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“Miss Racking drew the pattern herself,” Mrs. Quimby said gloomily. “When her mama saw it, she refused to accept the gown, saying that I should have ripped up the design. The Racking fortune comes from textile mills, so the girl thought the more fabric, the better. She was wearing her dowry, in effect.”

“The trim is worse than the sleeves,” Cleo said, chortling with laughter. The hem was adorned with a series of scalloped ruffles, each half-moon marked by an orange net flower. “On a happier note, this gown is guaranteed to make you a wallflower.”

“Possibly,” Yasmin said, twisting gently so the gown belled at the bottom. For all its design flaws, it was beautifully constructed.

Mrs. Quimby’s mouth twitched, and Yasmin had the feeling she was biting back a harsh comment. “The gown is as good as a chastity belt,” she said instead.

Unfortunately, the very next day, Yasmin’s grandfather had an attack of gout that kept them home. Even more disappointingly, Giles sent a hastily written note saying that concerns about his sister’s betrothal would prevent him from visiting. Apparently, Lord Pettigrew was expressing some doubts, and Giles was escorting Lydia to the family home outside London, where hopefully the cracks in their relationship could be smoothed over.

They would return to the city for the ball that Lord Pettigrew’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Chichester, were giving in honor of their son’s betrothal . . . if the betrothal survived.

By the time the ball came about, a week later, Yasmin was itching to see her fiancé. That wasn’t a very romantic way of putting it, but she felt as if she was losing her mind, lying in bed at night thinking about the angles of Giles’s cheekbones, the clean lines of his jaw . . . the rest of him.

Especially the unruly part that refused to obey him. The part he wanted to cover up with a long coat. Every time she thought of its velvety strength, her fingers curled as if they were caressing something hard and hot.

When Yasmin descended the stairs attired for the betrothal ball, her plan nearly came awry.

“I won’t be seen with you!” His Grace declared, scowling. “You look like the upstart offspring of a grocer trying to elbow her way into society.”

“The fortune of the lady who designed this gown stems from textiles, not lettuce,” Yasmin said, adjusting the little orange reticule that Mrs. Quimby had given her. “Perhaps I won’t be recognized.”

“Oh, they’ll recognize you,” the duke retorted. “They’ll think you’re dicked in the nob. I don’t have an overly high opinion of my consequence—”

“Yes, you do,” Yasmin said, cutting him off. “Giles wants me to dress like a wallflower, Grandfather.”

“That won’t work.” It took a moment to sink in, then His Grace’s eyes sparked with mischief. “Oh, ho! So we’re teaching your future husband a lesson, are we?”

“Do you think it’s too mean?” Yasmin asked.

“Not at all! The boy thinks if you dress like a Puritan, men won’t be on their knees before you?” The duke snorted inelegantly.

“Do you think that if I wear my pearls over the white gauze it would be too preachy?”

“Absolutely not,” His Grace said, chortling. “Carson, fetch my granddaughter’s pearls. On second thought, where’s that double strand that my wife wore to church? Let’s wrap her in pearls.”

“I have pearl-headed pins in my hair,” Yasmin told him.

He squinted at her. “I can’t see them. What happened to your hair? It seems to be a different color.”

“A dusting of powder,” Yasmin said. “To bring down the gold tones.”

The duke hooted. “Why didn’t I summon you from France when you caused your first scandal? Time wasted, time lost.”

“I’m somewhat worried that Giles will be annoyed,” Yasmin admitted.

“Hasn’t much of a sense of humor,” the duke said, nodding.

“He’s developing one,” Yasmin said, hoping that was true. “He has strict notions of the way a Countess of Lilford should be viewed by society. I’m hoping to show him that clothing does not make the man. Or woman. He says that my wardrobe—no, more than that, my behavior—is not appropriate for a countess.”

“Balderdash! A countess can wear whatever she wants. You’ll take them all by storm,” His Grace said, cackling with glee. “If anyone can carry off that gown, it’s you, Granddaughter. Then I suppose you’ll wear your Frenchified gowns again.”

“My wardrobe gives me confidence.” She shrugged. “I see no reason to placate the sterner elements of English society, as they will never approve of me.”

“Your disregard for the rabble’s opinion stems from the blood of dukes in your veins,” His Grace said, smiling at her again.

“Any show of weakness is fatal,” Yasmin said, sharing her favorite maxim.

“Precisely. A duchess has no weaknesses.”