“I didn’t let myself think of Yasmin being ill,” Giles said, the truth wrenched out of him. “I thought she wanted to break our engagement, that she might have chosen another man. I had to keep my sister’s betrothal afloat, so I planned to join her the moment Lydia married.”

They were silent for a few minutes.

“I feel sorry for Pettigrew,” Jake said.

“She likes him.” It was a lame excuse, and Giles knew it. “They both like dogs.”

“It was his choice,” Jake said. “More the fool he. Still, you’ve got a steep hill ahead of you. My point is that Yasmin should matter more than your dignity.”

“I see.” He did.

“Don’t read her letters now,” Jake suggested. “Do it together.”

The carriage jolted on. Jake braced himself in a corner and went to sleep with the ease of a man who often spent days on the road. Giles stayed awake, allowing himself to recognize the cold feeling he felt as terror, stark terror.

He fully expected a wheel to come off. A milk cart to cross the road. A horse to go lame. Instead, Jake’s carriage pulled into an inn and smoothly changed to a fresh team. He and Jake used the necessary, then climbed back into the carriage, devouring the roast chicken handed over by the innkeeper.

Jake entertained them both by telling the story of how the Duke of Trent managed to marry his brother’s fiancée. Giles nodded here and there, watching the mile posts flash by. His heart was thumping a rhythm that spelled out the name of his betrothed.

The name of the woman he loved.

Chapter Thirty-One

When Jake Addison’s carriage bowled through the tall gates that surrounded his country estate, Yasmin was in the drawing room alone. Cleo was working in her study upstairs.

She was seated at the window, practicing a crochet stitch that made it easier to create strings adorned with scraps of silk. One of Merry’s sons wanted a kite with twelve tails. It would never take flight, in her opinion, but that wasn’t relevant.

Her host’s chaise was a sleek green vehicle built for speed. She saw it coming from far away as it swept down the long avenue lined by elms. She watched Giles climb from the carriage, shake himself, and stride into the house.

She began trembling and put her crochet work to the side.

Giles walked into the room carrying a covered basket. He pushed the door shut behind him without a word. He was pale, his eyes tight and shadowed, his jaw hard, a pulse beating in his forehead.

Yasmin didn’t smile, an errant bolt of pride flaring up her backbone. “I see that your right hand has not been amputated,” she said, because a lady needs to claim some self-respect. “I thought perhaps injury had prevented you from answering my letters.”

Giles walked across the room to her, dropped the basket, and stood, looking down at her. “Good evening, Yasmin.” Courteous as always. Remote, polite, solicitous.