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He had a point to make. He lifted her and held her in the air for a moment before he put her into the carriage.

“You!” she said crossly, twitching out of his hands and turning around. “I'll take Specs, if you please.”

The kitten had anchored herself to his jacket during their walk, so it took a moment to work free her claws. “Was that ‘you’ a question?” Silvester asked, schooling his voice to innocence. “Or perhaps it was simple recognition that I was right? Am almost always right, in fact.”

Stella took Specs from his hands and shook her head. “Neither.”

He glanced over her shoulder into the carriage, but Mrs. Thyme was paying no attention; she was staring intently into a small mirror and powdering her nose. “Your claim of an insult hangs on the specious belief that your curves are not desirable,” he said in a low voice.

She leaned forward and whispered, “Actually, I win this round.”

“The evidence is lacking.”

“The evidence is that you are courting Yasmin, as are most of the other bachelors in London.” Her grin was triumphant as she backed inside and sat down. “Goodbye, Your Grace,” she caroled as the groom shut the door.

Silvester watched the carriage leave, thinking not about Yasmin’s slender form, but about Stella’s expression. She didn’t give a bean that he was courting Yasmin. There wasn’t a trace of jealousy in her eyes.

Which was good, of course.

Because he planned to marry Yasmin, unless she had betrothed herself to Giles on the way home.

After he and his mother had climbed into the ducal town coach, he said, “I gather a ‘set of acidulated dowagers’ is your summary of polite society, Mother? Acidulated?”

“I should demand the tuition that we paid back from Eton,” she said. “‘Acidulated’ means vinegary. Acid. Court bouillon is acidulated by adding lemon juice.” She looked him over, head to foot. “As is the court and all its noblewomen. I take it that Lady Yasmin’s yearning looks at the earl have acidulated you.”

Silvester frowned at her.

“They aren’t yet betrothed,” his mother continued. “You might still win her hand from your childhood friend, if that’s how you care to define success.”

“This isn’t a contest,” he said sharply.

“Isn’t it?”

After that they sat in silence, but for the drops of water falling from their clothing and rolling across the floor.

Chapter Sixteen

All the way home, Mrs. Thyme held forth on the offensive character traits of the Dowager Duchess of Huntington, while Stella sat quietly, trying to stop herself from thinking about Silvester’s thighs outlined by drenched silk.

Not to mention . . .

That bulge couldn’t have been what she was thinking it was.

It didn’t seem possible.

Not to mention . . . petard? There could be only one interpretation of why he thought that phrase was indelicate. If it referred to anatomy.

Male anatomy.

“I do not blame you for falling into the water,” her aunt concluded. “No one can blame you, no more than I blame you for winning that disastrous Egyptian crown.”

Stella managed a smile, because her aunt was trying to be kind. She clearly did blame Stella for entering the river, as well as donning the crown.

“We’ll avoid the dowager in the future,” Mrs. Thyme announced. “Thank goodness no one important attended the picnic, other than the earl, of course. I’m sure that other chaperones turned down the invitation, realizing that the duke was hopelessly infatuated with Lady Yasmin.”

A little silence fell in the carriage.

“I don’t suppose you noticed . . .” Mrs. Thyme began, but didn’t finish her sentence.