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Most people? Every night, he had to fight his way through a thicket of suitors to reach Yasmin’s side. She was best of friends with their hostess this evening, the Duchess of Trent, not to mention Mrs. Addison, her friend Cleo. Mr. and Mrs. Addison had become remarkably influential in society in just over a year, perhaps because they made it so abundantly clear that they didn’t give a fig what anyone thought of them.

Giles straightened and moved back in his seat. He could feel anger stirring inside him at Lydia’s unfair statement.

“Don’t waltz with Lady Yasmin tonight, if you please,” Lydia ordered.

He had come to that decision himself. But he wasn’t a man who took commands from anyone, especially his younger sister.

“It’s only because I want to protect you,” she continued, when he didn’t reply. “It has even crossed my mind on occasion that you might consider her as the future Countess of Lilford, and Giles, that would be a frightful mistake. Our father tarnished the family name but that would make you—us—a laughingstock.”

How were Lydia’s conclusions different from his own? He had decided months ago that this particular lady wasn’t eligible. “I have no intention of marrying Lady Yasmin, nor am I courting her. I merely enjoy her company.”

There was a moment’s silence in the carriage. “I know you,” Lydia said. “We both know that you aren’t dancing with Lady Yasmin out of politeness. But marriage to her would be disastrous, Giles.” Her voice wasn’t commanding now, but earnest, even pleading.

His jaw tightened.

“You’re my brother, my only brother. I’ve seen the way you look at her. And she—she’s so beautiful. Delectable, really. I do see that. But she would create scandal after scandal. You would never know if your children are your own. Some say that she is Napoleon’s bastard. Did you hear that? Or that she was his inamorata, rather than her mother.”

“Absurd,” Giles said. “Logically, Lady Yasmin cannot be his daughter, because she was born long before Napoleon became First Consul, let alone Emperor of France. She told me that her mother gave her one of Napoleon’s hats. She brought it here as a gift for her grandfather, who adorned a skeleton with it.”

“I suppose she couldn’t be Napoleon’s daughter. For one thing, she is disagreeably tall.”

“As I already told you, I have no intention of marrying Lady Yasmin,” Giles stated.

“You can’t make such an important decision yourself. We’re talking about my future sister.”

He looked at her incredulously.

“You look so stern all the time that probably no one will wish to marry you anyway,” Lydia muttered. “No, that’s not true. You’re an earl. The only time those dreadful girls at the seminary would talk to me was when they were trying to figure out how they could catch your attention.”

He should have listened years ago when his sister first told him how much she disliked the school. Their carriage slowed, joining a block-long line of vehicles waiting to drop guests at the Duke of Trent’s townhouse.

The unpleasant gossip that Lady Yasmin had told him was surely untrue, likely started by disagreeable schoolgirls. That would make sense. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Lydia that people were speaking unkindly about her.

Still, Giles had to say something, something a chaperone would say.

“Lydia,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes?”

“You do know that you mustn’t visit darkened corners in the duke’s gardens without a chaperone?”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed, and he instantly knew that Lady Yasmin had been right.

“Who told you that rubbish?” she demanded.

“Did you leave the ballroom yesterday and go into the garden, accompanied by a gentleman, without a chaperone?” he countered.

Lydia straightened, thrusting her chin forward. “I know who told you,” his sister hissed. “She did, didn’t she? The strumpet told you.”

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“You know exactly who I am talking about!” Lydia cried. “The woman you are making a fool of yourself over. Do I really have to name her? The French coquette. The flirt. People use other names too.” Whatever she saw in Giles’s eyes made Lydia’s jaw set even more firmly, and her eyes flare with anger.

“Lady Yasmin is a lady,” he said. “You do yourself a disservice by speaking about another woman in such a fashion.”

His sister barked with laughter, and he saw a flash of his mother in her face: the implacable rage, the dislike of being questioned.

“She’s after you,” Lydia said with unforgivable informality. “She wants you and your title. You’re too naïve to see it, Giles. Although they also say that she dare not accept a marriage proposal because she’s no innocent.”