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“You did well, Mrs. Thyme,” her husband said in his quiet way. “Our niece is now one of the highest in the land.”

Lillian smiled at him, noticing he had distinguished streaks of white hair over his ears. They were both growing old, but now that Stella was taken care of, it wouldn’t matter. “I think my sister would be happy.”

A group of scruffy men, gossip columnists, stood on the opposite side of the street, scribbling madly on scraps of paper. Behind them, liveried grooms held back hordes of Londoners, who had gathered to see the new duchess.

The duke’s coachman walked with magisterial slowness to his master, hoisting a large canvas sack in the air. Silvester pulled small velvet pouches from the sack and began tossing them to the excited crowd of Londoners.

“Those velvet bags are a step up from tossing a handful of coins, the way most bridegrooms do,” Lillian whispered to her husband.

“That should squash the rumor that Huntington married Stella for her money,” Mr. Thyme responded. “This is all very shrewd of the duke. A woman carrying a child cannot ride a horse. His Grace would never endanger his heir, so this is an efficient way of quelling the claim that our niece is enceinte.”

“He managed to crush the idea that he had lost his money and counter the claim that Stella is carrying a child,” Lillian said, awed by the duke’s forethought.

When the bag was empty, His Grace put an arm around Stella and pulled her against his chest. She waved at Lillian and blew her a kiss. When they took off at a canter, the tears Lillian had been suppressing rolled down her cheeks.

“She’s go-gone.”

Mr. Thyme handed her a snowy white handkerchief. “Not for long.”

“She caused me such grief,” Lillian said, trying to explain. “But without her . . . there’s nothing in London without her.”

“Then come to the country,” Mr. Thyme said. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled in a kindly fashion. “The duke promised to bring our niece for a visit.”

Lillian had never considered leaving the city, but in contrast to the brittle, gossiping people who surrounded her, Mr. Thyme suddenly seemed like a safe harbor.

“Kittens had just been born when I left,” he said.

“Oh,” Lillian managed, blotting her cheeks.

“Red as Stella’s hair,” he added.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stella’s teeth were just beginning to feel rattled when Silvester rounded the corner and drew up next to an imposing barouche, shaped like one of her uncle’s gourds, albeit with an escutcheon painted on its bulbous side. Grooms, dressed in the normal Huntington livery rather than white velvet, dashed toward them.

“That was a short ride,” Stella remarked, turning her head to look up at Silvester.

“Hello, wife,” he said, just touching her nose with one finger before he jumped down and held up his arms.

Stella leaned forward and allowed him to pluck her from the saddle. She was filled with emotions that she couldn’t identify. She felt like babbling, which she never did. She felt nervous, and excited, and loving, befuddled, besotted . . . all kinds of embarrassing words that she had vowed to herself she would never utter aloud, and wished she wasn’t feeling.

“As you know, our townhouse is filled with guests,” Silvester said, as Stella climbed into the barouche and sat down. It was lined in midnight blue velvet, and a silver bucket containing ice and champagne was affixed to the wall.

“I am aware of that,” Stella said, pushing her wind-tousled hair behind her shoulders as the carriage took off. “My aunt and I penned the invitations to the wedding breakfast.”

Silvester leaned forward, plucked her off the carriage seat, and popped her on his lap. “Huntington Grange, on the other hand, is empty. That’s our country house.”

Stella couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. It was all too embarrassing. Silvester nudged her head to the side so he could kiss her neck. “Oh,” she said lamely.

“I plan to make love to you in every room,” Silvester said, the words coming out with burning intensity. “In every damn room, Stella. I mean to strip your clothing off in the library and have my way with you on the manuscript table.”

Stella gulped. “I, ah . . .”

“I summoned all the footmen to London for the wedding breakfast. Wickford insisted on leaving a few maids in the country, or I would have emptied the whole place.”

“No cook?” Stella inquired, somewhat alarmed.

Silvester’s mouth settled over hers without answering. His arms surrounded her with passion and heat that burned through her clothing. This emotion she understood.