Page 19

The dowager was short and kindly, and Stella rather liked her black hair color, even given its greenish undertone. “It was composed by Élisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre, a lady who lived in the court of Louis XIV, Your Grace.”

“Do you know Madame de la Guerre’s pastoral duet?” Mr. Rowson asked.

When she nodded, he stepped toward her. “May I beg your indulgence? My voice does not match yours, but I would take pleasure in singing the duet with you.”

“Of course.” This time Stella didn’t take off her spectacles, just fixed her gaze on the far wall. Mr. Rowson sang quite well. His accent was acceptable, albeit with an American twang. Her tutor, Madame Escoffier, wouldn’t have been offended.

In fact, singing with him was surprisingly pleasurable. His voice wound through hers, and even Lydia stopped whispering behind her hand.

After the last stanza, he frowned and glanced down at their feet.

“You have an excellent voice, Mr. Rowson,” Stella said quickly, pretending that she hadn’t heard a kitten caroling with them.

“That was lovely,” Silvester said. He made no attempt to hide his amused surprise. Apparently, short, plain women weren’t supposed to have talents of any kind.

She was done with him, done with the duke.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away to talk to Lady Boodle.

She didn’t notice that Silvester had stepped toward her until a deep voice said in her ear, “I particularly enjoyed the troubadour in your pocket, Lady Stella.”

He strolled away, laughing.

Chapter Seven

Later the same day, in Stella’s bedchamber

“I’m sure it has fleas!” Mrs. Thyme peered at the kitten, who was splayed upside down in Stella’s lap, playing with a piece of string. “Please tell me that you haven’t allowed that creature onto your bed, Stella.”

Stella and the kitten had just enjoyed a refreshing nap, but for the sake of domestic harmony, she shook her head.

“I accept the new fashion for small dogs,” her aunt said, seating herself. “Julia Fitzwilliams tucks a canine into her reticule, after all. But a cat will never do, Stella. You couldn’t possibly train it to walk on a leash.”

“I could try,” Stella said, tickling a tummy rounded by milk.

“The animal belongs in the stables,” Mrs. Thyme said. “Not in the house. I could not believe my ears when I was informed of its presence. I’m certain that I instructed you to hand it to Tweed.”

“She will keep down the mice,” Stella suggested.

“There are no mice in my house!”

The cook would not agree, but Stella held her tongue. Her aunt was happiest when sheltered from the inconveniences of domestic life.

“It is rather sweet,” her aunt said. She extended a finger, and the kitten promptly batted at it. “Those markings remind me of the shoeblack stage actresses put around their eyes.”

“I’m calling her Specs,” Stella said.

Her aunt sighed. “I know it’s difficult being the only lady in spectacles. If only your mother had lived, she would know best how to manage the situation.”

Stella had few memories of her mother, since she had still been in the nursery when her parents died after a pleasure boat overturned on the Thames. Unfortunately, most of her memories were tied to the horror of Stella’s freckles.

They had appeared when she was a baby, and shortly thereafter, spread like a plague over her body. The whole household had been recruited to prevent further spotty spread, and after Stella was orphaned, Mrs. Thyme had taken on the battle with fervor. In fact, Stella thought she was such an avid reader because she was never taken to the park as a child.

“It would be easier if I wasn’t the only person in a room wearing spectacles,” Stella agreed.

Her aunt nodded. “I do understand that you cannot go about without them. I told everyone at the tea party the difficulties you have even with spectacles, and they were most sympathetic.”

Stella groaned silently.