“I would decline, among other reasons, because I expected to review ledgers with you today, and instead, you propose a bacchanal. I dislike surprises generally, but in this case, I am willing to make an exception.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Humor lurked beneath his dry tone, and something else. Affection? Relief?

“I still fear that I will wake up and find that I’m back in my basement apartment, shivering beneath the covers, the stink of tallow and coal in my hair, and my only thought whether I have enough oats on hand to make Tommie a proper bowl of porridge.”

An imposing pair of wrought-iron gates came into view, and despite the destination Matilda had in mind, she was reluctant to rejoin the traffic thronging the thoroughfares beyond the park.

“Scents take me back,” Tremont said. “Unpleasant scents, usually. Back to Spain or Waterloo. Back to St. Giles. The heat in Spain is different from anything we have here. The cold in St. Giles is different from the cold in Mayfair. The nightmares aren’t as frequent now, but you should know I have them.”

Matilda leaned against his arm. “I do too.” Though how casually Tremont admitted to a circumstance another man might try to hide.

“Then we shall waken in the night and offer one another comfort. If you’d truly rather look over ledgers, Matilda, then we will look over ledgers. Your company is delightful to me regardless of how we fill the time.”

He meant that, and because he meant that, Matilda knew her decision—to blazes with the ledgers—was the right one. With Tremont, Matilda’s worry was still present, but hope was possible too. Optimism was reasonable. Joy was within reach.

He did that for her, simply by being the sensible, steady fellow he was.

“Harry was never very impressed with my amatory skills,” she said. “Joseph only needed me to hold my skirts up, spread my legs, and keep quiet.”

The horse slowed as Tremont turned the gig onto the busy street. “Good heavens, what a bore. Why not focus instead on what you’d like me to do?”

A blush heated Matilda’s face, despite the cold. “What I would like you to do is get us to your town house with all possible dispatch.”

He clucked to the horse, and a quarter hour later, Matilda was standing beside her intended and beholding the largest bed she’d ever seen. The bedroom itself was unremarkable, given that its usual occupant was a peer.

Green silk hung on the walls above oak wainscoting. French doors led to a small balcony beyond lace curtains. The reading chair before the fire was well cushioned, the hassock slightly worn. A summery landscape of a sizable manor with imposing front steps and a cobbled courtyard hung above the mantel. That house put Matilda in mind of Tremont—stately, handsome, dignified, but nonetheless designed to weather sieges and tempests with equal fortitude.