“It doesn’t bother you,” Giles said slowly.

Naturally, he refused to be distracted. It was likely a character trait.

“I am not responsible for Miss Yates’s opinion of me. I cannot change it.”

“But if you shifted your . . . your manner of dress, perhaps?”

“Are you trying to give me sartorial advice, Lord Lilford?”

“No.”

But he was. Yasmin couldn’t help a rueful laugh.

“When we give the dowager duchess Napoleon’s hat, it will excite gossip about your mother,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps,” Yasmin agreed.

“I didn’t like the way Lord Wade looked at you.” His mouth was very firm. “It would be advisable to cover your bosom so that he couldn’t ogle you in that manner.”

“You’re serious?”

“Entirely.”

“He would ogle me no matter what I wore,” Yasmin explained. “In his mind, there are two kinds of women, and thus he does not owe me respect.”

“I disagree,” Giles said. “You are a lady and as such, he ought to give you the respect that you deserve.”

Yasmin looked at his stubborn face and couldn’t help a wash of pleasure at his protectiveness. He was a gentleman, a true gentleman.

“I am not responsible for others’ opinion of me,” she said. “That’s a lesson I learned long ago, when I was still a young woman.”

“You are a young woman!”

“When I was a young girl, then. A young fool,” she added with a rueful smile.

“Foolish how?”

“Trusting,” she said lightly. “Eager to be in love and naïve enough to believe men’s promises. At that age, illusions about love are as common as . . . as sawdust in a sawmill.”

He frowned. “Your phrasing is very lively. But what you’re saying is that young girls are vulnerable to lying men. Is that why you left France, Yasmin?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is that why you have paid attention to my sister?”

She didn’t answer that either.

Chapter Eleven

Giles could not take his eyes off the woman seated across from him in the hackney. Lady Yasmin’s walking dress was not as low cut as her evening dresses but even so, the cut and fashion of it signaled that she was as flirtatious as his sister had labeled her—

Except that she was a lady, through and through. Flamboyant dress aside, Lady Yasmin had impeccable manners, charm, and a privileged lineage. She was . . . should have been . . . everything he sought in his future countess.

Yet, the gowns she chose to wear suggested otherwise. Even if his sister’s insults stemmed from petty gossip, Lady Yasmin’s clothing deepened the misgivings he already felt.

A thought darted into his head: The clothing she wore revealed too much of her creamy skin and hourglass figure, turning her into a sensual creature whom no man could call his own. He recoiled from the idea. When did he begin thinking that he could own any woman?

“Giles,” Lady Yasmin said suddenly. “You’re very kind to notice that my reputation is battered around the corners, but it is nothing you should be concerned about.”