“Not well done of me,” Tremont said, setting his plate aside. “One doesn’t raise the topic of holy matrimony between ‘have another crumpet’ and pouring the second cup, but please hear me out.”

Matilda had also apparently lost interest in her food, which was encouraging. Tremont had her attention, and that was a place to start.

“I believe I just heard a proposal of marriage from you, my lord.” Her tone was carefully neutral, probably offering him the opportunity to turn the moment to levity—at which he would fail, of course.

“Marcus. My name is Marcus, and you are doubtless thinking that I’m headlong and precipitous and so forth, but that’s not true. I am the least rash man you will ever meet.”

This earned him a frowning perusal. “You don’t hotspur about, yielding to every whim. I like that about you.”

“The historical Hotspur came to a bad end, if I recall correctly.” Drawn, quartered, and named a traitor, though the ancient past was of no moment when a man was offering his heart to the woman he most greatly esteemed.

“You do recall correctly,” Matilda said. “You have a good memory, and you are honest, but what on earth makes you think I’m suited to be your countess?”

Not a no. Every particle of Marcus’s being demanded that he get up and pace, the better to reason Matilda’s replies closer to a yes. Instead, he took her hand.

“I think,” Tremont said. “It’s what I do. I ponder, I cogitate, I ruminate. Other men write poetry or give great speeches in the Lords. They are clever with money or charming in any company. They have cachet. I have a compulsion to contemplate.”

“And you have been contemplating marriage, but the notion of searching out a wife holds no interest for you. Here I am, theoretically a lady, and your pondering has led to the conclusion that I’ll do?”

She was clearly trying for lightness, trying not to be insulted—again.

“You and I have a talent for communicating at cross purposes, but allow me to explain. Sometimes, I know what I’m thinking about. I will set myself a topic: What’s to be done with Amos Tucker, who is discontent in his present circumstances? I will gather up all that I know of him. Hard worker, sweet on one of the maids, family emigrated while he was in Spain. Not yet thirty, but his right shoulder pains him. That sort of thing. I stir it all about in my mind and look for connections or pieces that don’t fit. I’m thinking about Amos Tucker.”

Matilda’s expression had become vaguely puzzled. “Do go on.”