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“That’s right,” the dowager chimed in, scowling at Lydia.

“I’m afraid that you must brace yourself for more queries,” Lydia cooed. “As Stella knows, Blanche and I did our best to refine her appearance.” She eyed Stella head to toe. “The match will be seen as a mystery, for obvious reasons.”

“My son is desperately in love with Stella,” the dowager declared.

“Is he? I was under the impression that he adored my sister-in-law, Lady Yasmin.”

Stella’s cheeks had turned pink, but she held her head high. “Silvester likes my freckles and spectacles. Your advice was not necessary.”

“Not when an unchaperoned carriage ride could do the work for you,” Lydia said unpleasantly. “One must commend the duke for his adherence to the rules governing honorable behavior.”

To Blanche’s surprise, Stella smiled. “He would agree.”

“After my niece refused His Grace’s offer, he insisted that a simple kiss had compromised her virtue,” Mrs. Thyme put in. “He would not take no for an answer.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “A duke considered himself compromised by a kiss?”

Stella’s smile widened, but she didn’t respond.

“You’re mighty priggish for someone whose honeymoon was apparently quite eventful,” the dowager duchess said.

Lydia’s eyes flared.

Blanche winced. Lydia enjoyed a battle of wits, which boiled down to her firing a volley of insults. But when the tables were turned? If she fell in a rage, she threw all restraint to the wind.

“At least Lord Pettigrew married a woman. He won’t find me mucking about with an oily engine, pretending to be a man!”

Mrs. Thyme audibly gasped.

“Stop it,” Stella ordered, her deep voice filling the room.

Lydia narrowed her eyes.

Stella raised her hand, palm forward. “No.”

She may be small and round, but Blanche suddenly realized that Stella had something Lydia didn’t have: strength of character. Her steady, calm eyes regarded Lydia through her despised spectacles. “You may not be rude to Her Grace under her own roof. I must ask you to leave.”

Lydia scoffed. “As if you—”

“She speaks for me,” the dowager said cheerfully.

Lydia tossed her head. “I suppose you hope to rule the ton because you’ve jumped up through marriage. We’ll see about that. I am an earl’s daughter.”

Mrs. Thyme moved to stand beside Stella. “I am a marquess’s daughter,” she said in a grating voice, utterly unlike her usual flighty tones. “My bloodline goes back to William the Conqueror. I would be ashamed to act as you have. To be who you are.”

“We are all overset,” Stella said as she put her arm around her aunt’s waist. “It would be best to forget this conversation. I am sure you are tired by your sea journey, Lady Lydia.”

“I am not such a ninny!” Lydia’s eyes traveled from the dowager’s face, to Mrs. Thyme’s, to Stella’s. “I did no more than repeat what everyone is saying. I suppose you all hope I will fall to my knees in tears, proclaiming myself a horrid person.”

“You have no need to proclaim it, when so many other people can do it for you,” the dowager retorted.

Lydia curled her lip and turned away. “Blanche, come. I fancy a lavender ice from Gunther’s. I found the Continent shamefully impoverished in culinary matters.”

“No,” Blanche said, without need for a prompt from her mother.

“You dare.” Lydia’s voice was flat.

Blanche had never noticed how fishy and cold her friend’s eyes were. She imitated Stella’s stance, squaring her shoulders, folding her hands. “Goodbye, Lady Pettigrew.”