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“I applaud your vocabulary,” the dowager said as they made their way to the bank. “I’m not sure I can climb it,” she observed when they reached the side of the river. “Slippery as hell, isn’t it?”

She threw Stella an impish look.

“Hell is reputed to be scorching rather than slimy,” Stella pointed out.

“We’ll have to wrench my son from his inamorata,” Her Grace said blithely. “Back up, dear, and look helpless. I shall force Silvester to enter the river so he can push me up that bank. He’s getting altogether too fussy about his clothing, and it will do him good.”

“I see,” Stella said faintly, swallowing hard at the idea of Silvester picking her up the way he had when she entered his curricle. Holding her, the way he had held Yasmin.

“My butler tells me that my son has ordered boots with tassels, which strikes me as quite ill-bred. Too bad he’s not wearing them this afternoon.”

The dowager’s smile could be described as mischievous, if not downright wicked. “Watch this.” She raised her hands to her mouth and hollered, “Help! We’ve fallen in, and we may drown!”

Stella laughed. “Drowning would be difficult. Everyone knows how shallow the Tyburn runs. I’ve heard some say they might brick it over and create a sewer.”

“It certainly is dirty. I hope the water didn’t go into your mouth?”

“Only a few drops.”

Silvester began striding down the hill. Even though his face was indistinct to Stella’s eyes, there was no mistaking those broad shoulders.

“He could at least run,” his mother observed. “At this rate, the tea tray will have to be floated across the water to us.”

She waved. “Get up to a gallop, Duke!” she bellowed.

Chapter Fifteen

As soon as he heard his mother’s shout, Silvester wheeled about.

Thankfully, the dowager wasn’t in danger. She was standing in green-tinged water just above her knees. Stella was in the water as well.

“Oh, no!” Yasmin cried. She turned to Giles, who was standing far too close to her, in Silvester’s opinion. “Both of you, go! You must rescue the ladies immediately.”

“Certainly,” Giles said, not moving. Obviously, he had come to the same conclusion as Silvester as regards the dowager’s peril.

“Your pantaloons will never recover if you enter the river,” Harold said with evident horror. “I suggest that you dispatch the grooms.”

In the other tent, Mrs. Thyme was on her feet uttering faint screams, a hand over her heart.

“Fetch all the blankets we have in the carriage,” Silvester told the grooms, who were staring open-mouthed down at the river. “Harold, would you be so good as to calm Mrs. Thyme? No need for both of us to get wet,” he said, turning to Giles. “My mother’s entertainments are clearly over for the day. I would be grateful if you would escort Yasmin to her grandfather’s house.”

He was tired of the day’s battle over Yasmin. The hell with it. If Giles wanted to propose, he might as well give him an opportunity.

“I would be honored,” Giles said, bowing.

Silvester watched out of the corner of his eye as the two of them walked toward the carriages. They weren’t holding hands, but there was something in the way they walked beside each other . . . He could be wrong.

Hopefully he was wrong.

He started down the slope, thinking of Yasmin. Then his eyes landed on Stella, and he froze in midstep.

Her gown clung to her body, and what a body it was. Her arse, to be blunt, was as beautiful as her bosom: round and generous. Her thighs were deliciously plump. A man would never feel as if he were bedding a stork. He could pull her across a bed and drop on top—

Jesus.

What was he thinking?

Behind him, Mrs. Thyme was indulging in a full-blown fit of hysterics. He glanced over his shoulder. Harold was vigorously fanning the lady.