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Stella walked down the steps of the ducal residence and looked about for something interesting that she could pretend to study until the curricle drew up before the gate. She could feel Silvester’s presence looming behind her.

She sneaked a glance and sure enough, he looked offended.

Honestly, it was as if no one had ever pointed out that insults were certain to make their way back to the slighted person.

Fairness made her admit that probably no one had. Likely dukes were never confronted with the consequences of their actions.

Or perhaps he was cross because she had impugned his feckless existence, which actually wasn’t fair of her. Why should a duke consider more than the fashion for tasseled boots? It sounded as if his valet was eager to take even that gentlemanly task off his hands.

The ducal residence was as grand an establishment as Stella had ever seen. The building was made of soft white stone, with willowy columns and equally delicate windows. Whereas most townhouses stood shoulder to shoulder, Silvester’s was pushed back from the street and surrounded by tall gates embellished with iron leaves and curlicues.

Like the velvet tablecloth that set off a precious vase, a dense, glossy lawn stretched to the gate. It must cost a fortune to maintain such perfection.

She walked over to inspect it more closely.

The lawn resembled bank notes, if notes had roots. And were green. When Silvester joined her, Stella’s skin prickled all over, but she kept her gaze on the grass.

“If I have insulted you in any way, Lady Stella, I heartily apologize,” he said. “I do not think of you as a hammer, and I can’t imagine how you gained that impression.”

“Because you said it,” she replied, before she remembered that her aunt had told her over and over never to contradict gentlemen, no matter the circumstance. She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the lawn. “I accept your apology,” she said, not allowing disbelief to leak into her voice.

“When did I say it?” Silvester asked.

She arched a brow. “Really? Are you contradicting me?”

“I wouldn’t—” The duke stopped short, his brow furrowing.

“I imagine you thought it was a private conversation,” Stella conceded.

“I do remember Blanche Boodle hanging over my shoulder at some point while I was conversing with Lady Yasmin.” His voice was grim.

“I have the impression that Blanche plans to marry into the nobility,” Stella said, starting to enjoy herself.

Silvester seemed to be grinding his teeth.

“Not to me,” he said shortly. His expression would probably make a small child cry. In fact, he looked completely different from the endlessly charming nobleman who reigned over polite society. “I apologize.” His ferocious scowl was clearly directed at himself, though she thought Blanche was lucky to be out of sight. “That was an unkind characterization of you, and untrue.”

“It’s not very untrue,” Stella admitted. “My aunt thinks that I’ve warped my mind by reading too much.”

“You don’t use your knowledge against others,” Silvester said. He shot her a tight, frustrated look. “Whereas my deplorable attempt to make Yasmin laugh gave Blanche Boodle a hammer to wield.”

Stella shrugged. His mention of Yasmin made her feel suddenly awkward again. Not to mention his acknowledgment that society viewed her as a figure of fun. She looked back at the lawn. A bird was singing, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see a splash of flowers.

Silvester took a step closer, so his shoulder brushed hers. “Does the grass seem healthy?” he asked, his voice rumbling in her ear.

“Certainly. If bank notes were green, they would look like your lawn.”

“I suppose one might view grass, London grass at least, as an indication of wealth.”

Might?

Her father had owned a middling estate, with a house in London and a country estate—without a river. Their London house had been cramped and narrow, with a tiny patch of grass outside the front window and a kitchen garden in back. It had been entailed, so her eldest cousin lived there now, but she still remembered her mother’s dissatisfaction with that front garden.

Just like having a river in the country, a lawn signaled prestige.

“My curricle has arrived,” Silvester said, slipping his fingers around her elbow and drawing her through the gate to the street.

It wouldn’t be polite to pull her arm away, even though his touch was unnerving. Instead, Stella reminded herself that she felt only dislike for the duke.