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Giles’s voice was a low growl. “You want me. And God, I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman. You smell better than any woman I know.”

That made her blink.

He leaned closer. “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Sometime later, they drew back. “You took your prize before you won the wager,” Yasmin said, her breath coming hard.

Giles had no idea what she was talking about. Then he remembered the desserts and the wager of a kiss. Yasmin was smiling at him: He felt as if he were a frozen person and she a fire. She was a warm haven, and he had been wandering in an icy field for most of his life.

He traced her lip with his finger. “I have dreamed of kissing you.” He had dreamed of seeing that desirous, joyous look in her eye.

Bloody hell, he was losing his mind. Giles cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “I fully intend to eat the rest of the delicacies and win the wager. I love cakes.”

“No, you don’t,” Yasmin said, shaking her head. “You hate them, don’t you?”

He stilled, torn between denial and the truth. “How did you know?”

“You have perfected the art of avoiding expression.” Her fingers plucked his sleeve, and she started pleating the fabric without noticing.

Giles stayed utterly still, as if he had coaxed a sparrow to land on his arm. She never touched him casually, the way she did Silvester. As if he were a friend.

“Yet I saw a flash of utter revulsion when you tasted the nougat.”

He thought about what to say.

“No fibbing,” Yasmin said. “You hate nougat, don’t you?” Her giggle twirled around him like a warm breeze.

If he didn’t eat the cakes, there was no reason not to return to Covent Garden. Yet he was certain that producing Napoleon’s hat would destroy Yasmin’s chance of marrying Silvester and becoming a duchess.

Becoming a duchess.

If Yasmin could become a duchess, she could bloody well become a countess. True, someone was trying to blacken her reputation, but as long as he kept the hat away from the scavenger hunt . . .

She could be a duchess.

He didn’t want her to become a duchess, but a countess.

His countess.

Countess of Lilford.

The hell with reputation, his family’s or hers. His mind reeled, but one thing was clear to him: there could be no presentation of Napoleon’s hat. No, two things:

No Yasmin, Duchess of Huntington, either.

“I love cake,” he repeated, forking up another bite of nougat. His tongue recoiled but he chewed the gooey mixture and swallowed it.

“Fibster! I won’t allow you to eat any more,” Yasmin said. She stood, grabbed his plate, and moved it to another little table. Then she moved the rest of the nougat cake as well.

“I wish to eat it,” Giles said stubbornly. He fixed her with a stare.

“Ooo, the frozen glare,” Yasmin said, giggling.

The look that terrified others slid off her. Didn’t land. Had no effect.

She sat back down beside him and picked up her teacup, bright eyes meeting his over the rim of her cup. “Why are you trying?”

He put his fork down rather than dig into a different sweet confection. Instead, he took a sip of oversteeped tea, bitter to the palate. “Why did I eat the nougat cake?”