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It felt as if a shard of glass lodged deeper in her heart as the days went by. She’d walk around a corner and discover Cleo in her husband’s arms. The shard would shift, sending pain streaking through her chest. She had been certain Giles would respond to her letter about Hippolyte, but every day that passed without mail, the shard gouged again.

Finally, she wrote him a last letter . . . that letter. The one saying she loved him.

She didn’t send it through the post, because she kept worrying that perhaps her other letters had been lost in the post. Instead, she dispatched one of Jake’s grooms all the way to London. He reported that he had handed the letter to the Earl of Lilford’s butler, who promised it would be waiting when His Lordship returned from Parliament.

Days passed, a week . . .

Giles didn’t write back.

How could he not respond, after she put her heart on the page? She had other things she needed to tell him.

But she faltered at the idea of writing into that silent void.

After all, Giles wasn’t injured or dead. The papers reported near daily on his oratorial prowess, when they weren’t detailing his blooming romance with Lady Stella or simply mentioning him escorting his sister to this or that event.

One night she dreamed that he was tossing her unread letters into a ditch. The next night she dreamed that he galloped away, leaving her on a dusty road, and when she looked down, she was holding a little girl by the hand.

Her father had maintained dignity in the face of his wife’s lust for an emperor. Yasmin could do the same while her betrothal was besieged by the bespeckled, befreckled Lady Stella.

That was not fair to the lady. She herself had broken off their betrothal before Lady Stella and Giles were linked in the press. Still, she would write no more letters. Dignity would bring her through. Or at least, that’s what she told herself in the middle of the night.

Every morning, she woke convinced that Giles was not in love with Stella. Far more likely, once Yasmin was out of sight, and desire waned, he turned back to his work and forgot about her.

Then night would fall, and with it came fear and shame. Giles had decided she was too scandalous, too frivolous, too stupid to marry. She had slept with him before marriage. He had never bothered to buy her an engagement ring. His sister hated her.

Undeniable facts made Yasmin feel defenseless and vulnerable. Desired, but not respected. Fairness made her admit there wasn’t much about her to respect. Likely Hippolyte told everyone in London how lustful she’d been.

Shame squirmed in her stomach and made her feel more nauseated than the babe she was carrying was already doing.

“Why hasn’t your earl paid us any visits?” her grandfather grumbled over breakfast. “And why aren’t you eating your toast? You love toast. Shall I ask for kippers?”

Yasmin felt herself turning pale. “No!” she gasped.

Her grandfather narrowed his eyes. “Shall I ask for some ale?”

“Absolutely not.” She felt a little dizzy, meeting his eyes.

Cleo walked into the room, tossing a laughing rejoinder over her shoulder at her husband.

“The fiancé of yours hasn’t sloped off, has he?” the duke asked. “Just when you need him?”

“I don’t need anyone,” Yasmin said lightly. “I have you, Grandfather.”

His Grace reached his hand across the table and took hers. “You do have me.”

Yasmin managed a wobbly smile.

Cleo said, “I agree with your grandfather: Where is that fiancé of yours?”

“It’s a secret betrothal,” Yasmin said uncomfortably.

“If I were engaged to you, I would shout it from the rooftops,” Jake Addison said, grunting when his wife poked him in the side. “That is, of course, if I hadn’t already married my delightful wife.”

Yasmin fiddled with her fork. She had thought that perhaps if she wrote to Giles saying that she loved him, he would answer. In that case, she wouldn’t have to inform him that they had to marry because of the babe. It was so mortifying.

She and Giles could no longer break the engagement; she was carrying a child.

Yasmin shook her head. Across the table, Jake was piling scrambled eggs scattered with chives on his plate. The odor was revolting. “If you’ll forgive me,” she gasped, jumping to her feet.