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Stella shrugged.

Silvester’s absence from London hurt. Even more so, since he was snuggled in a country house with Yasmin. She couldn’t bring herself to care much about Giles.

The earl would propose or not.

It was entirely in his hands, which she loathed. The pretense of dropping to his knees was meaningless when the offer came from a nobleman. No lady could turn down the Earl of Lilford.

Except possibly Yasmin.

The theater visit didn’t take place until the end of June. Stella and Giles sat in the front of the Lilford box, Lydia and her fiancé beside them. Lydia dragged Lord Pettigrew out of the box during intermission, leaving Stella alone with her brother.

No ring was offered.

The only passion Giles exhibited was when he went into a tirade about the Royal Mail service, which was apparently failing to deliver mail in a timely fashion. Perhaps misplacing or losing mail altogether.

He didn’t even smile in Act V when the heroine was miraculously rescued from a marauding bear by the hero.

The newspapers took Stella’s appearance in the Lilford box as verification of a secret betrothal. Stella took it as further evidence that the earl had no interest in marrying her.

Harold invited her to a Beethoven concert, although Mrs. Thyme refused on her behalf.

“Beethoven is out of the question. His music is rousing to the blood.” Later, she informed Stella that even though Harold showed every sign of being able to control his baser instincts, one never could tell.

Stella thought she could tell.

The gleam in Harold’s eye told her that her figure was more than acceptable to him. Giles evinced no such gleam. He didn’t even show much sign of liking her. Giles saw her as a partner in his legislative endeavors.

“Don’t bother with Harold Rowson,” Mrs. Thyme said confidently. “You will be a countess, my dear. Your mother would be so happy.”

Yet Stella was coming to understand that she wouldn’t be happy, especially once Silvester and Yasmin returned to London. She missed Silvester with a piercing sadness that made her contemplate marrying Harold simply because he lived in a foreign country. The idea of seeing Silvester happily married was dreadful.

The day before Lydia’s wedding, the gossip column in The Morning Post announced that Yasmin and Silvester were betrothed.

“I don’t know why that took so long,” Mrs. Thyme muttered at breakfast, after reading aloud the notice.

Stella’s stomach clenched into a knot, and for a moment she thought she might lose the toast she’d just eaten.

Of course they were betrothed.

“They will have beautiful children,” her aunt commented.

Numbly, Stella reminded herself that she knew he was courting Yasmin. Silvester had told her himself. Her . . . affection for him was absurd.

Even thinking of the way Silvester’s kisses had engulfed her in burning heat made a humiliated sob press on the back of her throat. Along with a piercing sense of loneliness.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Thyme asked, peering across the table.

Not for the first time, Stella thought that her aunt could use the same spectacles she wore. “I’m absolutely fine,” she said. “I’m happy for the Duke of Huntington, because although I know you don’t approve of Lady Yasmin, I have seen genuine affection between them.”

“For a moment, I thought . . . But he has never been more than friendly to you, has he?”

“Certainly not!” If anyone ever knew that a short, befreckled woman had been so infatuated by a beautiful duke that she let him kiss her, Stella would die of shame.

Let him kiss her? If she were honest, she might have let him ruin her.

Thank goodness for a dead mouse on the bed. Specs had saved her virtue.

“I can’t wait until Lady Lydia’s wedding tomorrow,” Mrs. Thyme said complacently, not noticing Stella’s strangled silence. “Obviously, the Earl of Lilford has been waiting to propose until his sister walks the aisle. He truly is the best of all brothers. By tomorrow afternoon, all London will know that you are a future countess!” she crowed.