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She nodded, her eyes dancing. “I own a delightful edition with lilies worked into the velum cover.”

“Positively Biblical,” Silvester observed.

“The subtitle is The Merry Ballad of Nashe His Dildo,” she said, adding: “It was written in the early 1600s, as I understand, and the subtitle does not appear on the cover.”

Silvester choked. His wine went down the wrong way, and he ended up coughing so hard that Stella put down her glass and came over to pat his back—which allowed him to pull her into his arms.

“May I remove your spectacles?”

She nodded.

He carefully unthreaded them from her ears and set them to the side. “Dildo?”

She nodded, eyes laughing. Not only did his bride appear fearless, she seemed . . . naughty. Desirous. Not at all discombobulated by the idea of her imminent deflowering.

Silvester cleared his throat. “Was the said dildo the subject of the ballad?”

“Not exactly. You see, after experiencing financial difficulties, Nashe’s lady love removed herself to a brothel.”

“I’m not certain what the proper response would be to that revelation.”

“He paid her a visit, of course.”

Silvester held up his glass of wine.

Stella nodded, and he carefully brought it to her lips, watching intently as she licked a drop of wine from her lower lip.

“Perhaps we ought to remove your wedding dress,” he said huskily. “As you pointed out, it wouldn’t do to stain it.”

“My maid can’t be more than two hours behind us.”

Silvester could have sworn his expression didn’t change, but it must have, because she giggled.

“I gather you’d rather not wait for my maid?”

“Good God, no,” he said. “The carriage might have lost a wheel. The coachman may have stopped for a drink.”

A pucker appeared between her brows.

“Not that he would do such a thing when he was granted responsibility for Specs,” he said hastily.

“I certainly hope not,” Stella said. She took the wineglass away from him and sipped, eyeing him over the rim. “Do you have any other questions about the plot of Nashe’s ballad? It is a narrative poem.”

“Why did Nashe pursue his beloved to the brothel, since presumably he would now have to pay for what he had received for free?” Silvester asked, tugging gently at his wife until she was leaning against his shoulder. From there he could see the tip of Stella’s nose and a constellation of freckles that spread like pale cinnamon across her cheeks.

Which reminded him that they spilled down her breasts as well, down her stomach, perhaps even her legs. Perhaps there was a constellation of starry spots that he could trace with his tongue as he found his way around her body.

“Nashe followed her to the brothel,” Stella said, “because she was his beloved. Not a mere acquaintance.”

Silvester was so struck by Stella’s eyelashes that he didn’t follow what she was saying. Her lashes were a feathery pale color, a beauty that no one could see except for him, hidden as they generally were behind her spectacles.

“What happened during his visit?” he managed.

“He joined his lady love in bed,” Stella said. She glanced at him. No timid virgin’s look, hers. Her eyes were bright and roguish. His heart kicked in his chest.

“Oh?” He casually put a hand on her calf.

Stella had more knowledge of intimacy than he would have guessed. She certainly could identify the long, thick ridge that was throbbing against her rear end, to put it inelegantly.