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Stella rolled her eyes.

“In short, I come to ask for your niece’s hand in marriage,” Silvester concluded.

“No, he has not!” Stella interjected. Before he could answer, she said, “If you repeat that trumpery sham again, the answer will still be no.”

Mrs. Thyme was clearly in the grip of strong emotion: confusion, pleasure, suspicion . . . All of it chased across her face. Decorum won. “My niece will entertain no offers of marriage without her uncle’s permission,” she stated, adding, “Even from a duke.”

“I would expect no less,” Silvester said, bowing again. He drew a folded sheet of parchment from his breast pocket, handing it to Mrs. Thyme. “I would have allowed your husband’s missive to reach you through the Royal Mail, but for the fact that love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books.” He flicked a twinkling glance at Stella.

Stella’s temper detonated. She flattened her hands on the table and leaned toward him. “I suggest we alter Romeo’s lament. I’d propose ‘Love goes toward Yasmin as schoolboys from their books.’”

“Stella,” her aunt protested. She was still reading her letter. “Your Grace, am I to understand that you visited Mr. Thyme at our country estate?”

“Certainly,” Silvester said. “After being overcome by emotion at the Duchess of Trent’s Roman Fête, I felt I had to express the violence of my emotions, but naturally, decorum was foremost in my mind. I left for the country, as I could not wait until Mr. Thyme returned to London.”

“How romantic,” Mrs. Thyme said, frowning as she tried to decipher her husband’s handwriting. “Mr. Thyme writes that he has acquired a pineapple stove, hoping heat will increase the size of his gourds.”

“I was pleased to be introduced to the pineapple stove, after which Mr. Thyme agreed to allow me to propose to Lady Stella,” the duke confirmed.

Stella felt like howling, a little dizzy with anger. Having been warned her entire life that as a redhead, her temper would easily flare out of control, for the very first time, she felt a Medusa-like fury springing from her hair. Or her brain.

Mrs. Thyme suddenly snapped upright like a hunting dog on the scent. “Your Grace, you were at the garden party? I was informed there would be no male guests.”

“The Duchess of Trent had no idea that I would accompany my mother,” Silvester said, a nicely judged note of apology in his voice.

“The dowager,” Mrs. Thyme exclaimed, her expression changing from suspicion to stark misgiving. “I forgot . . . that is, I had not taken Her Grace into account.”

“You should have, Aunt,” Stella remarked. “The duke is such a dutiful son. Imagine all the marvelous family gatherings we might have in the future if I accepted his proposal. Which I shall not.”

“Your happiness is my only concern,” Mrs. Thyme said without conviction.

“I don’t wish to marry His Grace. In fact, I refuse to marry him. Under any circumstances, as it would make me very unhappy.”

“Oh, but Stella, you’d be a duchess,” her aunt pointed out.

“Better a happy spinster than an unhappy duchess.”

Silvester dropped his elegant stance, squared his shoulders, and leveled a molten stare at Stella, made of a brew of primal masculinity and ducal outrage. “I assure you that my duchess will be happy.”

“You will not be in control of her emotions,” Stella retorted. “Any more than you were able to control your love for Yasmin, or hers for the earl.”

“Enough of Lady Yasmin,” Mrs. Thyme said, putting the letter to the side and rising from the table. “Your Grace, I shall allow you ten minutes to make your proposal in private while I decipher whether my husband is writing about gourds or his niece. I trust that you will act like a gentleman. Stella, you may escort him to the drawing room; leave the door open, if you please.”

Stella bobbed a curtsy, unable to bring herself to look at Silvester’s face. She walked down the corridor and then moved to the side to allow him to open the door to the drawing room. Which he promptly closed behind them.

“My aunt will fear the worst,” she said stiffly, not meeting his eyes. “She has strong feelings about appropriate behavior for betrothed couples, let alone those who are not betrothed, like ourselves.”

“Stella,” Silvester said, his voice a deep rumble, utterly unlike the light sophisticated tones he had used a moment ago. “Would it be so terrible to be married to me?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Stella inquired. “I understand your wish to win every battle, Silvester. But this is madness. Truly. Next Season you might meet another Yasmin, and what then? You’d be tied to me for life.”

“I am not interested in finding another Yasmin,” Silvester said, folding his arms over his chest. “I want to marry you. It has nothing to do with winning. If anything, I am resigning myself to the fact that my mother will crow about her better judgment for the next thirty years or so. You are right: she decided you’d make a marvelous Duchess of Huntington from the moment she met you. By proposing to you, I am losing a familial battle.”

“I feel as if I’ve walked into someone else’s story,” Stella said, after the silence between them stretched too long.

The pirate was peeking out from the aristocrat: Silvester’s burly shoulders were straining his silk coat, and his jaw was set in a manner that would startle polite society. Actually, terrify most of them.

“I can make you happy,” he said stubbornly, his eyes fixed on her face.