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“As do women suffering from the effects of carrying a child,” Lady Corbyn added, clearly irritated by either his ignorance or his apathy. “The paper reported this morning that they took lodgings in Bath for a month, after which they plan to return to London.”

He didn’t give a damn what Yasmin and Giles did.

But the news did remind him that it was his duty to create an heir. He should take his wife home and talk her into repeating last night’s depravity, which had involved one of her favorite chaise lounges, a glass of brandy, and a handful of raspberries.

So he did.

Chapter Thirty-Four

In the month that followed, Silvester came to an uncomfortable realization. He seemed to . . . to care too much for his wife.

It was disconcerting. He didn’t like it.

Lust was one thing. Lust was to be expected after a lifetime of never-quite-satisfied desire. He had happily debauched Stella in every room in the townhouse, even carrying her downstairs in the dark of night so he could bend her over a chair in the drawing room that was the perfect height.

The problem was not lust. Stella greeted his proposals with shining eyes and outstretched arms, which was lucky, because in the grip of lust he was reduced to a few words, an unsettling experience for a man used to eloquence.

But truly disconcerting was the way he found himself searching out Stella for other reasons. What did she think of the latest decision by the Bank of England? Should he intervene now, or wait for the next bout of idiocy?

He had sunk a small fortune into a Scottish rail line, so of course he had to tell her when it was approved for its maiden journey with passengers. He could have waited until evening. Instead he strode into her dressing room and disturbed a flock of seamstresses with pins in their mouths.

He tripped over the threshold at the sight of his wife tightly wrapped in darkened purple silk, the color of a stormy sky without a fleck of sunshine. It draped low over her breasts and swathed her shape before belling out to a small train. The gown made her hair glow like coals burning low.

He felt his tongue withering when he looked at her.

Stella’s face fell when he didn’t compliment the gown, and finally he had to banish all the seamstresses and unwind her from the silk himself, scattering pins right and left before he convinced her that he approved of the garment.

The following evening they attended a “fête avec danse” hosted by his ridiculous cousin. These days Harold spent far too much time chattering in French with Stella, ignoring the fact he was supposed to be wooing an heiress.

It was enough to make any man grumpy.

Just now Stella was across the room, surrounded by Frenchmen, and Silvester was pretending not to care. He was talking to Lord Buckstead about the Bank of England’s plan to start printing legal tender when Yasmin and Giles walked through the door.

Silvester’s mother was serving as Harold’s hostess, so the new countess promptly dropped into a curtsy before the dowager. Silvester was rather amused to find that the sight of Yasmin left him cold. She was as exquisite as ever, her gown doubtless in the very newest Parisian style, the outline of her slender thigh clearly visible through her gauzy skirt.

He’d never thought about it before, but he’d be damned if other men could ogle his wife’s legs. She offered his mother her infectious grin, which gave him a burst of cheer. He had missed Yasmin’s friendship.

He glanced over his shoulder, but Stella was dancing with Fabrice Epagnard, one of the band of idiotic Frenchmen who clung to her petticoats.

Silvester shook off his dislike of Epagnard and strode across the room. When he reached his mother’s side, Yasmin was charmingly explaining that she needed to sit down, as she was enceinte, which made her light-headed.

Ladies were never supposed to admit such a thing, but her bump was clearly evident in her light gown, and Giles’s pride burst through his normally stern expression. She congratulated Silvester on his marriage, giving him that twinkling smile she had down to an art. He nodded, wishing the music would end so Stella could join them.

When the three of them sat down, Giles took up the question of whether the government should intervene and curtail the Bank of England’s power to print currency.

Silvester forced himself to pay attention. Stella said that he cared only about making money, but that wasn’t true. The question was more complicated than Giles seemed to think, so Silvester argued one side, and then switched to argue the other.

Where was Stella? Likely that Frenchman was still flirting with her.

He turned back from scanning the dance floor to find Giles looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You surprise me.”

“Silvester is endlessly surprising,” Yasmin said merrily.

“I could always count on you for a convincing account of whichever action would make you the most money,” Giles said. “But now you acknowledge complexities. Perhaps next you will take up your seat in the House of Lords?”

“Unlikely,” Silvester said. But he had the feeling that Stella might find those laws they endlessly debated interesting. He would take it up, if she wished it.