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“I would like that,” Stella said.

“Come along, you two,” the dowager said. She eyed them. “I suggest you get rid of that green ruff,” she said to Blanche. “It looks like a wilting head of lettuce.”

Blanche paused, then she gave the duchess a smile. “Nonsense,” she said, holding open the door. “I look beautiful.”

“I shall address you as Blanche,” the dowager announced. “I am startled by my own modernity.”

Blanche curtsied. “I should be honored, Your Grace.”

Thankfully, a crowd of young Frenchmen surged toward them when they returned to the ballroom. The expatriates had turned Stella into their mascot, their petite duchesse. Stella glanced to the other side of the room just long enough to see that Silvester was still seated beside Yasmin.

She danced the next two sets, including a perfectly executed quadrille, after which Harold begged her to sing another duet.

Stella shook her head, but Blanche appeared beside her and hissed, “You’re going to sing, Stella. It’s what you do best.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “What if my voice shakes?”

“I’ll sing with you.” Blanche grabbed the sheet of music Harold had in his hand.

“Your father is on the other side of the room,” Stella pointed out.

“I haven’t been a good friend. I mean to change.” Blanche smiled at Harold, showing all of her teeth.

Not being entirely foolish, he flinched and said, “A trio!”

Blanche’s smile grew. “We have a lovely surprise for you,” she called, clapping her hands. She waited until guests broke off their conversation. “This song was written by Madeleine de Scudéry over a century ago. She dedicated it to les amoureaux. The lovers.”

Her French accent was flawless. Stella saw her father’s mouth fall open.

“L’eau qui caresse le rivage,” they sang. Harold’s voice supported from below, and Blanche’s beautiful soprano arched over Stella’s husky tones. “Tout dit qu’aimer est un plasir.”

Everyone says that love is a pleasure, or so Madeleine de Scudéry claimed.

Stella didn’t agree. But singing? Despite her sadness, she felt a wash of pleasure at their three-part harmony. Blanche smiled at her as they launched into the second verse about two lovers.

Harold’s guests were utterly silent. Silvester was still seated by Yasmin, but his eyes were riveted on Stella. She forced herself to look away.

When the song finished, the room broke into wild applause. Blanche wound an arm around Stella’s waist. “Merci beaucoup,” she told the room. “We are happy to have given you such pleasure.”

I am worth loving, Stella told herself. I am not a useless button.

I am worth loving.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“I had no idea that Stella could sing like that,” the Earl of Lilford remarked.

“Nor Blanche Boodle!” Yasmin exclaimed. “I’m surprised she hasn’t accepted any proposals, but I would guess there will be a line in front of her father’s study tomorrow.”

“An exquisite soprano,” Giles agreed.

Silvester gave him a ferocious look. “No one sings as beautifully as my wife,” he stated. It wasn’t just Stella’s husky voice either. Her red lips, and her curves, and her joy as she sang?

He’d never be free of those Frenchmen now.

“Of course not,” Yasmin chirped.

Silvester liked her; he truly did. But how did he ever think he could put up with all that sunshiny cheer, day in and day out?