Giles didn’t think that was true, given the hectic color in her cheeks. It made him wonder how much of the lady’s sophisticated manner was genuine, and how much was pretense. It also made him want to kiss Lady Yasmin until she lost the vaguely horrified look in her eyes.

“You’re certain that my sister was not in the room?”

“Indeed.” She cast him a narrow-eyed look. “Do not ask me for the names of that couple, Lord Lilford. You may believe what you wish about me, but I do not gossip about extramarital dalliances.”

She rapped on the next door, but before she could open it, Giles nudged her. “I’ll enter first this time.”

He walked into the room. Since it was empty, he moved to the side so that Lady Yasmin could join him. The chamber was lit only by a large candelabra on the mantelpiece, its light amplified by a gilded mirror. The room was apparently used by their hostess for informal moments with her family, given the books stacked on the floor, the toy elephant lying on its side, and the unfinished sampler on a side table next to a huge bowl of plump roses. Comfortable chairs covered in purple velvet clustered before a matching sofa with its back to them.

“Une belle chambre,” Lady Yasmin murmured.

Giles felt a bolt of lust at her husky voice that went straight down his limbs. “I’ve never heard you speak French.”

“I try to speak English as much as I can. Last Season I kept slipping into French, but I am better at English now.”

He’d noticed her voracious love of language, extending from American slang to the Book of Common Prayer. Before he could respond, he heard a rustle.

Like a jack-in-the-box, his sister popped up on the other side of the sofa.

“Lydia!” he exclaimed.

She pointed imperiously at Giles, for all the world like a furious Lady Macbeth.

“You lied to me!” she screeched.

During the stunned silence that followed, a young man got to his feet, hastily adjusting his coat. Somewhat to Giles’s surprise, it was Edwin Turing. He had been under the impression that Turing was one of Lady Yasmin’s most devoted suitors. Certainly, he played that role in public with a good deal of poetic vigor.

“Good evening, Mr. Turing,” Lady Yasmin said evenly.

He winced. “Good evening, Lady Yasmin. Lord Lilford.”

“What are you doing here, Giles?” Lydia demanded, ignoring this exchange. She scowled, apparently not realizing or caring that her topknot was falling halfway down her back, and she was thoroughly disheveled. “You promised that you would have nothing to do with Lady Yasmin!”

“You promised to avoid improprieties.” Giles folded his arms over his chest.

“With Lord Pepper,” Lydia retorted.

She rounded the sofa. More curls sprang free of her topknot, making her resemble a furious turkey-cock.

Lady Yasmin backed out of her way as Lydia walked straight to Giles and gave him a shove with both hands. “You’re a liar!”