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“Lady Stella’s wardrobe is fine,” Silvester said. “Personally, I like the gown that you claimed made her look like Holofernes.”

The dowager rolled her eyes. “You’re looking as her friend, not her suitor. She needs to find a husband so she doesn’t have to endure another season on the marriage mart. A new wardrobe is essential, as I already informed her.”

Stella was feeling hideously embarrassed. “Your toga is quite creative, Your Grace.”

The dowager’s toga would have been a crowning achievement for a Roman modiste, made as it was of gleaming white silk that fell to a hem of thick gold embroidery.

“Personally, I feel that wearing a toga over numerous petticoats has given my mother the outline of a blancmange,” the duke remarked. “The fancy kind that has a stack of blackberries on top.”

The dowager swatted him, clearly unperturbed by his sartorial criticism. “Never listen to male comments about your apparel,” she told Merry and Stella.

“My husband never offers any,” Merry assured her.

“It’s probably just as well that he’s not here this afternoon. He might have taken it amiss that my son is in dishabille,” the dowager told her. “I assure you that Mrs. Quimby sent over a complete costume.”

“Unfortunately, the undergarment ripped when I put it on,” Silvester explained. “However, my understanding is that togas were worn without a shirt or breeches. I compromised.”

“It’s lucky that you are unchaperoned, Lady Stella,” the dowager remarked. “Mrs. Thyme wouldn’t have survived the shock.”

Stella agreed with her.

Silvester didn’t look or sound as if he’d lost weight from heartbreak, the way the Earl of Lilford had in Yasmin’s absence. In fact, he looked remarkably healthy and not haunted by regret in the least.

Though, of course, he was the last man who would reveal genuine emotion.

Stella couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him. His arm and chest made heat swirl through her blood, tingling in her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, he would guess that she was besotted.

“I shall join the ladies’ army,” the dowager announced.

“Young Thomas informed me that he and I are two warriors fighting four bloodthirsty Amazons,” Silvester said, twirling his sword in a way that suggested years of fencing instruction.

“Death comes with two blows of a sword,” Thomas reminded them. “And no cheating, Mother! She likes to leap from behind trees and take a man down when he isn’t expecting it,” he explained to Silvester.

“Is there a rule against hiding?” Stella asked.

“It’s not manly,” Thomas said, glancing up at Silvester. “Gentlemen never attack from behind.”

“A gentleman never fires first,” Silvester agreed. “One must defeat the enemy, but that doesn’t mean you should be a boor about it.”

“Luckily, we are not men,” Stella pointed out.

“There is one other important rule,” Silvester said, raising his eyebrows. “No blows below the waist.”

“Nonsense,” Merry said. “I always aim for a whack on the bottom.”

Stella couldn’t imagine whacking anyone’s bottom, let alone Silvester’s, but she nodded. “Omne pulchrum est in amore et bello.”

Silvester’s mouth twitched. “All is fair in love and war, eh?”

“Certainly,” Stella stated.

“I shall remember that,” he said, his mouth curving into that lopsided smile Stella had never seen in a ballroom. He turned away. “Thomas, whether or not our enemies break the rules of gentlemanly combat, we shall remain true to our better instincts.”

“Right, sir! I mean, certainly, Your Grace.”

“I can’t run terribly fast,” the dowager said, suddenly appearing to be pitifully elderly. “I think you’d better concentrate on conquering the other Amazons, Master Thomas. I may not survive a blow from your sword.”

Thomas bowed. “Of course.”