“Another bad poet,” Yasmin sighed.

“Yes, but at least Dunlap’s poetry is original. No one would crib a line that described his love as being ‘faultless as a blown rose in June.’”

Yasmin started giggling. “The ‘blown’ was unfortunate, wasn’t it? He explained that he needed another syllable.”

“I’m not a poet.” His eyes were lit with wicked mischief. “Faultless as a flea?”

“I don’t have fleas!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Silvester said, a silky tone entering his voice. “A duchess shouldn’t be infested.”

Yasmin rolled her eyes.

“It would make the marital bed so uncomfortable, don’t you think?”

Yasmin snapped her fan shut and stood. “I should find my dance partner.”

Silvester stood as well. “I went too far. Forgive me?”

“No need,” she said, glancing around for Algernon.

He took her hand. “I made a coarse jest, and I apologize.”

Yasmin could feel herself turning pink again. “I am not . . .” She tried again. “I am somewhat prudish.” Then she remembered saying “bollocks” to him. She was a hypocrite who loved bawdy words, but not when deployed in flirtation.

“You are a constant surprise and a delight. Please, won’t you sit down, Yasmin? I promise to be good.”

She somewhat reluctantly allowed him to draw her down onto the sofa again. “I really mean it, Your Grace. No more flummery, and no improper jokes. I don’t like them. That is, I do like them, but not when they are like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, a smile playing around his lips.

To her discomfort, it was an affectionate smile.

“Lewd. I may never marry,” she added, succumbing to a sudden impulse to tell him the truth.

“You might change your mind about that. Even if your heart is bruised.”

He was entirely too perceptive.

Yasmin managed a careless smile, though it was not easy. A mere hint of weakness would give the gossips reasons to rejoice, and the last thing she wanted to do was admit that her heart did feel bruised, as if she were a girl in the French court once again.

Giles wouldn’t care that he had wounded her feelings.

“My heart is whole,” she said airily, her facade firmly in place.

Chapter Seven

Yasmin and Silvester were still nestled on the sofa when he said, “Jove himself just entered the drawing room with his sister, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” Yasmin said automatically.

“Wearing black, of course, although he complied with the duchess’s request by wearing a pink neck cloth,” Silvester continued, ignoring her. “His valet must have washed it in beet juice. Lilford is broodingly handsome, don’t you think?”

Yasmin did think, but she wasn’t going to admit it. She deliberately did not look about the room for Giles. “You are just as handsome.”

“Not a bit of it,” Silvester said cheerfully. “I have the family nose, and I’m no good at looking stern and moody, which my sisters tell me is what makes the earl so desirable. Personally, I think it signals nothing more than irritability and likely indigestion. Just look at him now. He’s in a fury. Perhaps he ate too many beets in preparation for the ball.”