Fitz—or the Honorable Fitzgibbon-Foley—was an irritating beetle of a man. The fact that the betting book at White’s had identified Fitz as an excellent candidate to win Lady Yasmin’s hand in marriage had no bearing on his opinion.

“I prefer to judge a man on his merits, rather than idle gossip,” Giles said. “I think a great deal of Lord Pepper.” Not that he knew more of the younger man than vague memories from Eton. Pepper hadn’t taken up his seat in the House of Lords, which meant that Giles paid him no attention.

“You are responsible for your sister’s welfare,” Lady Yasmin retorted, as she floated through the dance. “You have chosen to escort her to events yourself, rather than place her in the hands of a reliable chaperone, which means that you must pay attention to such details.”

It was entirely predictable to find irritation seeping into his veins; it happened whenever they engaged in conversation.

“What gentleman doesn’t attend the races at Doncaster and Ascot?” Giles inquired, raising an eyebrow. “No one would question Pepper’s place in society.”

Lady Yasmin’s brows were perfect arches even when she scowled. Giles had a mad impulse to trace them with a finger. A finger that would drop down to touch the sweet flush on her cheek and then caress her lips.

Presumably, those lips were inherited from her French father, because no Englishwoman had lips that plush, let alone tipped up into a near-constant smile.

She wasn’t smiling now. “Are you referring to those who question my place in fashionable circles?”

“I—”

“True, my mother’s position as one of the emperor’s dearest friends precludes her rejoining English society, had she longed for such delight.” Lady Yasmin’s ironic tone made her mother’s feelings clear. “But my grandfather, the Duke of Portbellow, assures me near daily that the English do not visit the sins of parents upon their children. My mother gave me one of Napoleon’s hats, and my grandfather perched it on a skeleton he keeps in the drawing room. He considers the family connection, as it were, a jest.”

“You are indubitably a lady,” Giles stated. “I meant that blather about the racetrack is no reason to discount a suitor for my sister’s hand before the man has even proposed.”

“So you don’t care that your younger sister is dancing with a hardened gambler?” she inquired now. “I would, were she my sister. But were she my sister, she would have a chaperone.”

“Lydia doesn’t want a chaperone,” Giles said.

She wasn’t attending. “I’m not sure I had that right. ‘Were she my sister’? That’s right, isn’t it? Because Lady Lydia couldn’t possibly be my sister. ‘I would, was she my sister’? No, that definitely doesn’t work.”

“Your English is improving,” Giles said. Instantly, he felt like a condescending ass, because her command of the language was excellent.

Lady Yasmin didn’t take offense. “I wish you’d tell my grandfather as much. His Grace corrected me twice at breakfast this morning.” She rolled her eyes. “If only he could hear me now, using the subjunctive like an Oxford don.”