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They were going to have to talk frankly. Stella turned around and walked to a chair. He followed her and seated himself opposite.

“Perhaps you might sit on my lap?” he asked, his eyes practically sparking with provocation. “I’m fairly certain I can convince you at close quarters.”

Stella didn’t sigh. “One doesn’t marry for lust,” she stated.

“My—”

“Please don’t repeat that flummery you babbled at my aunt.” Her hands were gripped together so tightly that her knuckles were white. Stella forced herself to relax before she looked up. “I refused you at Merry’s garden party, Silvester. I said no.”

“I don’t accept your answer.”

“You must accept it. You can’t just have your way all the time, simply because you’re a duke!” Stella knew her voice was rising and couldn’t stop herself. “You cannot force me to marry you, a man in love with another woman! You can’t ruin my life simply because you want to win. Or because your mother told you to. Or because you want to bed me. Whatever foolish reason you have!”

“My reason is you.”

“That’s absurd.” Stella couldn’t sit still and listen to this drivel. She jumped to her feet and walked to the window, trying to control the tears rising in her eyes. “You are my friend, Silvester. Almost my only friend.” She wound her arms around her body and pretended to look out at the street. “When I refuse you, my aunt will be so disappointed. She will be devastated. Couldn’t you have pictured how difficult refusing you will be for me?”

Silvester moved to stand behind her, his large body just there. If she turned around, he’d catch her into his arms. He’d kiss her until she—

“You are my friend,” he said.

“Then don’t do this,” Stella said, her voice breaking despite herself. “Please, please don’t do this. I can’t marry you. Tell my aunt you had a momentary delusion.”

Silence.

Then: “I can make you happy.” In his voice was the deep obstinacy of a man who has never been thwarted. “Give me a chance.”

Before Stella could answer, he turned her about, stepping both of them sideways so her back was against the wall. She looked up and frowned, startled by the expression on Silvester’s face. He didn’t look stubborn. He looked . . . She didn’t know what that gaze meant.

His palms slammed into the wall on either side of her shoulders. “Damn it, Stella, do you really think that I would marry someone because my mother told me to?”

The pirate was in full evidence now. Silvester was glaring down at her, his gray eyes black, his jaw clenched. He loomed over her, not frighteningly, but like a bulwark against the world.

“No.” Stella shook her head, not letting herself be tempted.

“So you think that I would marry someone just to win an argument?”

“Perhaps,” she said honestly.

His face came closer. “Look into my eyes, Stella. Do I look idiotic enough for that?”

“No?”

“I’m on fucking fire for you,” he rasped. “For you, Stella. You are mine. I need you. And in case you’re wondering, betrothed men and women do not feel like this normally.”

Stella couldn’t bring herself to nod, because what did she know?

He took one more step and picked her up. In what felt like one smooth movement, her back was flattened against the wall, his body pressed against hers. He tugged up her skirts and hitched her even higher. Her legs curved around his hips as if they’d been made for the purpose: not too short . . . just the right length.

Sensation burst through Stella’s body. She instinctively tilted her hips, and Silvester let out an agonized groan, the hand holding her left leg pulling her even closer. Stella’s lips moved in a curse that would have shocked her aunt.

Silvester’s expression wasn’t cheerful or sophisticated or all the things he looked in the ballroom. His gaze was hungry, pinned on her face, full of desire.

For her.

His mouth closed over hers, ravishing her until she couldn’t do anything but wind her arms around his neck, letting him swallow the whimpers she couldn’t suppress. Dimly, she thought about whether lust was enough to carry a marriage. Obviously, her aunt and uncle didn’t share that emotion, though her uncle when he looked at a prizewinning gourd . . .

When they kissed behind the gazebo, Silvester hadn’t touched her. But now one hand was gripping her bottom, holding her up against the wall. His fingers flexed, sinking into the curve of her arse. The other was stroking one of her legs. Her aunt would die if she entered the room.