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“We were at school together, but he decided early on that I was a frivolous excuse for a man and not worth his time.”

A shared confession felt soothing. “Alas, the earl has a similarly low opinion of me.”

“More the fool he,” the duke said, twirling her in a circle.

“No flirtatious comments,” she ordered, letting her smile fall. “I like you too much for that.”

“I am not fool enough to join the parade of besotted men at your heels. Of whom, I might add, the Earl of Lilford is definitely one. I’ve caught him more than once standing at the edge of the ballroom, staring at you like a mooncalf.”

“Nonsense. Lord Lilford was preparing his next insult.” Yasmin had no intention of discussing Giles with anyone, let alone one of her suitors.

“It’s irresistible, given how you look in that gown.”

“Enough,” Yasmin ordered. “I’m sick to death of flattery.” Silvester Parnell was fast becoming one of her closest friends—but only as long as the duke avoided the kind of flummery that made her uncomfortable.

“It’s irresistible to tease you.”

She frowned.

“Anyone who watches you closely will notice that you are a flirtatious minx in public and prudish in private. Most of my fellows haven’t noticed because they’re imbeciles in public and private.”

“Do not watch me closely,” Yasmin ordered.

“Do not watch me closely, Silvester?” he amended.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Very well.”

Silvester’s grin was charming; he was intelligent, fairly handsome, titled. Giles didn’t have his charm, so why was she still thinking about his kisses? It was absurd. Obviously, she should marry the friendly duke, who liked her, and laughed at her jokes.

If her grandfather had attended this ball, His Grace would be nodding with approval from the sidelines.

Her grandfather was under the fixed conviction that the only way to heal the shame Yasmin’s mother had brought upon the family was for her daughter to marry a highly respected peer. “If only Mabel had chosen to engage in garden-variety adultery,” he had told Yasmin a few days ago, “no one would give a damn. But no. She had to sleep with an emperor!”

Yasmin reserved judgment about adultery; it seemed to her that malicious gossip circulated widely, no matter the indiscretion.

Still, according to her grandfather, marriage to a duke would remedy the family disgrace.

Yasmin had the distinct sense that Silvester—for all his claim not to be one of her suitors—was a purposeful man. In the past three weeks, he had danced with her, plied her with champagne, and told her stories of his family.

One of these days he would pull out an heirloom ring, likely a rock as big as one of his knuckles.

And then what would she do?

Chapter Four

Breakfast the following day

82, Stratton Street, London

The Duke of Portbellow’s townhouse

As a little girl, Yasmin and her nanny used to visit her mother every morning promptly at eleven a.m. Her mother would be half-buried in rosy satin pillows, a matching eye shield pushed to her forehead and a band of satin snugly wound around her chin in an effort to combat much-dreaded jowls.

It wasn’t until Yasmin was older that she understood that her mother’s grogginess was due to the soothing drops she took in her morning chocolate. She would languidly touch Yasmin’s cheek. “You are pure sunshine, chérie,” she would murmur. “You have a beautiful smile. Your teeth shine so. Always smile, even when the world frowns at you.”

Yasmin learned to brush her teeth without complaint, and to smile even when French ladies sniggered. People didn’t know what to make of Yasmin’s smile. It made them uncomfortable that she wielded happiness like armor.

But this morning she was having trouble summoning even a grimace. She had woken with the conviction that it was time she found a husband whose respectful manners would dispel her grim memories of Hippolyte Charles and his stupid long whiskers.