Tremont would never display a man’s authority over his wife simply because he could. Never twist her honesty into a weapon he’d wield against her.

He might also never get around to kissing her, so gravely was his lordship considering her.

“Tremont?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Thinking is not kissing.”

His smile was sweet and devilish. “This is kissing.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, then lingered near so that Matilda caught the scent of his shaving soap. A hint of jasmine wafting over grassy summer meadows. A joyful, light scent in contrast to his prodigious capacity for rumination.

His kisses started out in the same sunny, pleasant manner, lingering at her brow, her other cheek, and finally settling lightly on her mouth.

This was… Matilda searched for words, for labels with which to sort and catalog her first courting kisses from Marcus, Lord Tremont.

Sweet, mannerly, and… She was about to add uninspiring when Tremont slipped a hand to her nape and brushed his thumb over the base of her neck. He was, in the subtlest possible way, urging her closer. He did it again, and Matilda’s sorting and cataloging drifted into silence.

She wrapped an arm around Tremont’s waist, closed her eyes, and sank against him. He was lean, muscular, and warm. The soft texture of his wool coat contrasted with the unyielding plane of his chest, just as the easy tempo of his kisses contrasted with Matilda’s rising awareness that Tremont would be neither hurried nor selfish in his loving.

He rested his cheek against her temple and kept up that slow, gentle caress to her nape.

This, oh, ye heavenly choruses, she had longed for this. To be held and cherished while desire stirred from long-dead embers. A worry Matilda hadn’t dared acknowledge finally found some ease.

“I fretted,” she said over the soft roar of the fire. “Was I to know only fumbling, to be one man’s youthful rebellion and another’s quick marital reward at the end of the day? Pleasure for them and a lifetime of motherhood and its worries and burdens for me? I told myself I was relieved to be done with it.”

“You weren’t relieved. You were furious.”

Tremont kissed her lips before she could reply to that startlingly accurate observation. He neither thrust his tongue into her mouth, nor grabbed her hair, nor mashed his breeding organs against her, but instead pressed a progression of soft, exploring touches to her mouth.

He was apparently making a study of kissing her. Fair play demanded that Matilda reciprocate.

She traced his brows with her fingertips, brushed her thumb over his ear. He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan, so she did it again. His jaw was not quite smooth, and he needed a trim where his hair curled over the back of his collar.