“Hush, Grandfather!” Yasmin said. “Mr. Rossini might hear you.”

“I prefer Handel. Or Haydn, on the violin.”

She patted his arm. “It’ll be supper time after a quartet performing Beethoven.”

“Thank goodness,” the duke said with satisfaction twenty minutes later, after the musical portion of the evening concluded. “I’ve arranged for us to eat a bite with young Pettigrew. He’s got prize hounds, you know. I mean to have one off him.”

“Do you still hunt, Grandfather?”

“Every gentleman hunts!” her grandfather said indignantly. But as they walked to the dining room, he added, “I thought a dog might be company when you leave.”

Yasmin hugged his arm closer, lowering her voice to say, “I won’t go far. Giles’s estate runs next to yours.”

“But that future husband of yours is endlessly in town, racketing around the House of Lords, raising trouble,” the duke said. “When he stopped by last night, did he tell you about the speech he gave yesterday?”

“We didn’t get to the subject,” Yasmin said, and broke into a storm of giggles at her grandfather’s wry chuckle.

“I don’t miss being young,” he said, leading her across a dining room dotted with small tables. “I do miss your grandmother. She had more joie de vivre than I did, so the early years of our marriage were a constant surprise. I have a feeling that your earl already finds himself similarly startled.”

“Oh, dear,” Yasmin said under her breath as she realized Lord Pettigrew was—naturally enough—seated with his fiancée, Lydia. She looked about wildly and caught Giles’s eye just as he seated himself at a table across the room. He had apparently asked Lady Stella for the supper dance.

The duke turned his head. “Hmm?”

“Lady Lydia is not fond of me,” Yasmin reminded him under her breath.

“Young fool,” His Grace said, barreling forward. “Here we are!”

Lydia and Lord Pettigrew came to their feet, His Lordship bowing with the respect due to an elderly still-powerful peer, and Lydia dropping a curtsy that expressed dissatisfaction verging on disrespect.

A footman had sprung forward and pulled out a chair for Yasmin. Her grandfather’s attention had been caught by an acquaintance at the next table.

“What an exquisite gown you are wearing, Lady Lydia,” Yasmin said.

“My mother has noted that my fiancée’s elegance sets an example for her sex,” Lord Pettigrew said, beaming.

Lydia looked Yasmin over, her eyes lingering on her bodice. “Thank you, Lord Pettigrew,” she said to her fiancé. “Of course, not everyone can be a good example; some must serve as a warning.”

“Quite so,” Lord Pettigrew said heartily, turning to the duke, who was seating himself. “I understand that you’d like one of my hounds, Your Grace. Were you looking for one with scenting ability alone, or would you care for one that loves water as well?”

“I’ve actually thought about cold-hardiness,” the duke said. “Some of my happiest memories involve hunting roe deer after a snowfall.”

“Of course,” Lord Pettigrew said, his face brightening. “Now . . .”