“I expect she tore a flounce,” Yasmin said. “Lord Lilford, if you’ll excuse me, I see friends seated in the far corner, so I shall join them.”

“No.”

She blinked at him.

He narrowed his eyes in return.

“I’m sorry I mentioned your sister’s absence from the ballroom,” Yasmin said. “Surely we needn’t actually go outside.”

For one thing, that would have everyone chattering about them, which she was certain the earl would loathe. And for another, it might start raining. She dampened her skirts, but a damp bodice would be a step too far. She was wearing a short corset, and her breasts were generously sized.

“If there is any chance that Lydia is in that garden with Lord Pepper, I must know.” Giles’s voice was so grim that Yasmin sent up a special prayer to the patroness of naughty young ladies. There was no need for the earl to catch his sister canoodling with a man; after this evening, he would surely keep a closer eye on her.

Moreover, Lydia had been using her brother’s waltzes with Yasmin to cover up her indiscretions. But Yasmin didn’t intend to ever dance with Giles again.

Problem solved.

Chapter Three

Giles Renwick was accustomed to getting his own way, which invariably had a terrible effect on a man’s character. Luckily, Yasmin had no interest in taming the Earl of Lilford. His mother should have taught him manners long ago, and since the lady had failed in the task . . . it was too late.

If she kept telling herself that, one of these days she would believe it.

He would be a dictatorial, obstreperous husband, not even taking into account that if she, Yasmin, were waiting at the altar, he likely wouldn’t show up.

The two of them in proximity at an altar was as likely as shrimps learning to whistle.

Taking a deep breath, she allowed the earl to escort her onto the terrace, ignoring the curious glances that made her back prickle.

“I don’t see Lydia,” Giles stated.

Yasmin kept her gaze steady. “I expect that I was wrong.”

His brows drew together.

“Very wrong,” she added. “I’m often wrong.”

His frown deepened, but he didn’t respond.

“Shall we return inside? I think it might rain any moment.” Yasmin glanced to the right, where the mother of her dance partner Algernon was standing with a friend, both of them openly staring. She smiled and raised her hand, and Lady Dunlap turned away.

The cut direct, and not for the first time. No one in England seemed to know the details of her scandalous past with Hippolyte, but that didn’t stop the rumors from circulating.

It wasn’t her fault that Algernon Dunlap chose to write sonnets to her eyes. If he were a turkey, Algernon would be the first to drown in a rainstorm after looking up at the sky. Yasmin had never encouraged his attentions, but he persisted in his poetic efforts, anyway.

Actually, that was one of the reasons why Yasmin preferred English men to French. Algernon wrote poetry without the faintest hope he would successfully gain her attention, whereas Frenchmen used their lyrics to seduce the innocent and unwary.