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The sun was hanging low by the time the dowager woke from her doze and announced the “riparian entertainments” she’d promised, sending a troupe of grooms around the curve of the river.

Silvester suggested that they all go down the slope to the water, but Stella shook her head. The sun would slant into her face. If she ended up with more freckles, Mrs. Thyme would be horrified.

“I prefer to stay here,” she said, knowing she sounded absurdly prim. “The sun . . .”

“We understand,” Silvester said briskly. “Yasmin and I will broach the evil sunlight, won’t we, darling?”

“Don’t call me ‘darling,’” Yasmin said, swatting him. But she allowed him to draw her down to the reedy riverbank. Merry had been chattering to Harold about acquaintances they had in Boston, and they readily set off together.

Which left Giles and Stella alone. Except for a kitten, chewing busily on the ribbon that substituted for a leash.

“I shall remain here, if you permit,” the earl said. “Even given my great respect for the dowager duchess, I have low expectations of her ‘riparian entertainment.’”

Stella felt a pang of irritation at his courtesy. Giles would never leave a lady alone. Wouldn’t it be better to simply admit it?

Then it occurred to her that he might actually take this opportunity to propose. Perhaps her instincts were wrong. After all, Yasmin had traipsed off with Silvester without a backward glance.

She went rigid with . . . something. Anticipation? Fear?

Emotion curled into a hard knot in her stomach.

She tried to fix on the image of herself walking down the aisle toward Giles, but it slipped away with the conviction that she wished, desperately wished, that a different man would wait for her at the altar.

A man who had no interest in her.

Yet she had to marry. With sudden energy, Stella turned to the earl and gave him a wide smile. “I cannot get more freckles,” she confessed.

Giles raised an eyebrow.

“I am covered with them already.” She might have drunk too much champagne, but why worry? This afternoon was golden, the kind of experience that the Season is supposed to offer. The kind a schoolgirl imagines when she pictures life as an adult.

“As I said earlier, I like your freckles,” he commented. “They’re charming.”

It wasn’t a declaration, but close.

On the other hand, he didn’t appear to be on the verge of proposing marriage, not unless a man would do that while obsessively watching Lady Yasmin, who was caught in a ray of late afternoon sunshine, radiant, her hair glossy and soft.

Her face unspotted, Stella thought sourly.

“Here they come!” the dowager bellowed. She walked over to their tent. “Get up, both of you! You’re too young to hide in the shade like Mrs. Thyme. Give that kitten to your aunt, Lady Stella. I shall inspect it after the entertainment.” She stumped off down the slope.

Her command pulled Giles’s attention from Yasmin, back to Stella.

“I do believe that the sun is low enough that the brim of your bonnet will shade you,” he said. “Shall we?” He stood, holding out his elbow.

Stella felt a spurt of defiance. Her aunt wanted her to marry an earl, so she could scarcely refuse his lordship’s request. They brought Specs to the other tent, where Mrs. Thyme cheerfully took her in her lap. There wasn’t a speck of disapproval in her eyes. It seemed that a possible betrothal did indeed outweigh the menace of new spots.

As Stella and Giles strolled down the bank, a flock of ducks appeared around the bend of the river, quacking noisily.

Giles’s chest rumbled with low laughter.

“Are those hats?” Stella asked, just as they reached the others.

“The straw hats worn by Italian watermen,” the dowager duchess confirmed.

“The hats are tied under their chins,” Stella said, astonished.

“Their bills,” Silvester corrected, glancing at her. “Beautiful detail with the floating ribbons behind, Mother. If ducks have a nationality, these definitely would quack in Italian.”