One of these days he would pull out an heirloom ring, likely a rock as big as one of his knuckles.

And then what would she do?

Chapter Four

Breakfast the following day

82, Stratton Street, London

The Duke of Portbellow’s townhouse

As a little girl, Yasmin and her nanny used to visit her mother every morning promptly at eleven a.m. Her mother would be half-buried in rosy satin pillows, a matching eye shield pushed to her forehead and a band of satin snugly wound around her chin in an effort to combat much-dreaded jowls.

It wasn’t until Yasmin was older that she understood that her mother’s grogginess was due to the soothing drops she took in her morning chocolate. She would languidly touch Yasmin’s cheek. “You are pure sunshine, chérie,” she would murmur. “You have a beautiful smile. Your teeth shine so. Always smile, even when the world frowns at you.”

Yasmin learned to brush her teeth without complaint, and to smile even when French ladies sniggered. People didn’t know what to make of Yasmin’s smile. It made them uncomfortable that she wielded happiness like armor.

But this morning she was having trouble summoning even a grimace. She had woken with the conviction that it was time she found a husband whose respectful manners would dispel her grim memories of Hippolyte Charles and his stupid long whiskers.

Someone in whom she could confide her past, without fear of contempt.

Someone who would make her forget all about Giles.

Her grandfather, the Duke of Portbellow, was seated opposite her at the breakfast table, attired in the grand style of his youth. He had once told her that a gentleman without a wig was no better than a crusader without a helmet. And a gentleman without lace at the wrists?

No better than a chimney sweep, in His Grace’s opinion.

His wig was white, his morning coat was black, and the white flounces covering his hands were fashioned from lace as delicate as cobwebs. A footman stood behind him, painstakingly applying butter to toasted bread.

“You seem tired, Granddaughter,” the duke observed.

When she first arrived in England in February of last year, Yasmin had been certain he disliked her: certainly, His Grace despised the sensuality of her dress and the pleasure she took in frivolous subjects. Unlike her mother, the duke didn’t care for her smile and told her that if he wanted to see so many teeth, he would tame a lion. “I have it on the best authority that they smile just before they eat you,” he had told her.

But when one Season, followed by a tranquil summer, turned into a second Season, she decided that the duke rather liked her. In fact, her grandfather might be lonely if she returned to France, not that she had any such intention. Her mother had retired to Provence a few years ago, before Napoleon’s first exile, and neither the duc nor duchesse had evidenced a wish for their daughter’s return.