Giles touched her cheek. “Please don’t look like that, Yasmin.”

She forced a smile. “I am learning to be a countess, I promise. But Giles, changing my clothing won’t work.”

“When you actually are my countess, I won’t feel so possessive.”

Yasmin wasn’t sure about that. She was realizing that her future husband, whom she loved despite his cranky nature, had very few people in his life. His father and mother had been uninterested. His sister and he loved each other but they weren’t intimate. He had acquaintances, not friends.

She was the first person who was truly his. She glanced back at the house but no one was within view, so she came up on her toes and kissed him gently. “I will buy a wallflower wardrobe, I promise. I will try to be more countesslike.”

“Not countesslike,” Giles said, closing his arms around her and putting his cheek against her hair. “Mine, Yasmin. Be mine.”

“I am yours.”

Quite likely, men like Lord Wade would fade away once an earl with a possessive edge in his voice declared himself ready to defend her honor. She sighed. “Wallflower it is, but only until we are married.” She poked him in the chest. “I won’t put up with interference in my wardrobe after that, even if my skirts are so drenched that I leave a snail trail behind me!”

Giles started laughing. “A snail trail?”

She didn’t answer because Giles had lost his head and was kissing her so fiercely that the only thing she wanted was to be without clothing.

His hands ran up the front of her bodice and with one gentle tug, exposed her nipple. “I’ll miss this,” he murmured.

A sharp thought went through Yasmin’s mind. What did he imagine she would be wearing? The kind of garment that Quaker women wore, with only a glimpse of skin visible?

Then she realized that her betrothed was looking at her with more than just lust in his eyes. There was a flickering touch of wonder there too. He looked at her as if she was the only interesting person in the world.

In his world.

Yasmin suddenly felt as if a cloud had moved away from the sun. Who cared what her fiancé thought about her garments? Giles was merely trying to say, in his masculine fashion, that he liked her. Or more than liked her.

Loved her, perhaps.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next morning, Cleo accompanied Yasmin to Quimby’s Emporium. They walked into an open area with curtained dressing rooms to one side and a huge mirror situated before a low platform.

Mrs. Quimby bustled over to them, dropping a curtsy before Cleo—who was her partner in the emporium—and Yasmin.

“We’re here to order Lady Yasmin a prudish gown,” Cleo said, smiling at her. “Yasmin, this is my dear friend and co-proprietor, Martha Quimby.”

“Good morning, Lady Yasmin,” Mrs. Quimby said, dropping another curtsy. “Prudish will be a pleasure. I spent yesterday measuring debutantes, most of whom believe they should dress like a young matron, exposing every asset they have. They’re imitating you and the Duchess of Trent,” she told Cleo.