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“Remember, I was coming to play chess with you every morning while wooing her. I was kissing you in your bedchamber. No man in love kisses another woman. I never kissed Yasmin, by the way.”

“But you were wooing her.”

“I couldn’t get out of it at that point, could I? I had to let the courtship play its course. I knew Giles would overcome his fear and marry her. He genuinely wanted and loved Yasmin, and I didn’t. But I was stuck playing out the game until he finally got his ass going.”

A stifled sound escaped from Stella’s mouth, almost a giggle, at the upright, august earl described in such rude terms.

“If you’ll excuse my vulgarity,” Silvester added.

“Gentlemen don’t say things like that,” Stella said against his shirt, her voice rusty with tears.

“I’m not a gentleman. I’m your husband. Your pirate.” He tightened his arms, and she could tell he was kissing her hair. He loved her hair. And her freckles. Why wasn’t that enough for her? It had to be enough.

Silence fell in the room, broken only by the scratch of branches blowing against the sill.

Silvester sprang up, dropping Stella on her feet. He spun in a circle. “Where’s Specs?”

“What?” She looked about confusedly.

Silvester strode over to the window, took one look outside, and launched himself into space.

Stella let out a little shriek. “What are you doing?”

But he was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Silvester hadn’t climbed down this particular tree since he was sixteen years old, but the skill hadn’t left him. He swung along the branch, hand over hand to the trunk. He saw no sign of Specs; she must have fled downward.

“Silvester!”

He had already moved down several branches, but he paused and looked up.

Stella was leaning out the window. She’d grabbed her spectacles, and red curls tumbled over the windowsill. “What are you doing?”

He felt dull pain in his chest at the sight of her. He’d hurt her. Made her cry. Because he was an idiot. “Specs went down the tree,” he said. “Don’t worry. I shall fetch her.” It was the least he could do.

“No, she didn’t.” Stella ducked away and reappeared with Specs in her arms. “I’m sorry to say that she peed in your boot again. When I pulled her out, the odor was unmistakable.”

Silvester let out a curse that would have shocked the “polite” inhabitants of London. He reached to the branch above and hauled his body up.

“I love how strong you are,” his wife said, conversationally.

He froze and looked at her. His heart squeezed.

“All your muscles,” she clarified. “The problem, Silvester, is that I love more than your arms.”

He pulled himself up another branch until he was level with her.

“Stay there,” she ordered. “This is easier to say at a distance.”

Silvester’s heart was beating faster than it ever had during a boxing match. “What else do you love?” His voice was hoarse, without a trace of a noble accent, but he didn’t care.

“You,” she said, aching sadness in her voice. “I love you, Silvester. It’s like some sort of curse, to love a man who adores another woman.”

Silvester took a desperate breath of air, but as always, words didn’t come quickly.

“I’m telling you so that you never hurt me again as you did today,” Stella told him. “Perhaps your love for Yasmin is a thin layer of sugar. I need you to respect me enough so that you hide the icing.”