—and took a moment to behold his guest.

How could the bachelors and widowers of London not see Matilda Merridew’s loveliness? She might hide her physical beauty behind drab colors, dull bonnets, and a quiet manner, but the lady had self-possession, common sense, a kind heart… and those treasures were in plain sight.

“Please do have a seat,” Tremont said, patting the back of a wing chair. “Why don’t you embark on your interrogation of me while we wait for our tea?”

She settled onto the cushions and motioned for him to take the other wing chair. “You want to know about my late husband.”

A question in the form of a statement. Mama and Lydia excelled at that rhetorical device.

“No, actually,” Tremont replied. “I want to know about the state of your affections. Are they available to be claimed by a worthy party, or did your late spouse end once and for all your willingness to look with favor on a fellow?”