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Yet here he was, blood pounding as he waited for the first waltz, which she had promised to him. Meanwhile the lady was romping through a country dance with Edwin Turing.

All polite society knew she’d turned down Turing’s marriage proposal, along with those of at least eight others. Wasn’t it Shakespeare’s Juliet who described Romeo as a bird with a string around his leg?

Other ladies dispatched rejected suitors to woo other women. Lady Yasmin blithely kept her wooers on a string, thirsty for a smile or a waltz. It was profoundly irritating to count himself among them—and scant relief that no one in London realized that he was so . . . enchanted?

Was “en-lusted” a word?

No matter his obsession, Giles could never ask her to be his countess. Lady Yasmin’s gowns were cut too low, and her skirts were dampened to cling to admittedly lovely thighs. She loved to gossip—and giggle. She smiled and flirted with everyone from new babies to elderly men with a foot in the grave. It was rumored that she carried a small flask of brandy to balls, claiming to hate lemonade.

She wasn’t dignified, or polite, or even truly British, given her French upbringing. Not to mention the fact that her mother had been one of Napoleon’s mistresses, a fact Yasmin made no effort to hide.

One of her silliest suitors had written a sonnet claiming her hair was the color of cowslips and her eyes as violet as twilight. To Giles’s mind, her beauty didn’t matter, though he appreciated her low bodices as much as the next man. What caught him was her laugh, the way she shared joy so freely.

Yet asking her to be his wife was unthinkable.

Full stop.

He allowed himself to dance with her once an evening, always the first waltz. Thereafter, he courted proper, eligible ladies, forcing himself to avoid Lady Yasmin. Telling himself that he was searching for an appropriate countess, as demanded by custom and tradition.

When the first waltz was finally announced, Giles made his way to her side, bowing and kissing her gloved hand. His whole body relaxed as his arm closed around her, and they moved into the dance.

With a start, he realized that she had burst into speech.

Then again, when wasn’t she chattering?

“Your sister is dancing with Lord Pepper,” Lady Yasmin told him with an expectant glance.

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be a terrible match on paper, but you mustn’t ignore his penchant for the racetrack. He must find a wife with a large dowry.”

If there was one thing Giles loathed, it was gossip. Tittle-tattle of this sort had shattered his family and led to his father’s death, though Lady Yasmin would be unaware of that as she grew up in France.

He was the very last person to rebuff anyone on the basis of idle chatter.

“You’re giving me that hateful look again,” she observed. “I thought perhaps you reserved it for me, but I saw you glowering at Fitz earlier.”

Fitz—or the Honorable Fitzgibbon-Foley—was an irritating beetle of a man. The fact that the betting book at White’s had identified Fitz as an excellent candidate to win Lady Yasmin’s hand in marriage had no bearing on his opinion.

“I prefer to judge a man on his merits, rather than idle gossip,” Giles said. “I think a great deal of Lord Pepper.” Not that he knew more of the younger man than vague memories from Eton. Pepper hadn’t taken up his seat in the House of Lords, which meant that Giles paid him no attention.

“You are responsible for your sister’s welfare,” Lady Yasmin retorted, as she floated through the dance. “You have chosen to escort her to events yourself, rather than place her in the hands of a reliable chaperone, which means that you must pay attention to such details.”

It was entirely predictable to find irritation seeping into his veins; it happened whenever they engaged in conversation.

“What gentleman doesn’t attend the races at Doncaster and Ascot?” Giles inquired, raising an eyebrow. “No one would question Pepper’s place in society.”

Lady Yasmin’s brows were perfect arches even when she scowled. Giles had a mad impulse to trace them with a finger. A finger that would drop down to touch the sweet flush on her cheek and then caress her lips.

Presumably, those lips were inherited from her French father, because no Englishwoman had lips that plush, let alone tipped up into a near-constant smile.

She wasn’t smiling now. “Are you referring to those who question my place in fashionable circles?”

“I—”

“True, my mother’s position as one of the emperor’s dearest friends precludes her rejoining English society, had she longed for such delight.” Lady Yasmin’s ironic tone made her mother’s feelings clear. “But my grandfather, the Duke of Portbellow, assures me near daily that the English do not visit the sins of parents upon their children. My mother gave me one of Napoleon’s hats, and my grandfather perched it on a skeleton he keeps in the drawing room. He considers the family connection, as it were, a jest.”

“You are indubitably a lady,” Giles stated. “I meant that blather about the racetrack is no reason to discount a suitor for my sister’s hand before the man has even proposed.”