Page 23 of Miss Dauntless
Reason. Tremont was the very devil for applying sweet reason. “That place needs a different name,” Matilda said. “‘Soldiers’ home’ brings to mind grizzled, arthritic men rendered deaf by artillery rounds fired decades in the past. Our lot is hale and relatively young.”
“I had not thought of naming the house, but that makes sense, and now, with you newly appointed to your post, is a perfect time to do it.”
The wind gusted, nearly knocking Matilda off her feet. She took a snug hold of Tremont’s arm. “Get me out of this weather, my lord, and we can name the house anything you please.”
Matilda capitulated to the earl’s offer with equal parts misgiving and anticipation. She’d wondered if his domicile would be as neat and understated as he was, or would themental absorption of the philosopher mean boots were left in the library, and a half-full brandy glass had been abandoned in a linen closet?
He’d called himself curious, while Matilda thought of herself as cautious. Curiosity and caution were not mutually exclusive, apparently.
A dozen doors on, Tremont led her up a set of steps to a modest, tidy house. Somebody had already swept the walkway free of snow once, and the brass fixtures around the door lamps gleamed despite the day’s gloom.
“Before we go in,” he said, pausing inside the recessed doorway, “you should know something.”
The lamps had not yet been lit, and the alcove was out of the wind, giving it a confessional air. “Say on, my lord.” If he was leaving for Shropshire, that might be for the best, though Tommie would be disappointed.
“I had a definite purpose for calling upon MacKay, and not an entirely noble purpose.” His tone was serious, his expression unreadable. “I wanted…” Tremont turned Matilda so the wind was to her back, and the meager light fell across the earl’s face. “I inquired of the major regarding your late husband.”
And here Matilda had hoped Tremont had inquired regardingher. “What possible interest could Harry Merridew hold for you?” Unless Harry’s lingering and larcenous shadow was about to cost Matilda her post.
Tremont studied her, then seemed to come to a decision. “What was your reason for calling on Mrs. MacKay?”
Once upon a time, Matilda had been curious and forthright. Her father had called her ungovernable and bold, but such were the labels applied to women who failed to simper and scrape. Matilda would never entirely escape the damage marriage to Harry had done, but with Tremont, she could be a little less cautious and a little more honest.
“I inquired regarding you, my lord.”
“Because I hired you to manage the men?”
Dignity whispered to Matilda to retire behind that proffered fig leaf. Courage demanded that, with Tremont, she put such cowering aside.
“I did not ask my questions of Mrs. MacKay because you hired me to manage the men, not entirely.”
Tremont stared past her shoulder. “I see.” He lifted the latch and bowed Matilda into the foyer.
I see? What didI seemean? Matilda had developed the ability to read Harry as closely as she’d ever attended to Scripture. She’d learned to parse his silences, to listen for the schemes brewing beneath his jests and cryptic asides. By the time he’d died, Harry had been an open book to her, one she had studied out of dread necessity.
Tremont appeared preoccupied as he set her bonnet on a hook, took her scarf and gloves, and then her cloak. Matilda slid his cloak from his shoulders, and when he turned to her, he still had the look of trying to solve a puzzle in his head.
“Let’s find a roaring fire,” he said, “and ring for tea. I am at your disposal to answer any and all questions you might have regarding my humble person, and perhaps you might answer a few questions for me as well?”
Tremont didn’t smile, but Matilda suspected he was happy. So, oddly enough, was she.
“Ask me anything,” she said.
When the various wraps and accessories had been stored, Tremont did not offer his arm. He, the soul of gentlemanly decorum, took Matilda by the hand, and she, the soul of genteel propriety, linked her fingers with his… and rejoiced.
As Tremont led his guest to the formal parlor, he began a mental exegesis on the topic of wooing a lady. A gentleman seeking to earn a woman’s favor must be charming, witty, gracious, and… something else. Not alluring—that was for courtesans. Not wealthy, else fellows of modest means would never wed.
Further analysis of the subject eluded him because he was simply too absorbed with the pleasure of having Matilda’s hand in his. Her fingers were cold, which made him want to place them directly on his person. He’d put her palms flat on his chest, inside his shirt, and cover them with his own, and feel her touch with each inhalation and exhalation…
Steady on, soldier.
“The formal parlor,” he said, stopping outside a carved oak door. “Not because I am a formal sort of host, but because I know it won’t be strewn with newspapers, my favorite pair of slippers, and three different books that I am reading at different times of the day.”
“You enjoy reading?”
How to answer that? “I immersed myself in the philosophers as a youth and grew quite convinced of the wisdom of the Stoics. Then I went to war, and came home, and… It’s complicated. I started off reading as a way to replace the wisdom of an absent parent, but now I read as some people enjoy meals. Sustenance for the mind.”
Matilda went directly to the fire and splayed her hands before its warmth. Tremont tugged the bell-pull three times—tray with all the trimmings—and took a moment to behold his guest.
