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And his eyes? Those gray, piercing eyes that could look so charming?

His coats must be cleverly cut to disguise his breadth, just as his charming smiles disguised the fierce desire to win every battle, important or otherwise. Stripped of his embroidery and lace, there was no mistaking who stood in the middle of the garden, wearing a swath of cloth and spinning a wooden sword while he listened intently to a young boy.

A warrior.

A man who ruthlessly manipulated currency markets for his own good—and incidentally to prevent the collapse of England’s finances.

“He’s a little scary,” Fanny said. “I’m just going to see how the kitten is doing.” She ran off toward the gazebo.

“His Grace is beautifully proportioned, isn’t he?” Merry commented. “Who would possibly believe that the charming, civilized Duke of Huntington could turn into muscled Roman god?”

Stella tore her eyes away from Silvester and frowned at her friend.

“We are thinking Zeus, aren’t we?” Merry pretended to fan herself.

“The Roman version is Jupiter,” Stella said, retreating into facts because . . . she didn’t know what to make of Silvester.

Silvester without clothing.

“In a ballroom, he seems the consummate aristocrat. My husband glowers at the side of the room, bored, while Silvester flaunts his grace and distinction. The perfect manner and all that charm, though I am starting to think it is not as accidental as I assumed.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything ‘accidental’ about the duke or his presentation,” Stella said.

“Young men look to him to learn the best placement of a jewel or knotting of a cravat.”

Stella snorted.

“That’s what I just surmised,” Merry exclaimed. “Fascinating! I’m so interested by people who are indifferent to society, and I would guess that the duke is one of them, all appearances to the contrary.”

“He is his mother’s son,” Stella pointed out.

As they walked across the lawn, she saw that Silvester’s chest was formed from solid slabs of muscle rather gracelessly put together. His arm had a wide pad of muscle at the shoulder that led to another powerful bulge and finally to a veined forearm.

No wonder he had picked her up and held her suspended in the air without groaning.

Fascinatingly, there was hair on his chest, which was something she’d never imagined. Her own chest had no hair, thankfully. His was the color of the hair on his head and glinted gold in the sunlight.

It didn’t help her suppress a wave of longing when Silvester bent his head to talk to young Thomas, his powerful neck uncovered. Hunger coursed through her, setting her skin on fire. Why, why should a neck be so erotic? Perhaps that was why men wore cravats.

Or was it because most noblemen had necks like chickens that they disguised with layers of starched cloth?

Somewhere in the back of her head, Stella registered that her aunt would have a fit of vapors, were she to return unexpectedly. An unclad male neck would be shocking, but a bare chest and arm?

She caught Merry’s arm. “My aunt,” she murmured.

“I’ll warn my butler to keep her inside, should she return,” Merry promised.

Silvester was looking over Thomas’s head at the two of them. Stella was suddenly aware of the hair pouring down her back, all of it brightly red. If only she’d braided it around her head. The toga disguised her bosom somewhat, but it certainly didn’t make her look any taller.

Nothing could make her look taller.

“Good afternoon!” Merry cried as they reached the dowager and her son.

Silvester bowed and kissed first Merry’s hand and then Stella’s. They weren’t wearing gloves, so his lips touched her skin. Merry didn’t seem to notice, but Stella—did.

“I like that toga,” the dowager said approvingly to Stella. “Mrs. Quimby is creative, isn’t she? You must return and acquire a more flattering wardrobe.”

Stella winced inwardly.