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He blinked, and his brows drew together. “That obvious, am I?”

“Yes. But you shouldn’t worry. You and Yasmin make sense.” She answered the question in his eyes: “Golden girls and boys.”

“If you’re quoting Shakespeare, those golden girls and boys ‘come to dust,’ if I remember.”

“As will we all,” Stella said. “My point is that the two of you match: beautiful, shimmering, everyone watching you.”

“I’m not beautiful,” Silvester said, but she could see hopefulness in his eyes. He was hoping that Yasmin would saunter in and nestle down on the couch beside him.

Stella couldn’t suppress a pang of longing for his wide-knuckled, big hands, for the way his gray eyes turned warm with laughter, even, shamefully, for the width of his thighs when he sat beside her in the curricle.

Yasmin must be cracked if she chose the Earl of Lilford over a duke.

This particular duke.

“You are beautiful,” Stella retorted, keeping her voice flat so he understood that she wasn’t flattering him. “Cheekbones, jaw, shoulders—aristocratic, all of it. Oh, and you have hair and all your teeth. That’s what’s made you what you are.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The most eligible gentleman on the marriage market,” she explained. “Just think, you won that title without anyone knowing that you’re up to your knees in ill-gotten gold.”

His eyes darkened to steel gray, but Stella didn’t care. She was getting her own back, just a little, for the way he told Yasmin that her portrait would have to be repainted.

Thinking of that, she leaned closer and breathed, “If you tell anyone that you called me ‘Specs,’ I will tell the world that you are speculating in gold because you had advance knowledge of the Coinage Act.”

“It’s not illegal,” he said instantly.

“It sounds illegal. More: it sounds unethical.”

“You’ve made that point already. Your definition of immorality and mine diverge on several points.”

Stella grinned at him. At least Silvester didn’t look sad any longer. His brows were knit, and he was glowering. She preferred him frustrated to embittered.

Then, from behind his shoulder, she caught sight of Lydia leaning toward another lady and whispering, her eyes on Silvester. Undoubtedly, Lydia was making fun of him for showing emotion.

Even in the short time she’d been in London, Stella had learned that gentlemen were supposed to show no emotion, never mind the fact that so many were floundering about, desperately in love.

Abruptly realizing she could easily draw Lydia’s attention from Silvester, she lifted the vulture crown and put it on her head. It settled firmly in place, the long beak looming over her spectacles. “How do I look?”

Silvester cleared his throat. “Regal.” He grinned. “Am I to take it that you would have donned my mother’s scarab brooch?”

“If my mother were alive to give me a gift, even an Egyptian deity, yes, I would wear it,” she said flatly.

He winced. “I apologize.”

All around the room, not just Lydia, but everyone else was turning to peer at her. Voices rose into a joyous refrain. Too late, Stella realized that while her ploy to draw Lydia’s attention from Silvester was effective, her aunt would have hysterics when she heard of it.

No pharaoh would quail before English society. Stella straightened her back and smiled around the room. Her hair had been blown about in the curricle, and the headpiece was the final straw: she could feel coils tumbling over one shoulder.

“Take it off,” Blanche mouthed, eyes alarmed, making her way toward her. When she was close enough: “You look absurd with that beak towering over your forehead.”

Stella shrugged.

“I’m glad I didn’t win that hideous thing!” Blanche said. “Here, give it to me and I’ll pretend to examine it.”

Silvester had turned away and was delighting a circle of ladies with that charming grin of his. Anyone who thought he was lovelorn was changing their mind. Likely they had decided he had been angry at being paired with her, and now that she had put on the crown, they sympathized with him.

Stella handed Blanche the crown.