Yasmin bit her tongue before she confessed that Giles said quite a lot at certain moments.

“He particularly didn’t like the idea of Viscount Templeton,” her grandfather said. “Said he was too old for you. I told him that a seasoned man was what you wanted.”

“I do not wish to become the Countess of Lilford,” Yasmin said.

“Very well.” Her grandfather had a wicked twinkle. “Who would have thought it could be so amusing to live with one’s granddaughter?”

“You don’t think I should save the necklace for a happier occasion?”

“You’ll do me a favor by wearing it, because Lilford won’t bother to return and try to persuade me by increasing the jointure he offered. I didn’t let him get into the particulars, said he had to win you from the viscount and duke first.”

“Very well.” Yasmin got up, went around the table, and kissed her grandfather’s cheek. “I am so grateful to have you in my family.”

He cleared his throat. “The feeling is mutual.”

She hovered for a moment, her arms around his shoulders, and then whisked herself out of the room and ran up the stairs. As her maid was adjusting her hat so the plumes curled just so, and pinning the ruffles at her throat so they framed the sapphire, Yasmin gave herself a stern talking-to.

She would not marry Giles, no matter how enticing she found him, because he had no sense of humor. More importantly, all they had between them was desire, and she would disappoint him in the marital bed. He was a man of honor, who would not stray outside marriage. Yet she couldn’t contemplate that sickening act more than once or twice a month.

If that.

To the best of her knowledge, one didn’t bargain with a future husband over such matters.

Part of her revulsion was likely due to her history with Hippolyte. But realizing that intimacies were closely tied in her mind to humiliation didn’t help. She simply didn’t want to engage in those sorts of activities.

By the time a footman knocked on her bedchamber door, announcing the arrival of the Earl of Lilford, Yasmin was armed and ready. Her armor? The adorable military spencer, violet-colored boots, fringed gloves, and a sapphire necklace.

“Your parasol,” her maid called as she was leaving.

Yasmin tucked it under her arm. Giles was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, discussing something with Carson, his rumpled hair shining in the morning sunlight coming in through the open door. She froze for a moment, swallowing hard before she remembered that she was not supposed to feel a wave of hunger.

It wasn’t just the messiness of intimacy, she realized. It was the way lust drove her—both of them—to primitive behavior. She had groaned aloud in the drawing room, which made her wince to even remember. Giles had maddened her with his deep voice and rough breathing, saying things that she suspected no other gentleman said aloud.

He turned from Carson and looked up at her, his eyes blazing with desire.