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“You do simulate elegance well,” she murmured, her eyes flicking over his broad chest and down to his legs.

“It’s gilt, not gold. Stripped of my garments, I am burly, hairy, somewhat immoral, lustful, undereducated, and fond of money. I was never interested in book learning, other than mathematics. I don’t think I’ll ever take up my seat in the House of Lords. The idea makes me feel faint with boredom.”

“That is dismaying,” Stella said, but Silvester could see a tinge of humor in her eyes.

“We would have a good marriage. I like being around you.”

Stella hopped down off the gazebo. “No.”

Silvester frowned at her. “No?”

“Exactly.” She must have caught his confusion because she explained. “I like you, Silvester, even given your shady ethics. But I want what you gave to Yasmin, what you felt for Yasmin.”

“What was that?”

“Love.”

“I am not heartbroken. I care for Yasmin. A lot.”

“Yes, well,” Stella said, turning away from him and pushing her hair behind her ears. “I want to be cared for. A lot. Whatever you want to call that expression you had on your face whenever you looked at her.”

Silvester felt a prickling of uneasiness. “What expression do I have when I look at you?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He scowled at her.

“All right, you look at me as if—with the expression you have when you look at my breasts.”

Silvester grinned at her. “That’s right.”

“I’m not marrying a man for lust,” Stella said flatly. “According to my aunt, I can get that anywhere. I want a man who isn’t in love with another woman. I didn’t realize it before, but that’s my sole qualification. No husband of mine will stand beside me, casting longing gazes across the ballroom.”

“I can promise that,” Silvester said. “No longing glances unless I’m looking directly at you.”

She snorted.

“What?”

“You don’t adore me.”

Silvester opened his mouth—and shut it. He didn’t feel the same thing for Stella that he had for Yasmin. Yasmin was . . . adorable.

“Yes, she was adorable,” Stella said crossly, obviously reading his expression.

Stella was irritating and exciting. She was unbearably luscious, and he couldn’t wait to go to bed with her. He never worried too much about bed with Yasmin: she was beautiful, so it would be . . . fine. Great, even.

Now he thought about it, his disinclination to kiss Yasmin signaled a problem. Their marriage would likely have been friendly but tepid.

But Stella?

With her spectacles, and her freckles, and all that red hair, and curves, and scowling eyes? The way she pouted, and looked right through him, and scolded him for unethical behavior? She knew him, all the parts of him that he’d hidden from the moment he entered Eton.

He no sooner looked at her than a groundswell of lust and possession swept through him. Bedding Stella would be profound. Perhaps even a little frightening.

“I’m going to share something with you,” Stella said, breaking the silence. “Then we shall return to the garden and pretend this conversation never happened.”

He’d be damned if he’d ever pretend that he hadn’t proposed marriage for the first time in his life, but he waited. He could be gentlemanly when he had to.