Page 8

The Duke of Huntington’s townhouse

“I have directed your sisters to break their fast in bed,” the dowager duchess announced as soon as Silvester seated himself in the breakfast room. “We have important matters to discuss.”

His legs tensed. His man of business was—

“Don’t even think about running away,” his mother snapped, pointing her butter knife at him. “I haven’t seen you in three days, other than across a ballroom floor.”

Their butler, Wickford, bent down at Silvester’s shoulder. “Cold pork, Your Grace?”

“Yes, thank you,” Silvester replied, resigned to his fate. “I like your new wig, Mother.”

“It’s not a wig,” his mother said, picking up a small loaf of bread and lavishly buttering it. “I renewed my hair with the juice of a walnut. Actually, many walnuts. Eighty-seven in all.”

The dowager’s hair was now coal black, though her eyebrows remained white. She wore a black-and-white-striped gown that might have graced a zebra with a propensity for silver buttons.

“It’s very attractive,” Silvester murmured, accepting a healthy portion of eggs and two slices of ham, as well as some stewed mushrooms and a few sausages.

His mother eyed his plate. “I presume you are preparing for exertion, rather than impending famine?”

“In fact, I’m meeting Giles Renwick at Gentleman Jack’s boxing salon.”

His mother made a face. “The Earl of Lilford and the Duke of Huntington dressing in absurd garments the better to pummel each other. Of course, you do have reason.”

“We do? Thank you, Wickford, mustard would be very welcome.”

“Giles Renwick is at the head of the line stretching in front of Yasmin Régnier,” his mother said. “I’ve seen her looking at him.”

Sadly, that was true.

Yasmin was smitten by Giles. Yet all the things Silvester appreciated—Yasmin’s delicate femininity, her French gowns, her giggling sense of humor—Giles would despise.

Did despise.

His friend’s lip curled if anyone mentioned Yasmin in his presence.

If Silvester had a horror of eccentricity, Giles had a profound dislike of scandal. Darling Yasmin had arrived from France trailing rumors about her virtue, not to mention factual accounts of her mother’s flagrant affaire with Napoleon.

If Giles paid more attention to Yasmin, he would realize that she was virtuous, if not prudish. But he hadn’t and wouldn’t. Silvester had no intention of enlightening him. What’s more, if Giles was hiding infatuation behind his disparagement, Silvester certainly didn’t plan to lose Yasmin to his old friend.

“I won’t speak to the absurdity of the way you look at her,” the dowager continued. “It’s painful to watch. I could endure your infatuation if I thought the lady in question felt more than fondness for you. She doesn’t.”

Silvester’s jaw clenched.

“I hope that the truth doesn’t offend you,” his mother said, her tone cheerfully indifferent.

“Giles paid Lady Stella marked attention last night,” Silvester remarked, getting his own back.

That brought on a glower. “It would serve you right if the earl scooped up the woman I chose for you.”

“Was there an important matter you wished to discuss?” Silvester inquired. He had no intention of engaging in another discussion of Stella, whom he devoutly hoped had managed to catch Giles’s eye. They were perfect for each other: serious and studious.

Although she’d surprised him with that quip about barbarians last night. And her bottom lip hinted at a sensuality that would likely shock Giles to the bone.

“Harold has arrived in London.”

“Harold?” Silvester repeated.

“Harold Rowson. Your cousin Harold, from America,” the dowager said impatiently.