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“You’re mine,” Silvester growled, his breathing choppy. His hips arched, just enough so that their bodies snapped together like puzzle pieces.

She thought it was meant as a declaration, but there were undertones of a curse. Whatever this was between them, it had caught him by surprise as well.

“It’s just lust,” Stella managed.

“Not just, though that’s part of it.” Making an obvious point, one of his hands rounded her breast, eyes caught on hers, nodding when she trembled, and her nipple beaded to a point in his palm.

“I want to marry you,” Silvester said, his voice velvet dark. “I want you, and you want me, Stella. I don’t adore you. I’m not kneeling before you. Although I can think of occasions on which I might.”

His thumb moved, and Stella shuddered all over. “Might what?” she whispered, not following.

“Kneel before you.” His voice was everything wicked and seductive that he wasn’t, in general. His hips pushed close again.

“Kiss me,” Stella said, because heat was burning through her, fogging her brain. She wanted more, more of that rocking pressure, the slide of his tongue against hers, the desperate flex of his fingers on her bottom.

Thankfully, Silvester was more rational than she was, because two minutes later, when Mrs. Thyme burst through the door, clucking with irritation to find it was closed against her express wishes, he had already set Stella on her feet. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring out the window at the street.

Stella turned around, praying that her hair didn’t look too rumpled. “I’m sorry that the door was closed, Aunt, but as you see, nothing untoward happened. The duke has been a perfect gentleman. He has offered his hand in marriage once again.”

Her aunt didn’t look convinced. Stella glanced to the side and found that Silvester had put on his ducal facade. It would take a stronger woman than her aunt to accuse him of impropriety.

“I see.” Mrs. Thyme seated herself and waved at the sofa opposite her. When they were all sitting down, she asked, “Stella, what do you wish to do?”

“I have refused the Duke of Huntington’s proposal,” Stella stated. “I think he is suffering from delusions.”

Silvester flashed her a look. Obviously, temper was not merely the provenance of redheads.

“Your Grace, perhaps you might court Stella,” Mrs. Thyme suggested. “This has all been remarkably sudden! I am not surprised that Stella is shocked by your attentions.”

“Actually, my attentions are not sudden,” Silvester said.

“Yes, they are,” Stella said. “You were known throughout London as Lady Yasmin’s foremost suitor only a month ago.”

“Ah, but two months hence, I accompanied you to your bedchamber.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

When playing whist, Silvester loved holding a trump card. When he had a card powerful enough to triumph over all suits, he hugged it close and played it judiciously.

Now?

Hearing Mrs. Thyme’s hysterical cry?

Meeting Stella’s betrayed gaze as her aunt collapsed backward in her chair?

He should not have played that card.

“When?” Mrs. Thyme gasped.

“It was when Specs placed the mouse on my pillow,” Stella said, rubbing her aunt’s hand. “And nothing happened, Aunt!”

“I feel a spasm coming, such a fluttering as I’ve never experienced!” One of Mrs. Thyme’s hands clutched Stella’s, while the other pressed her right breast, which she apparently understood to house her heart.

Stella leaned closer. “His Grace has exaggerated the situation. We never approached the bed.”

Mrs. Thyme was visibly trembling, head to foot. “I warned you, Stella. I told you and told you that men are at the mercy of their lusts. Now you’ve been ravished, and it’s my fault. I never should have allowed him to accompany you upstairs. This is my fault!” She began sobbing so hard that she didn’t seem to be breathing properly.

Silvester was struck by the conviction that even for a woman who suffered from nerves, Mrs. Thyme’s reaction was unusual. Most women would celebrate a daughter who snared a duke by luring him into a bedchamber.