When Yasmin descended the stairs attired for the betrothal ball, her plan nearly came awry.

“I won’t be seen with you!” His Grace declared, scowling. “You look like the upstart offspring of a grocer trying to elbow her way into society.”

“The fortune of the lady who designed this gown stems from textiles, not lettuce,” Yasmin said, adjusting the little orange reticule that Mrs. Quimby had given her. “Perhaps I won’t be recognized.”

“Oh, they’ll recognize you,” the duke retorted. “They’ll think you’re dicked in the nob. I don’t have an overly high opinion of my consequence—”

“Yes, you do,” Yasmin said, cutting him off. “Giles wants me to dress like a wallflower, Grandfather.”

“That won’t work.” It took a moment to sink in, then His Grace’s eyes sparked with mischief. “Oh, ho! So we’re teaching your future husband a lesson, are we?”

“Do you think it’s too mean?” Yasmin asked.

“Not at all! The boy thinks if you dress like a Puritan, men won’t be on their knees before you?” The duke snorted inelegantly.

“Do you think that if I wear my pearls over the white gauze it would be too preachy?”

“Absolutely not,” His Grace said, chortling. “Carson, fetch my granddaughter’s pearls. On second thought, where’s that double strand that my wife wore to church? Let’s wrap her in pearls.”

“I have pearl-headed pins in my hair,” Yasmin told him.

He squinted at her. “I can’t see them. What happened to your hair? It seems to be a different color.”

“A dusting of powder,” Yasmin said. “To bring down the gold tones.”

The duke hooted. “Why didn’t I summon you from France when you caused your first scandal? Time wasted, time lost.”

“I’m somewhat worried that Giles will be annoyed,” Yasmin admitted.

“Hasn’t much of a sense of humor,” the duke said, nodding.

“He’s developing one,” Yasmin said, hoping that was true. “He has strict notions of the way a Countess of Lilford should be viewed by society. I’m hoping to show him that clothing does not make the man. Or woman. He says that my wardrobe—no, more than that, my behavior—is not appropriate for a countess.”

“Balderdash! A countess can wear whatever she wants. You’ll take them all by storm,” His Grace said, cackling with glee. “If anyone can carry off that gown, it’s you, Granddaughter. Then I suppose you’ll wear your Frenchified gowns again.”

“My wardrobe gives me confidence.” She shrugged. “I see no reason to placate the sterner elements of English society, as they will never approve of me.”

“Your disregard for the rabble’s opinion stems from the blood of dukes in your veins,” His Grace said, smiling at her again.

“Any show of weakness is fatal,” Yasmin said, sharing her favorite maxim.

“Precisely. A duchess has no weaknesses.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Marquess of Chichester’s Ball in honor of the betrothal of his son, Lord Pettigrew, to Lady Lydia Renwick, sister of the Earl of Lilford

As Yasmin and her grandfather walked into the Chichester ball, she was aware of a thrumming excitement deep inside, based entirely on the fact she was desperate to see Giles. True, he would not dance with her, given that the ball was in honor of his sister.