“Yet I saw a flash of utter revulsion when you tasted the nougat.”

He thought about what to say.

“No fibbing,” Yasmin said. “You hate nougat, don’t you?” Her giggle twirled around him like a warm breeze.

If he didn’t eat the cakes, there was no reason not to return to Covent Garden. Yet he was certain that producing Napoleon’s hat would destroy Yasmin’s chance of marrying Silvester and becoming a duchess.

Becoming a duchess.

If Yasmin could become a duchess, she could bloody well become a countess. True, someone was trying to blacken her reputation, but as long as he kept the hat away from the scavenger hunt . . .

She could be a duchess.

He didn’t want her to become a duchess, but a countess.

His countess.

Countess of Lilford.

The hell with reputation, his family’s or hers. His mind reeled, but one thing was clear to him: there could be no presentation of Napoleon’s hat. No, two things:

No Yasmin, Duchess of Huntington, either.

“I love cake,” he repeated, forking up another bite of nougat. His tongue recoiled but he chewed the gooey mixture and swallowed it.

“Fibster! I won’t allow you to eat any more,” Yasmin said. She stood, grabbed his plate, and moved it to another little table. Then she moved the rest of the nougat cake as well.

“I wish to eat it,” Giles said stubbornly. He fixed her with a stare.

“Ooo, the frozen glare,” Yasmin said, giggling.

The look that terrified others slid off her. Didn’t land. Had no effect.

She sat back down beside him and picked up her teacup, bright eyes meeting his over the rim of her cup. “Why are you trying?”

He put his fork down rather than dig into a different sweet confection. Instead, he took a sip of oversteeped tea, bitter to the palate. “Why did I eat the nougat cake?”

She nodded. “No more fibbing.”

The truth, or part of the truth, sprang from his lips. “I don’t want to return to Covent Garden. I want to stay here.”

Her eyes widened.

“With you.”

Slowly, he reached out, giving her time to shake her head, move backward, stop him. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned toward him. Still hesitant, he wrapped her in his arms and lifted her slightly, bringing her to his lap. She didn’t say a word.

Their bodies interlocked with—to Giles’s mind—an almost audible click. Her warm curves fit in his arms. The feeling made him dizzy, heady, almost mad. He shouldn’t do this—and there was nothing else in the world he could do.

It felt right.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion that he didn’t know how to explain to himself, let alone express aloud. “You are sweeter than cake. I would never eat cake again, if it was a choice between that and you.”

Her face, for once, was rather solemn. “I believe that I shall kiss you,” she announced. “May I?”

“Always,” he said, the truth coming from his heart.