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In fact, he had the feeling her emotions had little to do with Stella, who had pulled out a handkerchief and was blotting her aunt’s tears. “I was not ravished,” she said soothingly. “I’ll bring you a cup of hot tea, and you’ll feel better.”

“My heart is beating as if it might burst from my chest,” Mrs. Thyme cried. “Where are my smelling salts?”

“I’ll return immediately,” Stella said. She kissed her aunt’s cheek, rose to her feet, and walked through the door without a glance at Silvester.

No matter how much he wanted to marry Stella, Mrs. Thyme’s distress was so real and deep that he had to withdraw the trump card. Silvester slid into Stella’s place and took Mrs. Thyme’s hand. “I would never ravish a woman. Never.”

“I kn-know,” she hiccupped.

“I cannot allow you to believe that I deflowered Lady Stella. I did not.”

“I see,” Mrs. Thyme faltered.

“I offered her no violence.” He kept his voice deep and calm. “My father raised me to have the greatest respect for the female sex.” That was certainly true. And what his father hadn’t said, his mother had enforced.

“Of course, you are a duke,” Mrs. Thyme said.

No title ever prevented evil, but he nodded.

By the time Stella returned to the room carrying a cup of tea, her aunt had calmed, although she was still clutching her bosom, air sawing in and out of her lungs. Silvester moved back to his seat on the sofa. Stella coaxed her aunt upright with practiced ease, handing her tea, a fresh handkerchief, and a vial of smelling salts.

Silvester watched silently. On the one side, he felt sorry for arousing Mrs. Thyme’s fears. But on the other? He had the distinct feeling that if he left the building, Stella would refuse to ever see him.

She was livid. She hadn’t met his eyes, but every bit of her body signaled indignation, if not hatred. Stella would never play chess with him again, or waltz with him, or argue with him. She wouldn’t let him woo her.

That was . . . unacceptable.

In fact, the very idea felt like a knife to his chest. Somehow, without noticing, he’d become attached to the idea of marrying a pint-sized vixen.

When Mrs. Thyme was calmer, he said, “I wish to assure you once more, Madame, that I maintained decorum throughout my brief visit to Stella’s bedchamber.”

“You must think me a veritable hysteric,” she quavered, blotting her eyes again. “My doctor says I am a delicate woman, prone to allowing fear to overcome my rational senses. I should have known you would behave with the utmost propriety.”

“You see, Aunt? You have nothing to worry about,” Stella said.

“I mentioned that event because of my growing conviction that our mere visit upstairs was improper,” Silvester said, crafting a tone that was concerned yet ducal. “I am compelled to propose marriage after such a breach of decorum.”

Stella finally looked at him, but only to roll her eyes.

“I see,” Mrs. Thyme said uncertainly. She took the handkerchief away from her swollen eyes and peered at his face.

“I was taught that a duke must maintain the highest propriety. My conscience has anguished over that visit upstairs with your niece.”

Stella rose to her feet, put her hands on her hips, and hissed, “You are a fraud, Your Grace. I suggest you stop speaking immediately.”

“In mentioning that I accompanied Stella upstairs, I meant to emphasize that my attraction to her was obvious far earlier than a month ago,” Silvester said, ignoring his irascible almost-betrothed. “Most of London believed I was courting Lady Yasmin, but in truth, I was coming here to play chess nearly every morning.”

“That’s because you thought of Stella as a little sis—” Mrs. Thyme broke off, her mouth forming a comical circle. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

Stella was watching, arms folded over her chest. “Perhaps you might leave now, Your Grace.”

Silvester kept his eyes on Mrs. Thyme. “I didn’t debauch your niece, but we have kissed.”

“Stella!”

“Several times.”