Yet here he was, blood pounding as he waited for the first waltz, which she had promised to him. Meanwhile the lady was romping through a country dance with Edwin Turing.

All polite society knew she’d turned down Turing’s marriage proposal, along with those of at least eight others. Wasn’t it Shakespeare’s Juliet who described Romeo as a bird with a string around his leg?

Other ladies dispatched rejected suitors to woo other women. Lady Yasmin blithely kept her wooers on a string, thirsty for a smile or a waltz. It was profoundly irritating to count himself among them—and scant relief that no one in London realized that he was so . . . enchanted?

Was “en-lusted” a word?

No matter his obsession, Giles could never ask her to be his countess. Lady Yasmin’s gowns were cut too low, and her skirts were dampened to cling to admittedly lovely thighs. She loved to gossip—and giggle. She smiled and flirted with everyone from new babies to elderly men with a foot in the grave. It was rumored that she carried a small flask of brandy to balls, claiming to hate lemonade.

She wasn’t dignified, or polite, or even truly British, given her French upbringing. Not to mention the fact that her mother had been one of Napoleon’s mistresses, a fact Yasmin made no effort to hide.

One of her silliest suitors had written a sonnet claiming her hair was the color of cowslips and her eyes as violet as twilight. To Giles’s mind, her beauty didn’t matter, though he appreciated her low bodices as much as the next man. What caught him was her laugh, the way she shared joy so freely.

Yet asking her to be his wife was unthinkable.

Full stop.

He allowed himself to dance with her once an evening, always the first waltz. Thereafter, he courted proper, eligible ladies, forcing himself to avoid Lady Yasmin. Telling himself that he was searching for an appropriate countess, as demanded by custom and tradition.

When the first waltz was finally announced, Giles made his way to her side, bowing and kissing her gloved hand. His whole body relaxed as his arm closed around her, and they moved into the dance.

With a start, he realized that she had burst into speech.

Then again, when wasn’t she chattering?

“Your sister is dancing with Lord Pepper,” Lady Yasmin told him with an expectant glance.

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be a terrible match on paper, but you mustn’t ignore his penchant for the racetrack. He must find a wife with a large dowry.”

If there was one thing Giles loathed, it was gossip. Tittle-tattle of this sort had shattered his family and led to his father’s death, though Lady Yasmin would be unaware of that as she grew up in France.

He was the very last person to rebuff anyone on the basis of idle chatter.

“You’re giving me that hateful look again,” she observed. “I thought perhaps you reserved it for me, but I saw you glowering at Fitz earlier.”