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“I shall say something very rude to Her Grace if I see her give you a withering glance,” Stella said, leaning forward and patting her aunt’s knee. “I shan’t allow it.”

“You can’t. You are not a duchess. My mother could do and say anything because she was at the very pinnacle of society,” Mrs. Thyme said, sobbing again.

“I don’t need to be at the pinnacle of society to reprimand Her Grace if she makes my beloved aunt feel small,” Stella said firmly. “And so I shall.”

Her aunt shook her head. “You don’t understand the way the world works, Stella. The fact you were playing in the river with those duchesses? I was terrified that someone would report it. Their reputations wouldn’t suffer—the dowager was right about that—but you would have been labeled a shameless hussy. Your gown was wet in the presence of two gentlemen!”

“I promise to avoid the river,” Stella said, suddenly remembering the way Silvester’s hungry gaze had focused on her hips in that wet gown. And then, a few days later, he kissed her.

Clearly, he was able to feel two different emotions—lust and love—for different women at the same time. Realistically, men felt lust for many women.

But not love.

Part Two

Chapter Nineteen

Five days later

The Duke of Huntington’s townhouse

Silvester’s carriage drew up before his London townhouse at midnight, when the city of London had fallen into a restless dusk lit by boys whose torches flickered on cobblestones slick with rain.

Wickford answered the knocker, heavy-eyed, with an unmistakable air of having quickly pulled on his livery. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “The dowager duchess has retired to her bedchamber.”

“Of course. I am sorry to have disturbed your rest, Wickford.”

“May I take your greatcoat?” The butler looked at the door. “Does your valet follow in another coach?”

“He should be along in a few days,” Silvester said.

Wickford’s eyelashes flickered. “Shall I assign a footman to attend you? Or I could hire a temporary valet in the morning.”

“Neither,” Silvester said, shrugging off his sopping greatcoat. “I shall get along by myself for a time, Wickford. If the boot-boy could polish my footwear, that’ll be enough.”

The butler gaped at him, but Silvester cut him off before Wickford could mention his valet’s reliance on champagne to keep his boots in a shining state of beauty. “I’m off to bed. I’d like a bath in the morning.”

“Will you join Her Grace for breakfast?”

“Yes,” Silvester said, handing over his coat and gloves. Presumably the news of Yasmin’s upcoming marriage to Giles had reached London, which meant his mother would plague him with a cascade of knowing comments. He might as well get it over with.

He was wrong. The dowager was subdued at the morning meal, peering at him over a cup of tea with an expression he’d rarely seen on her face. He would interpret it as affection or even love, but he’d been raised to consider that a puling emotion fit only for peasants.

“I’m not in a fit of black despair, you know,” he said, after she offered him honey for the second time.

“I should certainly hope not,” his mother replied, looking nauseated. “We do not engage in tempests of emotion in this family. However, I do acknowledge that you were struck down by Cupid’s arrow. Struck through the heart. Or somewhere.”

“What are your plans for the day?” Silvester asked, disregarding his mother’s foray into bawdry. He had no interest in discussing his emotional state.

“The Duchess of Trent’s Ancient Roman Fête,” his mother said, brightening. “Finally, I am not the only person in London offering original entertainments. Guests have been instructed to wear a toga and bring a wooden sword.”

“You plan to wear a toga?” Silvester asked, somewhat fascinated at the thought. His mother must have supplemented her hair with a cork pad, as a dark tower loomed over her forehead. Her crimson velvet gown fit snugly to the waist in a style that hadn’t been worn since the Elizabethan era. “Over your gown?”

“Of course. My toga was made by Quimby’s Costume Emporium deliberately to accompany this gown. My sword was purchased in the Pantheon from a children’s toy store.” His mother smiled with a glee that he remembered from his childhood, but which had dimmed in the years since his father died.

“I was on the riverbank during your conversation with the duchess and Lady Stella about this event. Speaking will be limited to exclamations in Latin, as I recall.”

“Since I don’t know any Latin, I nagged the vicar until he finally came up with Oderint, dum metuant.”