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What she needed was an older, cuddly version of Giles. “Cuddly” was a new-to-her English word, one that summed up so much, to Yasmin’s mind: it meant to hug or embrace, but also to be comfortable with.

Their silence was growing embarrassing. “You show to advantage without a coat,” Yasmin said. “Do you box?”

“Yes,” Giles stated.

A raindrop splashed on her cheek, and he reached out and brushed it away. Their eyes caught.

“You’re right. We should return,” he said, looking back at the mansion. The ladies had retreated inside. “Even if my sister had been imprudent enough to venture into the garden, she hates discomfort. Lydia would never play the coquette in this weather.”

“All right,” Yasmin said. She felt a bit shaken, unable to come up with another playful comment, her stock-in-trade. There was something about Giles’s uncompromising gaze that made it difficult to flirt with him.

Before she could move, his hands closed on her shoulders. Yasmin’s eyes widened at the sensual intent in his eyes, but she didn’t stop him when he slowly drew her closer, or when he leaned down, and his mouth touched hers. Their lips met and clung. He didn’t press her, and she didn’t open her mouth.

The man had no warmth in him and yet a brush of his lips sent heat racing down her limbs. One kiss ended and another began. Yasmin swayed toward him as his lips met hers in yet another chaste kiss that sent pure lust quivering through her body.

“You are so—” His voice broke off, but that raw, abandoned tone spoke for itself.

Yasmin felt dazed, her heart beating too fast, her mind unable to keep up, but one thing was clear: she didn’t want to feel like this. She wanted nothing to do with kisses that made a woman dizzy. She’d experienced those before and still had the scars. Lust led to horrendous decisions.

The earl pulled back and dropped his arms from around her. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

He was back to the clipped, aristocratic tones of an earl. His gaze was remote, with all the warmth that he might show a parlor maid. A misbehaving parlor maid, given his hardened jaw.

Even though Yasmin agreed, she felt a flash of anger. “Because you don’t like me?” she asked, the question slipping from her lips before she thought better of it.

His lips tightened. Silence answered her.

The blow felt almost physical, which was so stupid. She’d known that truth for months, after all. “True, you don’t have to like someone to desire them,” Yasmin supplied for him, slipping off his coat and pushing it into his hands.

She walked quickly back, ignoring the silent man pacing at her side. She was battling with shame. How stupid could she be?

So many men had tried to seduce her, yet after her experience with Hippolyte, she had easily refused them. That was her secret defense when English ladies sneered at her: she had nothing to be ashamed of. Their husbands, brothers, and sons may desire her, but she never returned the compliment.

Yet Giles Renwick, Earl of Lilford, hadn’t even bothered to flatter her. Presumably, he couldn’t think of anything complimentary to say. She tried to imagine him praising her: “You are so . . .” what?

So frivolous. So loose. So beneath him.

The words beat through her head in a pitiful melody that made her irritated with herself. And with him, that stupid man who thought she wasn’t good enough for a second waltz but kissed her when no one was watching.

They walked silently through the drawing room. When they reached the ballroom doors, Lydia’s yellow topknot was instantly visible.

“My sister is waltzing with Pepper a second time,” Giles observed blandly as if nothing had happened between them.

Lydia’s cheeks were pink and her eyes shining, though it was a question how her brother would interpret her expression. Presumably, he was aware that it was improper for a young lady to waltz twice with the same gentleman. One might accept two invitations to dance, but two waltzes?

To Yasmin’s mind, Lydia was positively begging to be labeled “brazen,” if not worse. Yet, the last thing either sibling wanted was her opinion. Clearly.

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

She turned away and curtsied in front of her waiting dance partner, London’s most eligible bachelor, Silvester Parnell, Duke of Huntington. He wasn’t precisely cuddly, but at least he didn’t look at her with icy dislike.

The duke bowed. “Good evening, Lady Yasmin. Chilled to the bone?” he asked as they slipped onto the dance floor, joining the waltzing couples.

“Are my gloves very cold?” Yasmin asked. “I’ve been outdoors and it’s beginning to rain.”

“Not the weather,” Parnell said. “The earl. Lilford.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Chilly bugger, isn’t he? Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have used that word in front of a lady.” His eyes laughed at her.

Yasmin let his cheerfulness replace the sick feeling in her chest. This duke liked her as she was. “Bollocks!” she said, grinning back at him. “You don’t care for the earl?”