He laughed. Laughed.

The sound was still unfamiliar to Yasmin.

“Not quite,” he told her. “Lord Pettigrew, the future Marquess of Chichester, will be married with pomp and ceremony in St. Paul’s Cathedral, which requires preparation. But I have readied the announcement of our betrothal for the London papers. I cannot wait to tell the world that you are mine.” A trace of desperation crossed his face. “Every damn time I watch you dancing with another man I feel as if I’m losing my mind.”

“I can develop a sprained ankle if you wish,” Yasmin said, tracing his bottom lip with a finger.

“What an ass I am,” he said ruefully. “You enjoy dancing, and dance you shall.”

“I wish we could waltz.”

He shook his head. “Lydia will accept reality once she is married. I intend to give her a letter to open when she returns to England after her wedding trip. This time with her is my wedding present. Not that she hasn’t noticed me watching you. She’s still briskly enumerating all your faults.”

Yasmin flinched.

“You do give her cause, the way men fall at your feet.”

She searched for the right answer, couldn’t find it. “I don’t have to dance,” she offered again.

Giles shook his head, then swung out of bed and pulled on his breeches. She watched as he bent over to haul on his boots. Not even the slightest belly fat bulged over his waistband. “Our bodies are so different.”

He glanced at her. “Thank God.”

“I have a rounded tummy,” Yasmin said, pursuing her train of thought.

“It will be more rounded,” Giles said.

She blinked at him.

He bent over the bed, bracing his arms on either side of her head. “Are your courses regular?”

“Never,” she said promptly. “There’s no reason to worry. It takes ages to have a child. Just look at my mother having only me. She tried to have another with the emperor.”

Giles shook his head. “My point is that you, my dear future countess, may already be carrying a child.”

“I would know,” Yasmin said. “I would be nauseated, or dizzy, or any number of other symptoms that women discuss.”

“Excellent,” Giles said.

“You don’t want a child?” Yasmin’s eyes searched his face.

“Not yet.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and went to the door.

She watched the door shut behind him, thinking about how in love she was with her grumpy, ethical earl.

Totally, wildly in love. The feeling was nothing like what she felt for Hippolyte. She knew Giles’s faults and loved him for them.

For being himself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

One week later

Lord and Lady Melton’s Musical Soirée

As guest of honor, the Duke of Portbellow was ushered to the front row of Lady Melton’s musical soirée, which meant that Yasmin was unable to turn her head and see whether Giles and Lydia had arrived yet.

“You seem rather subdued,” her grandfather observed in an intermission. “What did you think of this guitar? An absurd instrument, like a violin that belched.”