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Silvester had a shrewd feeling that Yasmin and Giles had decided to marry at least a month ago. “I didn’t mind taking her about. I like Yasmin. A great deal.”

“She used you,” his mother snapped. “I told Lady Stella that Yasmin would break your heart, and now she has. What if you never marry and have no children, and the line ends? I shall murder her. In such a manner that no one guesses the truth, naturally.”

Silvester bit back a smile at his mother’s fiery expression. “I appreciate your support, but let me say again: my heart is not broken.” In fact, it had been disconcerting to realize just how much he didn’t care about losing that competition.

The dowager put down her roll and patted his hand. “You know that I have never experienced such tempests of emotion. Love is not for me. But I know you felt it, and I honor you for it.”

Silvester opened his mouth, but his mother held up her hand. “Even though it is manifestly ungentlemanly. Your father would be aghast.”

As Silvester remembered it, his father had been utterly infatuated with his brilliant, creative wife. When the duke passed away, the dowager sank into gloom so deep that they all feared she would never recover. If that wasn’t love, what was?

“You mustn’t let it ruin your life,” his mother said. “Just remember that you’ll need a son at some point.”

“You needn’t worry about an heir,” Silvester said.

His mother nodded and said encouragingly, “There will be a new crop of ladies next Season. You’ll find someone much better than Lady Yasmin.”

Silvester murmured something. He wasn’t particularly worried.

He had an ace up his sleeve.

Chapter Twenty

An Ancient Roman Fête

The Duke and Duchess of Trent’s townhouse

The Duchess of Trent greeted Stella and her aunt in the entry of the ducal townhouse, hands outstretched. “Mrs. Thyme, this is such a pleasure. And Stella, darling!” she cried. “I adore your toga. Why should they be white, after all?”

“I cannot claim credit,” Stella said, kissing her cheek. “You sent me to Quimby’s Costume Emporium, and Mrs. Quimby herself suggested green.”

“‘Green’ is not a sufficient descriptor,” Merry said. “That toga is the color of ferns in spring and sets off your hair so beautifully! I only wish that I’d invited some eligible gentlemen.”

“I am very glad to hear you have not,” Mrs. Thyme said. “I cannot like the fact that my niece’s arms are entirely uncovered. Moreover, Roman ladies may have worn their hair falling down their back, but I consider it highly unkempt.”

“May I offer you a toga, Mrs. Thyme?” Merry asked. “Until I learned of the Costume Emporium, we always used large kitchen cloths. My maid is an expert at pinning them so they drape elegantly.”

With a near visible effort, Stella’s aunt didn’t shudder. “No, thank you. Am I to understand that no gentlemen have been invited?”

“Only my children, Thomas and Peter, who at ages of fourteen and eight are not yet men. My husband may join us if he returns in time, but he’s at the House of Lords, and you know how crowded the streets are these days.”

“In that case, might I leave my niece under your care?” Mrs. Thyme asked. “If you are certain that gentlemen won’t join you.”

“I invited only the Dowager Duchess of Huntington,” Merry said.

That did it. Stella’s aunt fell into a flurry of apologies that could be summarized as: I will never willingly put myself in proximity to the dowager again.

“Of course, you must pay a call to Mrs. Swan,” Merry said warmly. “I shall send Stella home in our carriage, accompanied by a lady’s maid.”

“If Mrs. Swan is not at home, I may return for Stella, but if not, that would be very kind of you. Stella, do keep your bonnet on at all times. And don’t forget to wear your gloves as well. You don’t want spots on your hands,” Mrs. Thyme said. Then she trotted out to her carriage, so eager was she to avoid an accidental meeting with the dowager.

Merry escorted Stella through the house into rear gardens that stretched down to the Thames River. High stone walls enclosed a generous lawn dotted with old oak trees. Beds of flowers and herbs lined the walls, and the scent of lavender and peppermint floated to them on the breeze.

A large table with a pale yellow tablecloth was set in the shadow of the house; two footmen were setting out pitchers of lemonade and two ice buckets containing champagne bottles.

At the bottom of the garden, next to the Thames, a whitewashed gazebo was planted with riotous clumps of purple and blue flowers. A cluster of children’s heads could just be seen through the lacy struts of the gazebo.

“The family likes to play baseball,” Merry said, pointing to some bare patches on the lawn. “I believe you call it ‘rounders’ over here. Basically, you try to strike a ball before you run in a circle. I’m quite good at pitching balls, if I say so myself.”