As their hostess spun a tale that had her guests alternately fascinated and horrified, Yasmin tried to still her thumping heart. She glanced under her lashes at Lydia. The young lady’s face was white and strained, but rather than gratitude for Yasmin’s creativity, her eyes shone with hostility.

Despair filled Yasmin’s breast. If people thought too hard about Turing’s supposedly romantic proposal, comparing it to Lydia’s first exclamation, the story would fall to pieces. The girl’s reputation would be ruined if the gathered matrons realized that Yasmin had found her alone in a room with Turing. Lord Pettigrew would back away without a second look.

Giles would never forgive her. At that thought, her nausea strengthened until she felt truly ill. “Forgive me,” she murmured, letting go of Cleo’s hand, rising and walking toward the door.

To her horror, Lydia started to her feet and followed. When they were out of earshot of the seated guests, Yasmin turned to face her. “I apologize.”

“If you tell a soul what my brother told you about our mother, I won’t ever find a husband,” Lydia said in a low voice. “Lord Pettigrew asked me to marry him last night. He wouldn't have me if he knew the truth.”

“I wouldn’t!” Yasmin protested.

Lydia’s mouth curled with disgust. “As you promised that you would never reveal my assignation with Mr. Turing?”

“Keep your voice down,” Yasmin breathed. She leaned forward and kissed both of Lydia’s cheeks as one does in France. “What a delightful compliment!” she said in a carrying voice.

“Stay away from my brother,” Lydia hissed. “It would destroy him to marry a woman like you. He’s a good person.” Her voice dropped. “Please, Yasmin.”

Yasmin’s heart was beating hard, but she kept her head high. “I already refused his proposal of marriage. You have nothing to worry about.”

Lydia didn’t say goodbye; she wheeled about and walked back to the group. Not a lady glanced up; they were enthralled by the disgraceful implications of Cleo’s story. No scandal would injure her reputation; the Addisons’ elevated status partly stemmed from their dismissal of social absurdities.

More than anything, Yasmin longed to go to bed and sleep for a week. Instead, she made her way to a retiring chamber. She wasn’t ill, not really. She was gut-sick from misery.

In the small room, she sank onto a tufted hassock and thought about crying. Somehow, she never cried anymore, even when she wanted to, but she took out a handkerchief. A maid took one look and trotted away. It didn’t take Cleo long to empty her drawing room and come sit at Yasmin’s side, gathering up her hands.

“I can’t marry him,” Yasmin said with despair. “But he’s the only man I want to marry, the only man I can imagine marrying.”

“The Earl of Lilford?”

“Yes. His sister just begged me not to marry him, because it would destroy him. Because I’m such an . . . an awful person.”

“That’s rich, coming from her,” Cleo muttered.