“You listen to me,” she said. “You talk with me, not at me. When you invite me in for tea and conversation, that is precisely what you have in mind. Discussion with you does not mean gossip about others or platitudes about the weather. You are the opposite of a confidence trickster.”

Tremont put his hat back on, and Matilda resettled it on his head at a slight angle.

“Into the house with you,” he said. “Much more of your flattery, and my hat will no longer fit.”

And yet, he had once again taken her hand.

Between one chilly sweep of the wind and the next, Matilda realized that his lordship was asking her a question. He was skilled with high-flown discourse, and he also knew how to use a silence.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “If you were to kiss me back, I would be pleased. Disconcerted, bewildered, and a bit unnerved, but pleased.”

“Then I must choose my moment carefully, such that the pleasure is sufficient to overcome your misgivings. Parting on a frigid stoop is not, alas for me, such a moment. You have set me a challenge, Mrs. Merridew, and I relish a challenge.”

“Matilda.”

His smile was sweet and a little devilish. “Marcus.”

They goggled at each other for a moment—not quite fatuously—before Tremont unlatched the door. Matilda slipped into the house and watched his lordship march off into the shadows.

The house smelled good, of conscientious cleaning and a roast in the oven. The foyer wasn’t warm, but it was a welcome respite from the elements. From the library came the strains of a fiddle lilting along in triple meter.

Home, at least for now. Matilda took off her cloak, scarf, and bonnet and reviewed the afternoon’s events. She looked for the trap, for the clue that Lord Tremont wasn’t who and what he appeared to be, and she found no such indications.

She looked for the mistake—kissing Tremont had been the next thing to an impulse—and impulses led to painful consequences. What she’d gained had been a sweet moment and a promise of more sweet moments.

Matilda was listening to Tommie’s voluble description of Jensen’s offer to take him to the lending library when she finally found a label for what was so attractive about Marcus, Earl of Tremont.

He was simply honorable. A younger Matilda would have found him unremarkable—once she’d stopped admiring his fine tailoring, broad shoulders, and exquisite manners—but the older and wiser lady knew him to be a rare gem.

He was kind and honest, and he was planning to kiss her at some opportune moment, and that made Matilda more happy than worried. Perhaps she was truly accepting the reality of Harry’s death after all this time, and that was a very, very good thing.