“I’m not going to marry Giles,” Yasmin said tonelessly. “I’m going to give him proof that I’m as bird-witted as he already believes. Lydia thinks that I can’t stop myself from tattling, but that’s not true.”

One tear escaped and slid down her cheek. “I’m so tired, Cleo.”

“Tell the earl tomorrow. Another day,” her friend said, kissing her cheek. “You are the most intelligent, exquisite lady in all London, Yasmin, and if that idiot doesn’t know it, he’s the bird-witted fool, not you. You are loyal and loving, and I couldn’t wish for a better friend.”

Yasmin gave her a wavering smile. “Thank you. I think . . . I’ll go home and send him a message.”

“Instruct him to pay you a call tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to sleep.”

Chapter Eighteen

Giles looked up when his butler entered his study. “No interruptions, Duckworthy.” He could scarcely concentrate as it was, and he was due to give a speech in Parliament the following morning.

“A missive has arrived that you would wish to read immediately,” his butler announced, presenting a silver tray.

Giles had never seen Yasmin’s handwriting, yet he knew instantly whose it was. Elegant copperplate in dark blue ink, rather than customary black. He ripped the folded sheet open.

She wished to see him tomorrow morning or perhaps the next day, whenever he had time to spare.

His campaign to win her hand reeled through his head. He planned to request the first waltz in precisely five days. His plan branched thereafter, depending on whether she refused his request, or wouldn’t speak to him while dancing, etcetera.

“I took the liberty of sending Jacobs for your curricle,” Duckworthy said while Giles was still staring at the sheet of paper.

Giles was waiting in the street, tapping his whip against his leg, when his curricle swept around the corner from the mews. “With me,” he bit out, and his groom dashed around to jump on the back.

It was challenging to drive at speed when London streets were crowded, but it took all his concentration, which was to the good. If he began to think about why Yasmin had summoned him, he ran the risk of collision.

At the Duke of Portbellow’s mansion, he tossed the reins to his groom and told him to drive back to his stables. Once in the door, he handed his coat to Carson. “Lady Yasmin?”

“She’s in the morning room, Lord—”

Giles jerked open the door. He strode into the room and looked about.

Yasmin was asleep.

She was seated in a large armchair turned to face the fireplace. When he walked across the room, she didn’t stir. Her head leaned against one wing of the chair, her hair rumpled like gleaming silk, her eyelashes lying on her cheek like a golden fringe.

He crouched down in front of her, his fingers clenched against the urge to touch her. Instead, he looked at her carefully. When she was awake, he found himself absorbed by her eyes, cataloguing the way they sparkled when she giggled, the way they shone with joy when they spun in a waltz.