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Yasmin’s elbow hit his ribs. “Wouldn’t we, Giles?”

“Of course,” he said, having no idea what he had agreed to.

“We shall buy yarn in Covent Garden this afternoon for Mrs. Carson’s knitting project,” she informed him.

“You’ll want to take something more than that light shawl, my lady,” Carson said. “It’s coming on to rain. I can feel it in my joints.” He glanced over the table with the eye of an expert, then nodded to the footman. “That’ll do. Ring if you want more tea.”

“That’ll do?” Yasmin laughed. “You’ve given us five desserts, Carson. We will make ourselves ill if we sample all of them.”

“What are they?” Giles asked. “I love cakes,” he added untruthfully.

Carson pointed to a cake that looked like a bishop’s hat. “Nougat almond cake. Scones, of course. Apples à la Parisienne, Blancmange à la Vanille, and chocolate delight.”

“Excellent,” Giles said. “I’ll have a piece of each.”

Yasmin blinked at him. “You like sweets?”

“Why would I say it if not? I fully intend to have second helpings.” He looked down at the plates Carson was arranging before him—the pieces so large that the butler offered five pieces of china—and felt ill already.

Yasmin laughed. “I’ll wager you don’t! Our cook is French, as you likely noticed. She puts cream in everything. Even after growing up in Paris, I can’t manage more than one piece.”

Ladies don’t place wagers.

He dismissed the thought and put a huge bite of nougat into his mouth. His palate tried to reject it: thick, overly sweet, with an odd texture, but he swallowed it. “I’ll take that wager.”

“What could you possibly win, except to prove that you are a glutton?”

Carson was ushering the footmen out the door, leaving them alone.

“A kiss,” Giles said flatly. He eyed the nougat and decided he would try something else before forcing down a second bite.

“I’m sorry?” Yasmin said.

“I would like to kiss you again.”

Something suspicious, even hurt, went through her eyes.

Giles managed to swallow the silky sweet bite he’d put in his mouth and said, “Not because of the contents of your purse. Because of this.” He drew her close, slowly enough so that she could easily resist—but she didn’t. He bent his head, putting his lips on hers in the world’s most awkward kiss.

Yasmin was still for a moment, then she shrugged, muttered something in French, and opened her mouth.

Since Giles had an organized mind, he invariably categorized kisses: welcome, unwelcome. Deep kisses, searching kisses, enflaming kisses, terrible kisses . . .

A new category was needed. Soul shattering. Life changing. His senses flamed to life as Yasmin’s tongue met his; the combination of her taste and smell went straight to his head. He wrapped an arm around her narrow back and brought her body to his, kissing her again, his instincts driving him to devour her, mate with her, make her his.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her possessively, although the reasons why she could never be his were legion.

Legion.

Yasmin was not an appropriate countess. Yet, none of that mattered now, when he had her in his arms. She smelled of roses. Not bold red roses, but ruffled pale pink petals in early spring. Along with a touch of almond, and a hint of raspberry, and something mysterious that was purely Yasmin.

She made a sound in the back of her throat and threw an arm around his neck.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Make that sound again. I adore that sound.”

Yasmin’s eyes were shining. Their next kiss was so deep and long that it broke his composure into pieces, leaving him shaken.

She shook her head. “Not yet.” She pulled him toward her and caught his bottom lip in her teeth, sending a violent pulse of desire down his limbs.