The fact was inconsequential to him. “For you, language is a game. I’ve watched as you’ve mastered English. I have the idea that at any moment your head swims with words, French and English, and you choose whichever you want as easily as . . . as a hen pecks grain.”

“I’m a chicken?”

He winced. “I just meant that so many words present themselves to you at any moment.”

Yasmin frowned at him.

“For example, how many words can you think of for the color yellow?”

“In French or English?”

“English.”

“Gold and lemon.”

He kissed her on her nose. “More than those.”

“Daffodil, mustard, honey, jaundiced yellow.”

He kissed her again, and Yasmin laughed before continuing. “Sandy, flaxen, creamy, citrine, primrose yellow, butter.”

“I have only yellow,” he said flatly. “Your hair, for example. I know the strands are different colors, but in my mind they are summed up as ‘yellow.’”

“It does me no good to have all those words. My hair is still just my hair, and yes, it is yellow.”

“Your vocabulary gives you delight, doesn’t it? I’ve watched you learning words, storing them away. Last year, you sounded like a Frenchwoman, albeit one who was fluent in English. This year, you sound like an Englishwoman. Or, sometimes, like an American.”

She nodded. “I suppose.”

“I want to spend the rest of my life watching you learn more words. I don’t care if you ever learn the prime minister’s name. There will just be a new one in a year or two. I only want you. I don’t care what society thinks if they see us in a curricle.

“I just want you to sit beside me.”

Chapter Thirteen

Giles meant it.

After the welter of proposals Yasmin had received in the past year or so, she could separate those who were sincere from those who wanted her fortune.

“But you disapproved of me for good reason,” she said, dropping her eyes to his chest because it was remarkably hard to admit one’s faults. “I have a past, Giles. I am no maiden.”

He kissed her eyebrow. “Look at me?”

She reluctantly looked up.

“As long as I am your present and your future, I don’t give a damn about your past.”

“No matter who I marry, some members of polite society will brand me a hussy, if not worse.” She started twiddling with one of his buttons. A nice, if plain, button.

“The gossip will die in time,” he said.

She shook her head at him. “I disagree. You’d have to accept that people will gossip about your countess. Given your strong dislike of gossip . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“I’ll woo you until you are convinced. Marry me, Yasmin.” Giles brushed his lips against hers. “I want to make love to you.” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I would like to lean you backwards on this settee and love you properly. Will you allow me to make love to you?”