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So the prickly girl who had turned into a friend had a luscious body. That didn’t change anything.

Stella was still—Stella.

As he walked down the slope, his mother splashed water at Stella, who threw back her head in laughter and splashed her back. Splashed a duchess. Another arc of water caught the sunlight before splashing onto his mother’s bosom.

“How dare you!” the dowager chortled, flinging handfuls of water at Stella’s chest.

Merry ran past him down the slope. “Is it cold?” she called. “I’m miserably hot.”

“Reached that time of life, have you?” the dowager called back.

“Not yet,” Merry said cheerfully.

Before Silvester realized what was happening, Merry hopped off the riverbank, landing with a splash.

Silvester sat down and began wrenching off his boots.

Hooting with laughter, Merry splashed Stella, after which sprays of water began flashing through the air between the three ladies.

By the time he put his boots to the side, the water fight had calmed.

“Best remove your stockings, dear,” his mother called from the water. “The river bottom is muddy.”

Merry nodded. “It’s soft and gushy. My children will love this. The Thames runs at the bottom of our garden, but the current is too strong for swimming. I shall bring them here.” She looked delighted, presumably intending to plunge back in the water accompanied by offspring.

Silvester peeled off his stockings as he listened to his mother inquiring about the American Duchess’s children.

“You must come to one of our garden battles,” Merry said. “We drape togas over our clothing, and everyone is required to declaim in Latin.” She struck a pose, one dripping fist raised in the air like a statue swept away by a flood. “Non ducor, duco!”

“I am not led, I lead,” Stella translated, rather to Silvester’s surprise.

But then, the woman was endlessly surprising. Here she was, knee-deep in muddy water, calmly chatting with two duchesses. Most drenched ladies would be as hysterical as Mrs. Thyme.

He began struggling out of his coat, silently cursing his valet for the fact that it fit like the proverbial glove.

“How do these battles progress?” Stella inquired.

“With wooden swords,” Merry explained. “No strong blows allowed, but two strikes signal a warrior’s demise. We have a laurel wreath for the winner, which sadly is inevitably worn by my eldest son, Thomas.”

“Is there a reason he oughtn’t to win?” the dowager inquired.

“Given that one day he will be Duke of Trent, it’s important to remind him that he’s a mere human. He invariably comes back from Eton swollen like a bullfrog.”

The dowager let out a peal of laughter. “I face the same battle to this day, my dear. Why do you suppose that my son will soon plunge into the river? They grow more bullfroggish as every year passes. A mother’s work is never done.”

Silvester muttered a curse under his breath and tossed his coat to the side.

“Palmam qui meruit ferat,” Stella said to Merry.

“Which means?” his mother asked.

“Let he who earned the palm, wear it,” she explained, grinning. “You’ll have to earn the palm yourself to take it away from your son, Merry. Perhaps you should take fencing lessons.”

“You are both invited, nay, required to attend our next battle,” Merry said gleefully. “My Latin vocabulary is pretty limited at the moment.”

“I think I would like to swing a wooden sword,” the dowager announced, which didn’t surprise Silvester at all.

“I’m going in, and then I’ll lift each lady to you,” he told the two grooms who had arrived with blankets. Mrs. Thyme’s groom looked shocked by the antics of the nobility, but his was bored.