Hippolyte’s gaze turned cold. He hadn’t realized.

“It makes me wonder how you can afford the clothing you wear,” the duke added. “But on closer inspection I see that they are not precisely à la mode.”

“You too were part of the conspiracy to drag us apart!” Hippolyte cried, ignoring the duke’s sartorial criticism. He cast a glance at the eager audience surrounding them. “Imagine, if you will, the exquisite Lady Yasmin, at the age of sixteen, a rosebud, untouched by—”

“Enough,” Yasmin said, surprised by the cutting tone in her own voice. “You are a blackguard, Monsieur Charles, and I can only say that my father was correct to reject your proposal of marriage.”

“Given we had enjoyed each other for a week,” Hippolyte retorted, “most in the French court thought he was foolish.”

Whispers arose in a sharp wave like wind rattling through dry cornstalks.

“I was the foolish one,” Yasmin said, head high. She glanced at the audience around them, though she couldn’t bring herself to look at Giles. “I was sixteen years old, desperately in love. I believed this man when he brought me before an abbé, a priest, who pretended to marry us.”

“Alas, one’s first passions are inevitably horrifying in retrospect,” her grandfather said contemptuously. “One can only hope those repellent mustaches were not in evidence years ago, but one fears they were.”

Hippolyte opened his mouth, but Giles stepped forward. Without a word, his fist crashed into Hippolyte’s jaw. The man swayed; Giles struck him another solid blow.

The Frenchman fell backward like a felled pine, ladies screaming as they leaped out of the way.

Giles prodded him with his foot, and then jerked his chin at one of the footmen. “Remove this rubbish.”

The Prince Regent barreled up. “All the excitement happened when I was downstairs!” he squealed. Looking down, he made a childish pout. “Oh, it’s that Frenchman. Who is he again?”

A cacophony of excited voices answered him, but Lady Dunlap’s rose above the rest. “One of Lady Yasmin’s former lovers.”

“Your Majesty, his name is Hippolyte Charles,” Yasmin said.

“Well, get rid of him,” the Regent cried, waving his hands at the footmen. “Hideous mustaches, hideous. I’m sure you can do much better.” His smirk was a masterful invitation.

“Thank you,” Yasmin said. She felt as if she had turned to ice.

Her grandfather took her arm. “Would you like to leave, my dear?”

“No,” she said calmly. Her eyes met Giles.

He bowed. “Lady Yasmin, may I request the honor of your hand in this waltz?”

Her throat closed, and she couldn’t answer, but she took his hand. Head high, she allowed Giles to sweep her into the waltz.

She only stumbled once, on meeting Lord Wade’s gleaming eyes. He looked like a vulture, waiting to swoop down on carrion. She was the carrion: ruined now that English gentlepersons had encountered her past. Vague gossip was one thing, but now they knew she was no lady. She had been ruined since the age of sixteen.