Not the obvious, or not only the obvious. Tremont was still pondering that odd question when Matilda emerged from behind the privacy screen. She wore his brown velvet dressing gown, and the sight of her—her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder, her bare feet on the carpet…

I am smitten. The literal sense of the word, to be smacked hard, physically applied, but so did the symbolic. Matilda in dishabille delivered a blow to Tremont’s heart.

“The dressing gown bears your scent,” she said, nuzzling the lapel, then rolling back a sleeve. “I like that. Please don’t stare at me.”

“My dressing gown has never been as happy as it is at this moment. That is a good color for you.”

“Brown?”

“Chocolate, mink, like your hair.” He rose and held out a hand when he wanted to snatch her up and toss her onto the bed.

Matilda took his hand and kept coming until she was wrapped around him. “I’ve said we needn’t impress each other, but I want this to go well.”

“You impress me, Matilda. With your courage, your tenacity, your determination. You impress me with your love for your son, with your ability to keep a household of louts and ne’er-do-wells in some sort of order. You impress me.”

Tremont’s intended bore up under that fusillade and returned fire with a smile.

“You impress me too, my lord. You are unfailingly considerate, thoughtful, and tolerant. Your humor is subtle and never unkind, and you do look a treat without your shirt.”

He had to kiss her for that, a long, slow tasting that ended with Matilda’s arms twined around his neck and her breath fanning across his chest.

She kissed his sternum. “You kiss differently when your shirt is off.”

“I kiss differently when your dress is off,” he replied, stroking a hand over her hip. “Into bed with you.”

She lingered a moment in his arms, then stepped away and turned back the sheets. “Tend to your ablutions before the water cools, my lord.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soon, he’d be addressing Matilda as my lady, though she already was his lady. She was about to become Tremont’s lover, too, and thus he was both quick and thorough with the soap and flannel.

He emerged from behind the privacy screen without benefit of clothing and made a production out of lighting the pair of candles on the mantel.

“Are your strutting, Tremont?”

“The invitation was to inspect my person. I am presenting myself for your delectation.”

“Present yourself in this bed, please.”

He tossed the lit taper into the flames, replaced the hearth screen, and steeled himself to be inspected.

As Tremont climbed into the bed, Matilda lay on her side, looking both decadent and entirely too serious. He took up the facing posture, though that was not precisely where he longed to be.

“I know why you invited me here,” she said.