A sob pressed on the back of her throat. “It can’t be! But what—what will I do?”

“You will come home. If you’re with babe, I promise you this: I’ll force that reprobate to marry you and put a dagger in his back within minutes of the ceremony.”

Her darling, handsome Hippolyte. “No!”

“It’s in the hands of God. I don’t suppose he used a condom?”

Yasmin had no idea what her father was referring to. Tears were pouring down her face, her heart smashed into a thousand pieces.

In future years, she always had trouble remembering the next few months. Yasmin had believed every whispered compliment and deceitful promise that Hippolyte had given her. Without him, the world was airless and dark.

She prayed for a baby, to have something of his, and when her courses began, her heart broke again. Her stomach and her bones and her heart were hollow and empty. Aching.

Every day, the gossip columns detailed Hippolyte’s antics at court; he was Empress Joséphine’s favorite, with his luxurious black mustaches and exquisite sense of fashion.

And every time Yasmin thought about him, a stone landed in her stomach. Her false marriage taught her a great deal about cruelty and degradation, and she learned more on the rare occasions when she ventured out of the house accompanied by her mother. No one dared snub a duchesse, but their savage comments about Yasmin’s lack of virtue were always audible.

Somewhat to her own surprise, she kept living, broken heart or no.

It took time, a whole year, but Yasmin decided that she was not a lesser person for being tricked. Hippolyte was. She had only been foolish for falling in love. For tumbling into his embrace with such joy.

After two years, she returned to court, head held high. By then, the stone had moved from her stomach to her heart, and she felt safe from further danger. Not for her, the tempests of emotion that followed love.

Her first evening back in the palace, Hippolyte Charles sauntered up to her and kissed her hand. “Such an exquisite angel could make a man such as I contemplate marriage.” The horrid man smirked at her.

She gave her laugh an edge of mockery, knowing that the court was listening with fascination. “Then allow an angel, monsieur, to assure you that Heaven is unlikely to be your final abode.”

Chapter One

Nine Years Later

26, Clarges Street

Lord Wilbraham Boodle’s Annual Ball

March 23, 1816

For over a decade, Giles Renwick, Earl of Lilford, had watched with distaste as acquaintances succumbed to lustful impulses that cast their lives into chaos, if not catastrophe. At the age of thirty-two, he prided himself on a private life as disciplined as his estate. He had never made a fool of himself over a woman.

Until now.

Lady Yasmin Régnier was ineligible for his attentions in every way: not as a wife, nor yet a mistress—she was a lady!—nor even as a friend, since they vehemently disliked each other.