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Stella knew the answer. “Use my dowry to live in the country. Anywhere with a bookstore nearby.”

“You have no idea about the dangers that women face. You could never live alone. You would be pitied, but worse, murdered or ravished.”

Stella was fairly certain that a woman of means could hire grooms to fend off random criminals, but she’d learned long ago that Mrs. Thyme’s England was crisscrossed by hedgerows thick with lustful men.

“Only the most wealthy noblewoman can afford her own household. No, you’ll become a lady’s companion, Stella. Companions are allowed to be eccentric. Governesses are not. You’ll spend your life sitting in the corner, winding balls of yarn and fetching tea when the footmen are too busy.”

“I wouldn’t be very good at that.”

“You wouldn’t be happy. Moreover, the tea tray would regularly crash to the floor.”

“I haven’t dropped anything since that wineglass,” Stella said defensively.

“I have been offering up special prayers.” Her aunt cast her gaze soulfully at the roof of the carriage before lowering her chin and narrowing her eyes at Stella. “Thanks to divine intervention, you didn’t break your leg after tripping up Lord Belper.”

“I never break my limbs,” Stella replied. She felt dispirited, and anxiety pinched the back of her neck.

“More to the point, you must marry,” her aunt stated. “You need a house of your own, and a husband who will not flinch as the family crystal is demolished.” The hint of bitterness in her voice spoke to the demise of a vase bought on her wedding trip to Venice.

Stella liked the idea of a husband as much as any other woman, but if there was one thing the Season had taught her, it was that no one wanted her. Not the way she was.

And there was no becoming someone else.

She couldn’t magically turn into Yasmin, who likely never dropped a glass in her life, always turned in the right direction during a quadrille, and knew how to giggle so that a man’s eyes softened, causing him to fall in love.

“Don’t despair,” her aunt said, leaning forward and patting Stella’s knee. “Your uncle told me last night that he plans to double your dowry.”

The fierce humiliation that swept down Stella’s spine was nearly unbearable. She parted her lips and forced herself to say, “I am most grateful for his generosity.”

Her aunt nodded. “When your father provided for you, he didn’t take the spectacles into account, let alone the red hair and freckles. Besides, Mr. Thyme told me the money will come from my dowry, which is, of course, unentailed. He understands that it’s more prudent to put the money forward now, than face the problem when it’s too late. A lesson for life, my dear.”

When would it be it too late? Two years from now, when she was twenty-two? Or when she was twenty-four? Just how many Seasons did she have to endure?

“Even if you would rather be a wallflower, Stella, you must make an effort to engage your suitors. Your mother would wish it. Your uncle will weed out degenerates and the like, but it is up to you to push gentlemen from courtship to actual proposals. To be blunt, dear, your face has a tendency to look pouty. I think it’s the formation of your lips.”

Stella swallowed hard. “I can’t give up my spectacles, but I . . . I’ll try. More than I have been trying, I mean.”

“Smile more often,” her aunt advised.

The carriage began rattling over cobblestones, jolting both of them up and down. They must be getting close to the Boodle residence.

“That is all I can ask,” she added. “Last night I heard that the Earl of Lilford is definitely looking for a wife. He is taken with you, and he won’t mind your reading. Plus, your dowry will now be large enough to attract a man at the very top of society.”

She pulled out her glass again and pinched her cheeks. “You have a sweet nature, Stella. If you would just try to be more refined. Never say the word ‘courtesan’ aloud. It makes me shudder to mouth the syllables.”

“I won’t,” Stella promised. Desperate to change the subject, she said, “I thought the Duke of Huntington was the very top of the marital sweepstakes. A duke is higher than an earl, no?”

“He doesn’t count,” Mrs. Thyme said. “He’s chasing after the Régnoir woman, and likely he’ll have her. Much good may it do him.”

“Yasmin is beautiful,” Stella said. “She’s kind too. She is never part of the smirking circles.”

“‘Smirking circles.’ Well put, my dear. No, Lady Yasmin is not a gossip. I discount the duke, because we must be reasonable about your prospects. With a doubled dowry, some of your suitors will come up to scratch, but unless you can snare the Earl of Lilford, they will be second sons or foreigners. Americans, and the like.”

Stella nodded. She’d always known Silvester was like the man in the moon: so far above her that a silvery glow—

That was too stupid to even put into words.

“But the Earl of Lilford is a real possibility,” her aunt said encouragingly. “You would be a countess, Stella. A countess.”