Page 56 of Miss Dauntless
“What do we know of Harry’s family?” Tremont asked.
A logical question, and bless Tremont for asking it. “Nothing. I assumed they disowned him, or he them. For all I know, Harry’s uncle is a preacher and his aunt married to some venerable alderman. Of his immediate family, I know only that he was born in Bristol and had few privileges growing up. He spoke fondly of his mother, but fondness was one of many disguises he could put on or take off at will. He was doubtless fond of me in his way, until I refused to do as he wished.”
“Then this could be a cousin or brother of your late husband. Nan knew him as Harry Merryfield, and he ran a house-stealing rig while she was acquainted with him. That would have been perhaps two years ago. She described him as charming, self-interested, and arrogant.”
“That hardly narrows down the field, my lord.” Even as Matilda spoke, she had the sense of hope being snatched away—again.
“For so long, I lived on dreams,” she went on. “Dreams of leaving my father’s house, of being special to somebody, of finding a man who would think me clever and pretty and wonderful. Joseph was the answer to my foolish prayers, and then he was my worst nightmare. Harry was the answer to a less romantic set of prayers, until he became another nightmare. Widowhood was the answer to a very practical set of prayers… Ishould not say that. I did not want Harry dead, but I wanted him gone.”
And now Marcus was the answer to her wildest dreams, deepest longings, and her prayers, and he had handed her a sketch of Harry’s twin, who’d been alive and committing crimes not two years past.
“I wanted Dunacre dead,” Marcus said. “The whole regiment did, and the generals were none too fond of him either. If I thought he once again walked the earth, Matilda, I would not be half as calm as you are now.”
“I am not calm. I am overwhelmed and that is a condition with which I am far too familiar. Please hold me.”
Tremont obliged, and gradually, Matilda sorted through her emotions. She was afraid—the man in the portrait might be Harry—and she was hopeful. He might not be Harry, or Harry might have died—for real—since Nan had seen him.
“If Harry is alive…” Matilda could hardly stand to finish the thought.
“I have given the matter some thought. If Harry is alive, I can inspire him to divorce you for adultery, which you have committed with my obliging self. You and I can then be married without legal impediment.”
Matilda sat up to peer at Tremont. “Divorce? Divorce means expense and scandal and a blight upon the family escutcheon and months and months of waiting… Divorce?”
And yet, divorce was the logical, effective, legal solution.
“If Harry Merridew attempts to come back from the dead, I will make it worth his while to divorce you. He is a creature of endless self-interest, and he and I will come to terms, provided this plan has your approval.”
Tremont might well have been asking Matilda if she’d like to pop ’round to the tea shop for luncheon. She, by contrast, was shocked at the simplicity and audacity of Tremont’s solution.
“The plan has my grudging approval,” Matilda said, snuggling against Tremont’s side. “I would never have thought of divorce. I once regarded scandal as the worst fate that could befall me, and now scandal will be my salvation.”
“You sound pleased with this state of affairs.”
Matilda rummaged around in her emotions once more. She found both vast relief that therewasa solution to the problem of a living Harry and vast admiration for the mind that could solve the riddle.
“I will be pleased to become your wife, Tremont. I appreciate very much what taking vows with me will cost you. Few people will close their doors to you, but I will gladly live in quiet obscurity.”
More irony, that, because the quiet obscurity of a village parsonage had driven her to make witless choices as a younger woman.
Tremont squeezed her in a half hug. “I will suffer the loss of loneliness gladly. The loss of attention from the matchmakers will pain me not at all. The loss of bachelor pleasures does not signify. Need I go on?”
He could doubtless discourse at length regarding the blessings that marriage to Matilda would afford him, while she could only marvel at his devotion.
“I wish there was another way,” she said. “Divorce is ruinously expensive, and the press turns the whole thing into a farce.”
“The press, the public, and the peerage can all go to blazes, Matilda, as long as you and I can be married. A little patience and some coin will see matters resolved.”
Tremont was so very sensible, and so kissable. Matilda indulged herself, though she realized that Tremont was holding back.
“If I am to escort you from the premises,” he said, “I must becomposed, Matilda. Bodily and otherwise.”
“Composed?”
He put her hand over his falls. “Composed. On my dignity. Lord Tremont, not a randy swain panting at your heels.”
Matilda gave him a squeeze and withdrew her hand. “Marriage to you will try my dignity sorely, Marcus. I’m looking forward to it.”
“As am I.” His smile was mischievous, but as he escorted her to the tea shop, he was every inch the proper gentleman. Matilda was his decorously devoted damsel, and she enjoyed the meal very much.
