Page 49

“I shall escort you to the carriage,” Silvester stated.

“I hardly need to be escorted across a meadow.”

“Specs does.” He took the kitten and popped her on his shoulder before he offered Stella his arm. They set out after Mrs. Thyme, who was already clambering into the carriage.

At least someone liked him: Specs nudged his cheek with her nose and then wrapped her tail around his neck.

“What did I do this time?” Silvester asked as soon as they were out of earshot of his mother.

Stella glanced at him from under her lashes. “Nothing.”

He stopped short, dropping his arm and catching her hand in his. “Stella. I won’t let you go until you tell me.”

“Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “If you must know, you said, quite rightly, that you’d have to hoist me up on the bank.”

He stared at her.

The silence was broken only by the twittering of birds. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her hair had fallen from its topknot and rippled down her back.

That lower lip? She wasn’t even pouting. That lush lip was all hers.

He cleared his throat. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re extraordinarily quick to take offense? Where no offense was meant—and indeed, no sane person would think that an insult was possible?”

“You said you’d ‘hoist’ me,” she repeated, shooting him a cross glance.

“My mother had just asked me to ‘hoist’ her up on the shore.” A grin broke over his face. “You don’t like that word, but you’re hoist by your own petard, because I was merely quoting my mother.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Actually, I think that ‘petard’ might be a word that shouldn’t be uttered in front of a lady,” he added.

She was pink now because he irritated her, not because she was feeling hurt. “No, ‘petard’ refers to a bomb. The quote is from Hamlet.”

“As if Shakespeare wasn’t the master of bawdy expressions. I gather you didn’t like the implication that I would need a team of oxen to lift you out of the river, the way they hoist marble blocks into the air?”

Stella narrowed her eyes at him. “I suggest you stop while you’re ahead.”

He took a step closer, so close that he could see the way her skin was dusted with cinnamon sugar. “I already lifted you into my curricle,” he pointed out. “You’re being an idiot.”

Her cheeks reddened even more. “What would you know about it?”

“About what?”

“About being . . . being me when the other ladies are willow-twiggy?”

“Do you remember when you informed me that I was a fool to believe I could mock people in public without my insult being repeated far and wide?”

“Yes.”

“You’re being just as much of a fool.” His voice had taken on a throaty edge. Stella’s fault, because she was so damned desirable up close. “Your curves are perfection. Willow-twiggy may be good for hanging a gown on but not necessarily for—”

He broke off and stepped back abruptly. “You’ll have to take my word for it. Word of a duke.”

“As if a title ensured rectitude,” Stella muttered.

But she didn’t sound hurt. Silvester held out his elbow, and they walked across the field toward the carriage without another word. Her groom had placed a box before the open door, but Silvester stepped forward and wrapped his hands around her waist.

“Duke!” she hissed.