How carefully he posed the question. Matilda liked—very much—that her answer alone decided the matter. She could demand a longer courtship or refuse altogether, and Marcus would adjust his expectations and behaviors to her reply, without tantrums, sulks, or pouting asides.

“We are to be married,” she said, tucking herself along his side. “I need time to explain the situation to Tommie. We must find somebody to manage our soldiers, and I refuse to wear half mourning as a new bride.”

Tremont wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew the covers up. “Might we speak to Tommie together?”

That small question presaged a monumental shift in how Tommie was parented. “What will we say?”

“I will tell him that I esteem you above all other ladies, but whether the three of us become a family in truth depends to some extent on if and when Tommie wants that to happen. He cannot be made to feel that he’s losing you to me.”

“Ah.” The fatherless boy yet had wisdom to offer the man. “He might. And he’s already growing attached to the maids and soldiers. We will think on this.” The temptation to kiss more than Marcus’s nose grew overwhelming, and that would not do. “Tell me about your home in Shropshire.”

Marcus described a country house fashioned from the remains of a medieval castle. The dwelling itself was too large and perennially in need of repairs, though he spoke of it with affection.

“The older retainers are native Welsh speakers, and I can manage in that language, while my French has grown rusty. You will love my mother. Everybody loves Mama, and since Lydia’s marriage to Sir Dylan, Mama has resumed management of the family seat.”

“I have never managed anything more impressive than a rural vicarage.”

Marcus kissed her fingers. “You will manage me, and the rest can sort itself out. Are you hungry yet?”

“Yes, though I still don’t want to leave this bed.”

He fished beneath the covers and passed her the chemise. “Pretend we reviewed the ledgers, Matilda. Nobody need know otherwise, and if they suspect anything, I will clothe myself in such stately consequence that they give up those untoward speculations after one glance at me. Do you object to a special license?”

Matilda sat up and shook out a wrinkled wad of linen. “I do not. My legal name is Matilda Susannah Samuels Merridew. St. Mildred’s is my home parish now, and the ledgers can go to blazes. We reviewed them last week.”

Marcus took the chemise from her, sorted top from bottom, and assisted her into it. “We might have to review them again later this week. I’m very conscientious about such duties.”