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“She didn’t speak for three days, probably the longest days of my life. She simply stared at me, completely mute. I had no idea what to do with a child, let alone one who wouldn’t talk. Mr. Thyme and I had already concluded that our lives were best spent apart, so obviously children were not an option.”

“I see,” Silvester said, his heart aching for small Stella.

“I see now that I should have marched out to the stables and picked out a kitten,” Mrs. Thyme mused. “Instead I left her in the nursery.”

“Surely she had a nanny?”

“Of course, but the woman was new, as the previous one refused to travel to London. Nanny Price came down every afternoon and reported that the child hadn’t said a word, refused to allow her hair to be brushed, and wasn’t sleeping.

“Then on the fourth day, Stella emerged from the nursery, that mad cap of hair braided, and said, ‘Good morning, Aunt Thyme.’ After that, everything was fine.”

It didn’t sound fine to Silvester. He would have stayed in that nursery and read stories to his niece until she fell asleep.

“She has always been a dutiful girl. She will accustom herself to the new state of affairs,” Mrs. Thyme said. “You will now be her lord and master, to quote the Book of Common Prayer.”

Apparently seeing the revulsion in his eyes, she smiled and patted his arm again. “I don’t expect your mother paid much attention to that description?”

“No.”

“Fair warning. I doubt that Stella will either.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Stella was curled up in bed with a purring cat under her chin when a man broke into her bedchamber. He came over the slate roof of the conservatory, just as Mrs. Thyme had prophesized, pushed open the sash, and slung a leg over the windowsill.

Even seeing no more than a dark outline against the haze of a London night told Stella who was intruding. It was the broad-shouldered, oh-so-ethical duke, supposedly tormented by the mere memory of climbing the stairs with her.

Stupidly, her heart sped up. Her body tingled at the sight of Silvester, no matter how much her stomach clenched with anger. “If I had a glass of water, I’d throw it at you,” she said by way of greeting.

“You could throw your cat,” Silvester said. “I can hear Specs purring like a small motor.”

Specs opened her eyes, luminous in the darkness, before she collapsed back into sleep. Stella dropped a kiss on one silky ear. “You must leave. I’m in bed, in my nightdress. You’re not supposed to see it until our wedding night. Which, by the way, my aunt has decreed will not take place for six months or more.”

Rather to her surprise, Silvester didn’t move toward the bed. Instead, he leaned back against the windowsill. “It’s too dark to see much of you.”

“I’m not wearing my glasses. Now you know what it feels like. Leave.”

“I have to speak to you.”

She stroked Specs’s ear. “Why? You know, and I know, that I am hoist by your petard. You blew up my plans for my future. I have no choice but to marry you.”

Silence.

Then: “I had no idea that your aunt would feel as strongly as she did. I apologize.”

“My aunt’s response is irrelevant. You wanted what I would not grant you. In case you are wondering, I know why.”

In the dim light of the single candle burning on her dressing table, she saw him fold his arms over his broad chest. She didn’t like Silvester very much at the moment. But for some damn reason, she desired every hairy, muscled inch of him.

“You do? Why is that?” he inquired, his voice expressing no more than polite interest.

“Yasmin is in love with Giles. You could have compromised her and forced her to marry you, but you would never do that.”

A sound that was suspiciously like a growl came from the window. “Tell me, why is Yasmin exempt from my evil designs?”

“You adore her,” Stella said. “I watched the two of you together. I didn’t know what I was seeing at first, but now . . . Now I do understand. I saw Yasmin swat you after you addressed her with an endearment. I’ll wager anything, all the gold you have, that she never allowed you to kiss her.”

Silence, then: “I never tried to kiss her.”