“What on earth does one do with mismatched buttons?” Giles’s tone was bewildered.

“I have a button box,” Yasmin said. “I like them because they are beautiful.”

“Buttons are made for use,” Giles said. His expression cleared. “Do you use them as examples for a modiste?”

“No.” Yasmin felt embarrassment creeping up her neck. “I just collect pretty ones. Some are tiny works of art. Look at this one.” She held up a large brass button enameled with delicate posies and bordered by tiny brass dots.

“I suppose you could add it to a pelisse.” Giles obviously thought she was cracked.

Yasmin told herself yet again that no one can command affection, and it was useless to bang one’s head against the wall. “It has no purpose. It’s merely beautiful.”

Giles handed a shilling to Miss Whisker, who cackled and handed the button to Yasmin.

“You needn’t!” Yasmin protested. Then something caught her eye. “I’ll have this one.” She dug in her pocket, handed over a coin, and gave the button to Giles. “For you.”

The earl looked profoundly startled. “Me?”

“I adore buttons with painted scenes. It’s a little boy feeding sparrows, and that would be his mother. I love her ruff and the feathery tree behind them. I would guess it’s French. Metal with glass.”

Giles’s fingers closed around the button. “Thank you.”

She felt a flash of embarrassment. “I know it’s a silly gift, especially for an earl. People likely give you ruby buttons.”

“No one has given me a ruby button.” He turned it over in his hand. “Actually, I don’t think anyone has given me a present in years.”

“That’s—” Yasmin said, before she caught back the words. He was not a man who would welcome sympathy. “I suppose gifts are for children.”

“We should make our way to your grandfather’s house.”

She turned to go, catching a glimpse of him handing Miss Whisker another coin, a shiny gold one this time. “That was kind of you,” she said as they reached St. Martin’s Lane. “I’m sure Miss Whisker finds it difficult to support herself.”

A hackney pulled over the moment Giles stepped forward into the lane. Likely, providence just rearranged itself when he walked about. He would always find a hackney, even in the rain.

But when she told him that, he looked at her blankly. “I never ride in hackneys. I prefer my own carriage.” As soon as the vehicle started, he returned to his previous topic. “Miss Yates treated you discourteously, Lady Yasmin.”

Yasmin sighed. Thinking about being snubbed made her feel lesser. Besides, he was hardly one to speak, given the snubs that he’d given her on occasion.

“That’s a strong way to describe it,” she said. “Miss Yates is very young. I gather that her mother’s third marriage is not a happy one, so perhaps her home life is not delightful.” She rushed on, trying to change the subject again. “Delightful, of course, means filled with delight. That’s one part of the English language that I admire so much: the way one can add three tiny letters and the meaning changes.”