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Cleo joined them in the entry. Yasmin scarcely lifted her head from his chest, as if she were too ill to move. But her voice betrayed her. “Hello, darling.”

Their hostess rolled her eyes. “My chef won’t thank you for this, Yasmin. Mrs. Patchett appears to be warming up to a bout of hysterics. My guests will likely inform most of London that they’ve been poisoned.”

“Forgive me?” Yasmin asked.

“You do look as limp as a mackerel,” Cleo said, poking her in the side. “Who knew you were such a good actress?”

Yasmin’s lips moved.

“I saw that!” Cleo crowed. “Very improper, darling. Lord Lilford, will you please carry Yasmin upstairs?”

“I think it would be better to accompany her home,” Giles said.

Yasmin frowned. “My grandfather might worry.”

“He didn’t rise from his seat, so I think it’s safe to assume that he sampled the chicken without ill effect and judged you not to be terribly ill,” Cleo pointed out. “Lord Pettigrew may use one of our carriages to escort Lady Lydia home later. I shall send a maid to chaperone the betrothed couple.”

“Your vehicle is just round the corner, Lord Lilford,” the butler put in.

“Excellent.” Giles walked through the door feeling happier than he had in a week. “Very good idea,” he said, once they were outside, waiting for the carriage to appear.

Yasmin’s head lay against his chest, but she tapped him on the chin with a slender finger. “Lydia will be afraid that I am trying to entrap you.”

“She had been spending hours conjuring up terrifying pictures of my future if I marry the wrong woman. She is haunted by the idea that I might have married, for example, a woman who sells commodes.”

“Do you agree?”

“Actually, I think it would be marvelous to have another source of income, though we have no need for it, if you are disinclined.”

“I could probably sell a commode here or there, but I couldn’t run a company. I’m only good at making useless things.”

“Your kite strings are lovely.”

Yasmin frowned at him. “What are you referring to?”

“Those silk threads with bright twists in different colors, hanging in your window. They reminded me of the flags I used to tie to kite strings when I was a boy.”

Her eyes cleared. “They’re made of extra scraps of silk from Cleo’s Emporium. She loathes waste, so she gives me a bag of them now and then. Quite, quite useless, Giles.”

“But exquisite, like you.” He lifted her into his carriage, and jumped in after her.

She smiled at him. “We’re going to cover her drawing room in them for next year’s Trent ball. The theme is—”

Giles caught Yasmin in his arms, his mouth crashing down on hers.

In moments, Yasmin felt tender and hot, her whole being shamelessly focusing on enticing him to do more than kiss her.

Touch her. Stroke her.

“Do you know what I thought about in bed last night?” Yasmin asked, tearing her mouth away from his.

Giles’s eyes opened, reluctantly, she thought, but they were blazing. Her breath hitched.

“You, when we were on the settee in the drawing room, when you held me, with one hand,” she said, her voice uncertain. She was being frightfully bold.

“I held you here,” Giles said. His right hand slipped under her skirts and cupped her between her legs.

It felt so good that she dropped her head back against his shoulder. The deep well of longing in his eyes made her blood burn hotter. She could feel a flush rising in her cheeks and her breasts, the whole of her skin prickling to life.