Where was even a scintilla of insight when a fellow’s dignity was going begging? “Pretty words?” he said. “I can memorize poetry as easily as I have military regulations, Shakespeare, and Bible passages. Original compositions are beyond me, but I’m well versed in Latin, and perhaps a translation or two would suit?”

That offer was met with silence. Matilda took his hand and peered up at him as if trying to see into the labyrinth of his mind.

“The problem,” she said, “is that I do trust you. I never thought to trust a man again, ever.”

“You are unnerved?” He understood that all too well.

She stepped closer and regarded their joined hands, which meant Tremont could not see her eyes. “I do not trust myself,” she said. “I’ve wrecked my life, twice, because I did not exercise caution where men are concerned. Then you come along… You have all the manly virtues, you are good with Tommie, kind, honorable, you say the words I’ve longed to hear…”

Her litany implied that something was lacking, despite those glowing attributes. What else could she possibly…?

The winding paths in Tremont’s thoughts all joined up in the most glorious of possibilities. “Shall I kiss you, Matilda?”

Still, she would not meet his gaze, though she nodded. She did nod.

A gentleman never argued with a lady, much less with his intended when she had—without a word—made a brilliant suggestion.

Matilda had been intimate with two men, one of them very young, the other very experienced. Given a chance to reflect on the matter, she hadn’t been much impressed by the passion of the first or by the supposed expertise of the second. Intimacies with Joseph had been furtive, inept, and quick.

Intimacies with Harry had been equally quick, because Harry had known precisely what he wanted and how to get it for himself in the least amount of time.

Was that not also a form of ineptitude?

Matilda had become widowed without at all mourning the absence of a lover in her life. Intimacy with men had proved to be an awkward business, undignified, and drudgery more than half the time. She had usually pretended that her husband had acquitted himself well, though she’d wondered the whole time what acquitting himself well would even mean.

She’d longed to ask Harry for some affection, a hug, an arm around her waist, a friendly buss, all the while knowing exactly where that would lead. She’d longed to linger in a sleepy embrace, but had made no protest when Harry had rolled over, muttered, “G’night, Tilly,” and promptly begun snoring.

Tilly. Matilda hated that nickname and had told Harry so, which meant he had addressed her by it almost exclusively. His other nickname for her had been Miss Dauntless, even after she’d become Mrs. Harry Merridew.