Her relationship with Hippolyte had been secret too, but the Frenchman had lured her with promises of love and adoration. Giles had never lied to her.

Yasmin walked up the stairs aware that all the delicious, bawdy heat was leaking out of her. What was she doing? She was the one who said that they wouldn’t bed each other, and then she acted like a strumpet.

He had the right to expect—

Except she knew deep down that Giles would never make a demand, no matter how strumpet-like her behavior might be. He would wait for her to decide.

He followed her into the bedchamber and closed the door behind him. And latched it, she noticed.

“I would like to try making love again. Not now,” she added hastily.

He walked over to her. “There’s no rush, Yasmin. We are not yet married.”

“But we are betrothed.”

“True.” He waited, eyes patient and warm and lustful all at once.

“Did you expect me to change my mind?”

“I hoped you would. When you asked me to hold you in the carriage, I felt hopeful.” His eyes drifted down to her crumpled skirt.

Yasmin smoothed the creases, knowing her fingers were trembling. She cleared her throat.

“Would you like me to leave?” Giles asked.

It was only at that moment that Yasmin realized how much she had expected humiliation as a response to revealing desire. The way Hippolyte had made her desire him, and then laughed about it to the French court. Shamed her for going to that cottage with him. She fidgeted. “Before, you seemed to consider me such a wanton.”

Giles’s jaw tightened. “I believed gossip, even when I was scolding my sister for repeating it. I find that ironic given what happened to my father.”

Yasmin stepped forward into his arms and pressed her lips to his chin. To the right of his lips. To the left of his lips.

A sound escaped his mouth, hardly more than a sigh. She kissed the sound, the echo of longing that she felt in the strong hands curving around her back. His mouth opened and then they were clinging together as arousal roared through her limbs.

She pulled away to breathe, hearing words tumble from Giles’s lips, raw and hoarse, telling her that he was on fire, that her breasts were . . . She let the sound of his voice sink into her skin, leaving the meaning to the side.

Giles loved it when she showed desire for him. She just had to believe him.

She took one step back, bringing him with her. And then another step and another, until she pulled him down to the bed on top of her.

He caught himself just as he was about to sprawl on top of her, pushed himself up on his arms, and asked, “Yasmin?”

“Why am I sometimes Mina and sometimes Yasmin?” she asked, smiling at him. A thick lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and she pushed it back.