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“You’ve offended her,” Silvester observed. “My mother wore the same expression when I refused to wear the absurd top hat she gave me for Christmas.”

“Offense would imply that Specs has learned English between now and last night, when I scolded her for deliberately pushing a teacup off the bedside table,” Stella said, straightening up. “She likes to see things smash.”

Silvester was still leaning in the doorway, an odd expression on his face.

“You look somewhat discomfited,” Stella observed. “Did the dead mouse turn your stomach?” She gave him a teasing smile. “A blow to your manly reputation, if people knew.”

His eyes rested on her thoughtfully. “I can trust you not to spread that information, since you haven’t yet informed all of London that you consider me to be manipulating the currency markets for my own benefit.”

“Not entirely for your own benefit,” she corrected him. “I suppose the new currency law did strengthen England’s finances.”

“You could say that. You could also say that I saved the country from defaulting on its debts.”

Silvester walked into the room, coming to a halt directly in front of Stella, so close that he could wrap an arm around her waist and slide into a waltz.

Not that they could waltz in her bedchamber.

“If I look discomfited, it’s because we are alone for the first time. I suspect your aunt has informed you that unmarried ladies and gentlemen should never be unaccompanied,” he said, adding, “especially in a bedchamber.”

Chapter Seventeen

Stella blinked up at him, her entire body going still. “Of course, she has. My aunt is convinced that male scruples are overcome by the mere glimpse of sheets, all evidence to the contrary.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t agree? I expect your aunt would not accept a dead mouse as chaperone.”

Stella smiled wryly and told him the truth. Why not? He was her friend, practically her only friend. And he was in love with Yasmin.

“In my opinion, male lust is wildly overrated.”

She expected him to laugh.

He didn’t.

She frowned, because suddenly his eyes were searching hers, asking a question that no one ever asked her.

A roughened finger touched her cheek, and Stella’s disobedient body flared into life. Desire flared to life with his touch, even as she frantically tried to command it away.

Silvester couldn’t be . . .

The finger moved down her cheek to her mouth. “Do you have any idea how beautiful your lower lip is, Stella?”

She shook her head, mute. Rain was no longer splattering on the windows; it was falling in sheets. Other than that, the house was silent.

Her heart was beating so fast that she felt dizzy. She felt as if her senses had woken from a long sleep. The expression in Silvester’s eyes didn’t make sense. None of it made sense, except for a feeling of rightness as his head lowered, slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, asking silently if she wished to push him away.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said aloud.

He paused. One eyebrow went up. “Absurdity wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Unless Stella was very mistaken, she was about to experience her first kiss.

But she couldn’t point that out. Or say “yes, please,” which would be manifestly unladylike. She simply looked at him mutely, letting the familiar wintery scent of his soap send a wave of warmth down her limbs.

Their lips brushed together.

Was she supposed to press forward? She had closed her eyes because that’s what people did when they were kissing. At least, what they did in etchings of amorous shepherds kissing shepherdesses, which were the only kisses she’d seen.

Their lips touched again. It was quite nice. Not earthshaking. Lackluster, if she was truthful.