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Someone in whom she could confide her past, without fear of contempt.

Someone who would make her forget all about Giles.

Her grandfather, the Duke of Portbellow, was seated opposite her at the breakfast table, attired in the grand style of his youth. He had once told her that a gentleman without a wig was no better than a crusader without a helmet. And a gentleman without lace at the wrists?

No better than a chimney sweep, in His Grace’s opinion.

His wig was white, his morning coat was black, and the white flounces covering his hands were fashioned from lace as delicate as cobwebs. A footman stood behind him, painstakingly applying butter to toasted bread.

“You seem tired, Granddaughter,” the duke observed.

When she first arrived in England in February of last year, Yasmin had been certain he disliked her: certainly, His Grace despised the sensuality of her dress and the pleasure she took in frivolous subjects. Unlike her mother, the duke didn’t care for her smile and told her that if he wanted to see so many teeth, he would tame a lion. “I have it on the best authority that they smile just before they eat you,” he had told her.

But when one Season, followed by a tranquil summer, turned into a second Season, she decided that the duke rather liked her. In fact, her grandfather might be lonely if she returned to France, not that she had any such intention. Her mother had retired to Provence a few years ago, before Napoleon’s first exile, and neither the duc nor duchesse had evidenced a wish for their daughter’s return.

“You’re not smiling,” her grandfather said now, revealing a rarely attempted ability to assess another person’s emotional state.

“’Twas a long night,” Yasmin said, accepting a plate containing a preparation of eggs done four ways.

“You could eschew the Duke of Trent’s ball tonight. Inspired by A Midsummer Night’s Dream indeed! Only an American would think that amusing,” His Grace said. He raised a finger, and a footman sprang from the wall. “Bring my granddaughter a portion of haddock. Your grandmother believed that young women,” he said to Yasmin, “require fish on a regular basis.” He raised the finger again. “And a small mug of beer. Good for a nursing woman.”

“I’m not nursing!” Yasmin was startled into saying.

The duke would never be so inelegant as to shrug, but he ignored her. “Beer,” he commanded. A footman scurried out the door.

“I am looking forward to the Trent ball tonight. I have a new gown, and moreover, I am very fond of Merry. She and Cleo are my closest friends,” Yasmin said, poking at the haddock that appeared before her.

“‘The American Duchess’,” her grandfather said with an air of disapproval.

She frowned at him.

“Although one must admit that Her Grace is an admirable mother who seems to have largely overcome her unfortunate ancestry,” he amended. “I would also note that she is an excellent influence on you, being older and mature.”

The last time Yasmin saw Merry, they had drunk a lot of brandy and reeled around the room practicing the Danse Écossoise, one of Yasmin’s favorite quadrilles, often danced in France, but not yet accepted in England.

If the august leaders of British society had seen Merry, Cleo, and Yasmin laughing and stumbling over each other, they might have retracted their conditional approval of the American Duchess. Merry’s claims to being “mature” were dubious; if Yasmin remembered correctly, Merry was still prancing around the room in fits of laughter after she and Cleo had collapsed under the influence of four glasses of brandy.

“My morning correspondence indicates that last night you waltzed with the Duke of Huntington, as well as the Earl of Lilford,” her grandfather said. “A duke and an earl. I must offer my congratulations. Lord Ferble described you as shining like a diamond of the first water.”

Yasmin sighed. Every morning, His Grace received a bevy of letters from his cronies, assessing her activities. During her first Season, his elderly friends had watched for signs of scandalous behavior—to no avail because she loved flirting but had no interest in further intimacies.

“What does that mean?” she inquired.

“Diamonds are judged by their brilliance, or ‘water,’” her grandfather replied. “Which reminds me that I must give you your grandmother’s diamonds. They were her personal possession and not entailed with the estate.” He turned to his butler, waiting by the sideboard. “Take the diamonds from the safe, Carson, and give them to Lady Yasmin’s maid.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Carson said, bowing.

“I have no need for diamonds!” Yasmin said, startled.

“I was waiting until you agreed to be presented to the Queen,” the duke said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Yasmin didn’t say anything. She had no intention of putting herself through such an uncomfortable experience. “I’ve had enough of royal courts, Grandfather.”

“Your grandmother would wish you to have her diamonds. There’s a necklace, earrings, bracelets, and an aigrette for your hair. It will encourage the fortune hunters, of course, but they already have you in their sights.” The late duchess had left her personal fortune to Yasmin, bypassing her scandalous daughter, Mabel. In retaliation for the insult, Mabel had bequeathed her daughter a generous dowry that originated in Napoleon’s coffers.

“Neither the Duke of Huntington nor the Earl of Lilford are in need of a fortune,” her grandfather said. “Their attentions can be assumed to be genuine.”

It was horridly unfortunate that Yasmin felt nothing other than friendship for Silvester, and even more unfortunate that she couldn’t get Giles’s muscular silhouette out of her mind. Of course, now that she was resolved to stop waltzing with him, she would quickly lose the absurd infatuation she had for the grumpy earl.