“Reputedly, they will construct unfashionable clothing, if requested. I need a coat that will hide the bulge in my crotch. I’m shocking matrons who know where to look.”

Yasmin slapped a hand over her mouth, but giggles escaped. “I keep promising to accompany Cleo to Quimby’s, so perhaps I shall see you there!”

He had a hand on the door, but he turned. “I love your laughter.”

He was gone.

The next day they kissed in a dark corner of Lord Breckenridge’s house. The following day was Sunday, and she accompanied her grandfather to the church. Though Giles lived in the parish, she’d rarely seen him at a service.

But today the Lilford pew was occupied by Giles and Lydia, who looked sweetly pious, with a pale yellow bonnet, a handsome prayer book, and a satisfied expression. Yasmin spent the service thinking about the fact that disliking one’s future sister-in-law wasn’t charitable.

After the service, Giles sauntered up and explained that Lydia had decided to accompany a friend to Gunter’s Tea Shop to try the fashionable lavender ice, and would Lady Yasmin care to see the tombstone of one of his ancestors?

Her grandfather laughed and turned away, claiming the attention of those parishioners who remained in the chapel. Yasmin put her fingers on Giles’s arm and walked away from the chattering voices, down the stairs to the crypt. “Did anyone watch us leave?” she whispered.

“I doubt it. Your grandfather is a wily accomplice.”

The crypt was cool and dark, sunlight filtering through narrow slits. The walls were fashioned in vaulted bays, each containing a marble tomb.

“My ancestor,” Giles said, leading her to the second on the right. The sarcophagus was carved with angels blowing trumpets. “Margaret was the first Countess of Lilford.”

“Is her husband here as well?”

He shook his head. “Rumor has it that he mistreated her, so she buried him in a pauper’s grave, but records were not reliable in 1467. We do have her will, bequeathing her clavichord to her daughter. So we know that she loved music, if not her husband.”

Giles plucked Yasmin up, sat her down on the flat marble surface, and kissed her.

“Perhaps we oughtn’t,” she whispered a few minutes later. She was already breathing quickly, pleasure turning her shaky and hot. “It’s not polite, here on Margaret’s tomb.”

Giles laughed. Actually laughed! “Would that bodice pull down like your other one?”

She demonstrated, and his laugh turned to a groan. His hair slipped through her fingers like silk, and then she couldn’t think anymore because he was sucking her nipple so hard that her back arched toward him. She gasped and then bit her lip so that no sound would go up the stone steps. If her skirt hadn’t been so narrow she would have wrapped her legs around his waist, if only to relieve the intolerable feeling of emptiness between her legs.

“What?” Giles asked her, his voice dark.

“More,” she whispered.

“Next time,” he said, straightening, pulling up her gown.