Engaged in another mental flight on the topic of how to woo a lady. Revisiting her worst nightmares was surely not a recommended course, and yet… that trait Tremont had been struggling to recall, that snippet of wisdom he’d picked up somewhere over a campfire or in an officer’s mess, came back to him.

When wooing a lady, a fellow ought to put his best foot forward, of course, but he also ought to remain true to himself. He must never do as Harry Merridew had done and inveigle a woman into falling in love with a lie.

As Tremont saw Mrs. Merridew home and bowed over her hand on her doorstep, he felt a lightness of heart, despite the thickening gloom. Brilliance was beyond him, his wit was ponderous at best, and his gracious hospitality was undoubtedly the work of a conscientious staff.

But Marcus, Earl of Tremont, could be himself. He could most certainly be himself and hope that, for Matilda Merridew, the genuine man was enough.

Chapter Six

Matilda had learned to despise the giddy raptures she’d fallen prey to as a younger woman. Harry Merridew had been so handsome, so gallant, so very understanding, and marriage to him would be so perfect!

Gradually, she’d come to see that a girl raised in ignorance of the world’s realities had been easy pickings for such as Harry, and she’d forgiven herself—a little—for her gullibility. A mistake of the same magnitude, though, was unthinkable now that Tommie was on hand, and thus Matilda had mended her ways. No more giddy raptures, unless they were reserved for a fine buttery tea cake or a cup of steaming hot chocolate.

The Earl of Tremont bowed over her gloved hand. “I will bid you good day and thank you for a very enjoyable conversation.”

He’d positioned himself to take the brunt of the frigid wind, and Matilda would have bet her last groat he’d done so without any thought or calculation.

“Was it enjoyable?” she asked. “I try to keep my troubles to myself and even more so my errors.” And yet, to tell share truth—part of the truth, anyway—with somebody who had demons of his own, had been a relief. “You trust me, and…”

“Your confidences will go with me to the grave,” Tremont said, crossing his heart with a gloved finger.

“Likewise.” Matilda trusted Tremont to keep his word. That in itself was some sort of miracle. She liked some men—Vicar Delancey was a good sort, his son, Michael, was honorable if a bit too serious, and Alasdhair MacKay was a gentleman to his bones.

But she trusted Tremont, and she liked him.

A sleigh went by, harness bells jingling until they faded into the wintry quiet.