Ten minutes later, Yasmin walked from the dressing room, and Cleo began giggling before Yasmin even stepped up on the platform before the large mirror.

The gown was made from heavy purple-and-yellow-striped silk that frothed into ruffles below the waist. Orange silk crossed over the bodice, and a white bodice sewn beneath rose into flared collar points at the neck.

It was certainly demure. There was no chance that anyone might glimpse the line of her leg. Yasmin occupied twice as much space as she might normally, thanks to a ruffled petticoat.

“You look like a rooster dressed for a costume ball!” Cleo went into a fit of laughter.

Mrs. Quimby stood back, arms over her chest. “The gown is still a monstrosity,” she observed. “You’d be a pleasure to dress, Lady Yasmin, if you weren’t set on being a wallflower.”

Yasmin had never seen a garment like the one she was wearing. “These sleeves are unusual,” she observed, plucking the puffs that marched down her arm. The puffs of gold silk were tied with red cords, giving her arms a vague resemblance to a puffy caterpillar.

“Miss Racking drew the pattern herself,” Mrs. Quimby said gloomily. “When her mama saw it, she refused to accept the gown, saying that I should have ripped up the design. The Racking fortune comes from textile mills, so the girl thought the more fabric, the better. She was wearing her dowry, in effect.”

“The trim is worse than the sleeves,” Cleo said, chortling with laughter. The hem was adorned with a series of scalloped ruffles, each half-moon marked by an orange net flower. “On a happier note, this gown is guaranteed to make you a wallflower.”

“Possibly,” Yasmin said, twisting gently so the gown belled at the bottom. For all its design flaws, it was beautifully constructed.

Mrs. Quimby’s mouth twitched, and Yasmin had the feeling she was biting back a harsh comment. “The gown is as good as a chastity belt,” she said instead.

Unfortunately, the very next day, Yasmin’s grandfather had an attack of gout that kept them home. Even more disappointingly, Giles sent a hastily written note saying that concerns about his sister’s betrothal would prevent him from visiting. Apparently, Lord Pettigrew was expressing some doubts, and Giles was escorting Lydia to the family home outside London, where hopefully the cracks in their relationship could be smoothed over.

They would return to the city for the ball that Lord Pettigrew’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Chichester, were giving in honor of their son’s betrothal . . . if the betrothal survived.

By the time the ball came about, a week later, Yasmin was itching to see her fiancé. That wasn’t a very romantic way of putting it, but she felt as if she was losing her mind, lying in bed at night thinking about the angles of Giles’s cheekbones, the clean lines of his jaw . . . the rest of him.

Especially the unruly part that refused to obey him. The part he wanted to cover up with a long coat. Every time she thought of its velvety strength, her fingers curled as if they were caressing something hard and hot.