She was his baby sister. He loved her.

He followed her.

Chapter Six

The Duchess of Trent’s ball was the high point of the social Season. Merry scorned the idea of renting a few lemon trees, scattering them around the ballroom, and calling it a day. Instead, the American Duchess used her remarkable gardening skills to create extravagant events. Months ago, she had announced that this year’s inspiration was Titania’s bower from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Yasmin and her grandfather strolled into the Trent mansion and were promptly greeted by their hostess, who deserted the receiving line and sped toward her, hands outstretched.

“You look delicious!” Merry cried.

Yasmin smiled and spun in a circle. She wore shell-pink satin with a tiny, high bodice, cut low back and front. Her skirts were gored and floated around her ankles, trimmed with small net roses gleaming with spangles.

“And your diamonds are pink!” Merry exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I may be Queen Titania, Yasmin, but you are surely my lady-in-waiting! Or perhaps a visiting queen from another land. Wait until you see Cleo; she too is practically festooned in diamonds.”

“My granddaughter wears the Portbellow diamonds,” the duke announced.

“They are exquisite, Your Grace.” Merry caught Yasmin’s hand. “I must show you the ballroom!”

The large chamber was hung with strings of flowers graduating from pink blossoms to raspberry-colored roses, with exquisite white ferns providing a lacy border. The chandeliers were hung with blowsy silk, and in all four corners of the room, women costumed like fairies, with bodices made of roses and skirts of fern, strummed golden harps.

“It’s astonishing!” Yasmin exclaimed, awed. “Better than anything I saw at Versailles, Merry. I promise you that.”

“I love hearing that! I am already planning next year,” Merry said, laughing.

Dancing wouldn’t begin until later; at the moment ladies and gentlemen dressed in shades of rose and purple strolled through the grand ballroom, the ladies’ skirts brushing aside shoals of rose petals.

Having caught sight of Yasmin, gentlemen began arrowing toward the entry to ask her to dance. Merry squeezed her hand and returned to the receiving line.

“Granddaughter,” the duke said, appearing at her side. “May I present Viscount Templeton?”

The gentleman was tall, his dark hair just touched with frost. His eyes smiled down into hers. “It is my great pleasure, Lady Yasmin,” he said, bowing as he kissed her gloved hand.

Her grandfather’s introduction was a delightful start to the ball.

Since their hostess, Merry, was admired, powerful, and Yasmin’s friend, no one dared be openly rude. It didn’t bother Yasmin much to be mocked from behind the shelter of a fan. Even when ladies summoned up their courage and hissed a nasty word or two in the privacy of the ladies’ withdrawing room, she merely smiled at them and sailed out of the room.

Ladies at the French court—not to mention a furious empress—had provided an excellent training ground. Insults offered by a British noblewoman paled in comparison. All the same, it was a joy to be surrounded by genuine friends who cared for her, and a grandfather who seemed to like her more than her mother and father combined.