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And yet his charm, that deep, cool voice and deceptively thoughtful air, slid over her like sunshine. Even more: he had admitted that he’d made a stupid remark while chasing Lady Yasmin’s attention. His apology was sincere.

His Grace’s curricle was an elegant version of his lawn. The body of it perched on huge wheels, hanging between them like a nest blown free by the wind. It was painted midnight blue, so dark as to be almost black, picked out in silver and hitched to a matched pair of silver-grey horses.

Together, the vehicle looked wildly expensive and fragile. A ducal toy, something that no one with pretentions to gravitas would ever drive.

“Your curricle looks unsafe,” Stella observed.

A groom set a low box beneath the door, which wouldn’t make the slightest difference to her inability to vault herself into the seat.

She looked at Silvester. “Is that a jest?” She nodded to the box.

“Bring Her Grace’s mounting box,” he ordered.

The groom trotted away, returning with a much taller box, presumably used by Silvester’s mother, though Stella couldn’t imagine the dowager duchess climbing into a beehive on wheels.

She picked up her skirts and hopped onto the box, then looked up at the shining leather seat. She wasn’t entirely sure how far away it was, but she was certain that she would misjudge, bounce off, and thump down onto the cobblestones.

“If you’ll allow me,” the duke said behind her.

Stella glanced over her shoulder.

“May I boost you to the seat?”

She nodded.

Large hands curled around her waist. Silvester lifted her without an audible grunt—which she much appreciated—before taking himself around to the other side and leaping onto his seat.

Behind them, a groom pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge between the wheels and took firm hold of an iron bar. “Are you certain your groom is safe?” Stella asked.

“Binder? The man can cling to a straw in a storm.” Raising his voice: “You’re all right, aren’t you, Binder?”

“Couldn’t be better, Your Grace,” the man shouted back cheerfully. “They’re nice and fresh; give ’em their heads and they’ll take us at a nice clip!”

Silvester lifted the reins, and his horses merged smoothly into traffic. Stella ran her finger over the vehicle’s shining, navy blue paint.

“The curricle is new,” he said, adroitly steering around a milk wagon. “I chose the color myself. What do you think of it?”

“A bright color would be vulgar. Black would be common. I believe you achieved your goal. The dark blue declares itself quietly, and yet the silver trim glitters enough to inform the unobservant and ignorant that you are wealthy.”

He burst into laughter.

Stella couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. Lord knows what he would say about her after this afternoon’s excursion. Mrs. Thyme would definitely advise that Stella limit herself to comments on the weather.

“You think me a very shallow creature,” Silvester said a moment later.

“Not at all,” Stella said, trying hard to sound sincere. “Curricles are important, after all. I mean, the color of curricles. Just like lawns! Very, very important.”

“But not compared to the achievements of the Earl of Lilford, who influences the laws of the land?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have ducal responsibilities, have you not?”

“I pay my gardeners’ salaries.”

“As a young lady, I have no responsibilities other than to be charming enough to attract a husband,” Stella said, in the spirit of fairness. “It’s not fair of me to criticize you. Sometimes I feel my entire life is bounded by a tea tray.”

“Not all laws originate in the House of Lords or Commons,” Silvester said, an odd note in his voice.

Stella had decided that although the curricle was high off the ground, its balance and springs were excellent. The seat scarcely swayed though they were bowling along at a fast pace. She relaxed and turned her body partly toward him. “What do you mean?”