Page 48

In a swift jerk, he tightened his hands just above the flare of her hips. The dizzying shock of touching her went straight to his loins but he managed to raise her into the air.

Mrs. Thyme’s footman caught Stella’s hands and wrapped her in a blanket. She started up the slope without looking back.

Silvester stayed in a whirl of muddy water, waiting for his cock to subside. Hell, waiting for it to stop throbbing as if he was about to lose control.

“What are you doing?” his mother shouted from the tents. “My monocle is lost. You’ll never find it.”

Silvester reached up, caught the side of the bank, and pressed up in one smooth, furious movement. He was losing his mind.

Yasmin—

He meant to ask her to marry him. His mind was made up. He’d informed his mother and taken a diamond ring from the ducal safe.

Obviously, the way Yasmin looked at Giles—which unfortunately bore no resemblance to the way she looked at Silvester—had given him an internal shock so strong that he almost lost his sense of decency.

If Yasmin wasn’t betrothed to Giles on the morrow, perhaps he should pop the question and get it over with. Find out whether he won or lost.

When Silvester entered his mother’s tent, boots in hand, his mother was still mummy-like in a blanket, although the duck’s hat she wore was an unlikely accoutrement for a mummy. Stella was wrapped in a green cloak, holding Specs.

Mrs. Thyme was reclining on the sofa, a white handkerchief clutched in her hand. The lady glanced up, then down at his bare feet, and let out a horrified yelp.

“Really, Duke,” his mother said in a distinctly mocking tone. “You ought not to affront the sensibilities of ladies by displaying bare toes. Male toes are too large and virile. They might excite any woman in the vicinity to unseemly thoughts.”

Stella made a choked sound that suggested she had suppressed a laugh.

Mrs. Thyme threw the dowager a bitter look. “Most ladies are delicate and tender by nature, and I certainly include my niece amongst those who deserve respectful restraint. God forbid she should be labeled ‘indelicate.’”

Silvester sat down and pulled stockings over his damp feet. His valet would not appreciate the mud, but he could always threaten to jump in the river wearing boots the next time. Tasseled boots.

“In fact, I feared a scandal would come of this . . . this river incident,” Mrs. Thyme said in a quavering voice. “One that might destroy Lady Stella’s reputation, but dear Mr. Rowson explained that it was merely wholesome play.”

Stella’s aunt was clearly hoping that Giles would come to his senses as regards Yasmin, but obviously she would be happy to pair her niece with an American adventurer. Never mind that Harold was moving to France with an idiotic notion of setting up a salon for sniffing illicit substances.

Stella deserved a man with a sense of humor and a good brain, not a man who wanted her dowry. Well, her dowry and her French accent.

“Duchesses will be duchesses,” Silvester’s mother said briskly. “No one bothers to be scandalized over my antics, Mrs. Thyme. Mostly because I don’t care. You should try it. It’s a far more wholesome way to live than plaguing yourself about the opinions of a set of acidulated dowagers.”

Silvester stamped into his second boot, giving silent points to his mother for crushing use of vocabulary.

Mrs. Thyme closed her eyes, as pained as if she’d been offered a candied grasshopper. Cutting in before the ladies could engage in more charming banter, Silvester beckoned Mrs. Thyme’s footman, who stepped forward and assisted the lady to her feet.

“Thank you very much for this lovely picnic,” Stella said, bobbing up and down in an awkward version of a curtsy since one hand kept her cloak closed in front and the other held a cat.

Specs, startled by the dip, meowed loudly.

“Thank you, dear,” the duchess said. “This was one of the most diverting afternoons I’ve had in ages.”

“I agree,” Stella replied, looking confused and pleased. “Your riparian adventures were truly entertaining.”

His mother squawked with laughter. “Riparian, indeed! I woke up this morning feeling ancient and missing my husband. You made me happy by not treating me like an old stick. You and the American Duchess.”

As Stella said goodbye, Silvester couldn’t see her breasts, hidden as they were behind that cloak—but it didn’t mean he had forgotten how luscious they were.

In fact, maybe he should grab a blanket and wrap it around his waist. Even without looking down, he knew that his front was veering far closer to immodesty than were his bare toes.

“Do you forgive me for whatever idiotic thing I said this time?” he asked her, noting that Stella nodded, without the beaming smile she gave his mother.

“Certainly,” she replied. She was fibbing, devil take her.