“Shall I see to your hooks?” Tremont asked, poking up a fire that was already blazing. “Leave you some privacy? Both of the ewers are full, and you should make free with them if you wish.”

What Matilda wanted was to make free with Tremont, but how did one…? “I am all at sea.”

His bedroom was larger than Matilda’s whole basement apartment had been, the ceilings twice as high, the bed roughly as large as her parlor. And yet, he filled the space with his sheer, masculine presence.

Tremont straightened and returned the poker to the hearth set. “I’m at sea as well, Matilda. I’m not without experience, but those other encounters were in the nature of investigations. This is… This matters. You matter. I very much want to make a good first impression. Perhaps you should hold me, lest my doubts get the better of me.”

“Hold you? Are you teasing me?”

He slipped his arms around her. “I want you to think I am, and I’m also desperate to be near you.”

Tremont’s embrace was lovely, as always. Secure, warm, not grabby or pushy. A haven and a temptation.

“This will be a rehearsal,” Matilda said. “A practice run. Nobody need be impressive.”

“My life’s ambition has become to make you see how impressive you are when you merely stand still and breathe.”

Matilda tucked close, resting her cheek against Tremont’s chest. She loved the feel of his heart beating so steadily, loved his scent and blunt speech. “You aren’t in any hurry. I treasure that about you.”

“I am in a tearing, desperate hurry,” he murmured near her ear. “I am also suffused with contentment merely to be in your embrace.”

She could feel both in him—the rising desire, the endless patience. What would he be like when she joined him in that gargantuan bed?

“My hooks, please.” She thought he’d step away and move behind her. Instead, he kept his arms around her as he worked his way along the fastenings that ran down the middle of her back. He paused at the halfway mark and kissed her.

“Peppermints,” Matilda said. “I will always have happy associations with peppermints.”

She said nothing more as Tremont alternately unfastened hooks and kissed her. As he loosened her clothing, her worries eased their grip on her as well. The idea that she might conceive was a remote concern. The more immediate anxiety—that she’d fail to impress her intended—also faded as Tremont knelt to undo her boots and garters.

“You need new boots,” he said, easing off a very humble example of winter footwear.

“I need a new wardrobe,” she replied. “No more pastels and lavender, all in sturdy fabrics. I want flowered borders, Tremont, bright colors, and soft textures.” When he rose, Matilda felt shorter than ever next to him.

“You shall have them, madam. I want out of this coat.”