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“If you wish.”

She truly did belong with Giles: they both had the same poker-straight, narrow view of right and wrong. Ignoring her indignant expression, he escorted her down the hallway toward the entry.

A light scent, something flowery that didn’t float on the air, reached him as they walked. Glancing down, he could see what Blanche meant about Stella’s hair: she had allowed it to curl around her face, rather than pruning it back like a rosebush in winter. That must be why he found her sensual today, rather than practical.

All in all, Giles wouldn’t be unlucky to win Stella, and Harold would be extraordinarily fortunate.

Just now, the air around Stella practically breathed disapproval, which made him want to poke at her, like a schoolboy pulling a girl’s pigtail.

When they reached the entry, no maids were in sight. “Where’s Mrs. Thyme, your chaperone?” he asked.

“Mrs. Thyme has no interest in scavenger hunts, so she is visiting a friend,” Stella said. “She plans to return later this afternoon, since your mother promised all young ladies would be accompanied by maids.”

Wickford approached with a pained expression. “Your Grace, I regret to say that there isn’t a maid left in the house. Even the kitchen maids have been dispatched.” Clearly their butler disapproved of this reckless misuse of household staff.

“I think we can all agree that His Grace will not attempt to compromise me,” Stella said. “I fail to see how a trip to Lambeth Palace differs from a drive in Hyde Park, which would be considered quite acceptable. In fact, it could be argued that a visit to the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury has the odor of sacrality.”

“‘Sacrality’?” Silvester repeated.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry if I confused you. Stench of the sacred?”

“You may count on me to act like a gentleman,” Silvester said, wondering whether Giles and Yasmin had left with a maid. Likely not. Damn it to hell. His instincts had been right.

He caught avid interest on Wickford’s face and frowned. He wouldn’t put it past the blighter to sell information about any pair who climbed into a vehicle unchaperoned.

“We’ll take my curricle,” he said to Wickford. “I wouldn’t want to allow anyone to think that I escorted Lady Stella in a closed vehicle because I had designs on her virtue.”

She threw him a jaundiced glance.

The butler bowed. “Just so, my lord.”

After Wickford bustled off, Silvester asked, “What was that look about?”

“No one would ever think you have ‘designs’ on my virtue. You are right to defend yourself, but you needn’t clothe it in an elaborate conceit that you are protecting me.”

Silvester blinked. Was she insinuating that he ought to defend himself against her seductive wiles?

She read this expression and turned red. “Not me!” she hissed. “I meant you obviously must protect yourself against attempts to compromise you. You’re a duke. Surely some lady has cornered you in a library.”

“Not so far,” Silvester said. “I gather you’re assuring me—yet again—that you have no interest in my hand in marriage, whether obtained through fair means or foul?”

“That is correct.”

The finality in Stella’s tone was only surprising because he had become accustomed to more-or-less blatant indications from young ladies that they would like to be a duchess. Did that make him a pompous ass? He wasn’t sure.

“Me, my title, or Yasmin?” he inquired, after Stella put on her pelisse. They were standing side by side, waiting for Wickford to return to the house and announce that the curricle had been brought around from the mews.

“What are you talking about?”

“You seemed to tolerate my company two days ago when we last danced; now you’re all twisted up with dislike. Why? Are you one of those righteous maidens who consider Yasmin to be the devil?”

She glowered at him from behind her spectacles. “To the contrary, I have observed that Lady Yasmin is far more prudish than many in polite society.”

“That is my conclusion as well,” he said, feeling more cheerful. Yasmin and Giles were together in a carriage, but nothing would happen. Yasmin was prudish. “In that case, I presume you’ve taken a dislike to me.”

“Do you find that a novel experience?” she asked, her tone distinctly cool. “Admittedly, the hordes do seem charmed by your jolly smiles.”

Silvester caught back a grin. She was certainly observant: of Yasmin and of him.