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“In the other bedchamber,” Silvester said. “I’m afraid my clothing has been placed in the dressing room, but my valet—” He stumbled, likely remembering that he had no valet. “I’ll remove my garments now.”

He strode across the room to a door cleverly set into the wallpaper, the outline scarcely visible in a cloud of jasmine petals, and emerged with an armful of clothing that he placed on the bed. “There are a few more odds and ends.” There was nothing resentful in his expression as he turned away again.

But Stella felt terrible. Silvester had dreams about marriage. Presumably, he had imagined sharing this charming, lovely room with its stupid French wallpaper with Yasmin.

He’d slotted Stella into the place where another woman belonged, but she didn’t fit.

“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go to your bedchamber?” The words burst out of her mouth.

Silvester appeared from the dressing room with a stack of starched cravats.

“That’s a much better idea,” she said, ladling enthusiasm into her voice to cover up the abject mortification she felt. “You created this lovely chamber, and you should stay here. Your clothing is already here!”

Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

“Certainly not, although I thank you for the offer.” Silvester’s entire face was set in lines of genial courtesy. “The other bedchamber has not yet been renovated. The water closet here has one of the new Lewis Commodes.”

“Silvester!” In contrast to her courteous spouse, her voice was filled with frustration. In fact, she growled at him.

“Yes?” He placed the cravats neatly beside the clothing and turned toward the dressing room, but he pivoted back to her.

It was miraculous, the way his eyes could shine with geniality and be so utterly false. Under all that charm, he was cross. She knew he was cross because Silvester liked to make a plan and have it work out.

He saw himself sleeping in this room with his wife, and she was thwarting him.

Just look at the way he’d run after her when Yasmin refused him. He didn’t wait five minutes, simply threw himself at another woman. Not just any woman: the woman whom Giles had been courting.

She wasn’t just second choice: she was second best.

A realization that didn’t make Stella feel any better.

Silvester arched an eyebrow, and she realized that she was staring silently at his face.

“When you disagree with me, it would be best if you could share it,” she pointed out. “As regards our marriage, I mean.”

“I will. If the disagreement is in an arena where I have the right to an opinion. Your privacy is sacrosanct, and I should never have assumed that the messy living arrangements that my parents reveled in would be agreeable to you.”

Stella didn’t know what to say. He was right, wasn’t he? She’d never heard of a lady living in the same room with her husband. It simply wasn’t done.

Silvester disappeared into the dressing room once again and returned with a few more shirts. He picked up all the clothing and gave her the charming smile that she hated.

Loathed.

“May I trouble you to open the door for me?”

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Silvester looked at her and then returned the pile to the bed. “I gather we should discuss the situation further. Shall we be seated?”

Stella marched over to a couple of spindly, ornate chairs, picked out with gilt paint. Likely imported from Paris. She sat down and crossed her arms again. Then she waited.

She knew her husband. He did not like disapproval. Why else would he fabricate such an elaborate shield against the world? She let her frown deepen, to make her point.

He followed her and sat down. After a few minutes of silence, his urbane cheer fell away, and Silvester started to look more sincere, which in this case meant irritated. His brows drew together. “I’m just trying to make you happy. You are my wife.”

“Husbands and wives talk to each other.”

“Not about things like this!”