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“In that case, I’d be happy to waltz with you,” Stella said, her voice warm. Warmer than he’d ever heard it.

Silvester watched his uncle stroll out to meet them, trying to grapple with the fact that her voice felt like a gulp of whiskey: luxurious and too sensual for—for Stella.

That was not important. Not important.

His uncle was wearing a cassock under a magnificent loose cloak of white silk covered in gold embroidery. Silvester jumped down, leaving Binder standing at the horses’ heads.

“Your mother sent a groom informing me to expect you,” his uncle said by way of greeting. He caught sight of the curricle. “You can’t expect me to climb into that abomination. ’Twould be blasphemy! I’m wearing my cope, you heathenish nephew!”

“Your sister longs to see you,” Silvester said, kissing his hand. “You know what Mother is like.”

“Yes, if I don’t go for tea, she’ll chase across town and interrupt me at supper,” the bishop said mournfully, walking toward the curricle. “Your mother is far too vigorous for comfort, my boy.”

Binder placed the high box reverently before His Excellency’s feet.

“Who’s waiting up there?” the bishop asked, peering at Stella.

“Lady Stella Corsham,” Silvester said. Then he called: “Lady Stella, may I introduce my uncle, Bishop Luverde?”

Stella slid along the seat and peered over the edge. The wind had tousled her curls and they stood out around her head, the color of rubies gilded by firelight. She looked truly delightful, her spectacles not detracting in the least from her curved lips.

“I am honored, Your Excellency,” Stella said, giving his uncle such a lavish smile that his elderly relative blinked.

That mouth of hers.

Most gentlemen focused on the spectacles and missed what was under their own eyes.

Sure enough, after that his uncle puffed his way onto the curricle seat, where he plumped down between Silvester and Stella and proceeded to chatter with her all the way home about the role of Nonconformists in parochial churches.

“How on earth do you come by all this information?” Silvester asked Stella, peering around his uncle’s considerable bulk.

The rumor that Stella was reading an encyclopedia turned out to be true. “So far, I’ve read the first four volumes, but of course, the Anglican religion appears in the first volume. Which reminds me, Your Excellency . . .”

Having no interest in lay-led voluntary societies—whatever they were—Silvester found himself brooding over Stella’s future. Normally, ladies didn’t go around leaking knowledge like a sieve.

Frankly, it reminded him of his mother when she was in the height of her Egyptian craze and claimed to know more about hieroglyphic writing than the men running the Museum of London.

It would be hard for Stella to find a gentleman who would allow, let alone encourage, his wife to read encyclopedia volumes and engage in lively conversation on obtuse subjects.

Possibly life was different in America. Harold had talked about Stella all the way home from the Boodle tea party. But Silvester didn’t like the idea of the two of them together.

Giles wouldn’t be a good husband for Stella either. Giles was serious all the time, whereas Stella had a hidden sense of fun. She smuggled a kitten into a tea party. Giles would squelch her, and she would turn into a sober bluestocking, peering at everyone through her spectacles. Giles rarely danced, so she would likely stop dancing as well.

Whereas Stella should be waltzing around a ballroom—and yes, going down a snowy slope—tight in her husband’s arms, laughing all the time.

Still, it wasn’t his business.

Chapter Eleven

By the time they reached the duke’s residence, many of the guests had returned and were standing over heaps of miscellaneous objects, like hens protecting oddly shaped eggs.

The moment Stella, Silvester, and the bishop entered the room, there was a general groan.

The other two objects in the top three, those that guaranteed a win, were a hat worn by Napoleon and the Queen’s coronation crown, and obviously no one produced either of those.

To halfhearted applause, the dowager duchess proclaimed the winners. She handed her son the wooden box and Stella the vulture crown, which turned out to be a plain circlet of gold supporting a great beak carved from ebony that jutted over the forehead of the female ruler. The beak shone with a dull gleam that might well have sent an awestruck populace to their knees.

Silvester opened the box, gave a bark of laughter, and shut it again.