Page 89

“I just don’t believe that clothing is important,” Yasmin said, stumbling into speech. “I choose my gowns—my usual wardrobe—with that in mind.”

“You choose your gowns to flout society’s opinion of you,” Giles said. “They judge you a strumpet, so you dress like one.”

“My gowns make me feel confident. Mrs. Quimby already had that dress when I asked for a demure garment.” Yasmin steadied her voice. She’d be damned if she’d plead with him.

“I asked you to act like a countess, to be dignified. You were the opposite of dignified. Surrounded by men, dressed like a member of a traveling circus, cutting a figure.”

Angry sentences caught at the back of Yasmin’s throat. She pushed herself higher up on the pillows and wrenched at the sheet, pulling it up to her waist. He was lying on it so she couldn’t get it over her breasts.

“Everyone was talking of you,” Giles repeated with a savage note. “So yes, I had the foolish notion that if I destroyed that gown in a truly intimate moment with me and me alone, it would make a difference.”

Clearly it hadn’t. Yasmin felt a pulse of shame.

“This evening, I had to not only watch my betrothed besieged by fortune hunters and roués, but also to witness society matrons cackling over your absurd sleeves.”

Yasmin took a deep breath. “Giles, they always—”

“They do not ‘always,’” he interrupted. “You step into a ballroom, and all eyes are on you, Yasmin. You proved your point. Every man in that ballroom desired you. Lusted after you, as if your dress was a barber’s pole, advertising your wares. That was your intent, wasn’t it?”

She managed to catch hold of her dressing gown, hanging from a bedpost, and pulled it over her breasts.

“I merely asked you to be dignified,” he said in a dull voice. “To avoid attention until my sister married. Do you know that she and Pettigrew had a squabble about you this evening? That young fool tried to defend you.”

“I gather you did not defend me.”

Silence bristled in the room.

“I think I should wash,” Yasmin said, sliding out from under the sheets, managing to swathe herself in the dressing gown. “You ought to leave. This conversation is hurtful.”

Giles stood up. “We need to talk, Yasmin.”

“You have been talking.” She tied the dressing gown tightly about her waist. “I can summarize, if you wish. I am not dignified enough to be the wife you desire, and you have realized that covering my bosom won’t solve the problem. You think I played an unkind joke on you, which I did not, but your conclusion is the same: I am not the sort of woman you wished to marry.”

“Do you have to be the person most talked about in any room?”

Yasmin shook her head. “Perhaps we should break our engagement, Giles.”

He stood a step closer and said, fiercely, “No. I want to marry you.”

She double knotted the cord of her dressing gown. “I want to marry someone who will defend me from criticism. Who won’t be ashamed of me.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” she said, cutting him off. “I would guess that you listened to your sister’s opinion of my gown. Do you know that she was the one who added Napoleon’s hat to the list of scavenger hunt items? Silvester asked one of his sisters. I am the only person in London who could produce such a hat, which Lydia knew.”

“I see.” A touch of red appeared high on Giles’s cheeks.

“You gave her that weapon by telling her I owned the hat.” Anger drained away, leaving Yasmin in a pit of despair. She’d made a terrible mistake, nearly as bad as her relationship with Hippolyte. “I believe I will retire to the country for the rest of the Season,” she said, making up her mind on the spot. “You and Lydia can finish the Season together. I would be grateful not to be in her vicinity.”

“You can’t leave London!”

For once, Giles’s eyes were unguarded. Yasmin knew that look: desire. Lust. The mere sight of it made her tired.

“This decision shouldn’t be made when we are both overwrought,” he said, exhibiting the nimble ability to shift arguments that made him so successful in the House of Lords. “You cannot go to the country immediately. You accepted the Prince Regent’s invitation to a reception tomorrow.”

Yasmin sighed. “Those receptions are dreadful crushes. His Majesty won’t notice if I don’t attend.”

“Your grandfather is looking forward to bringing you to court, albeit not to one of the queen’s drawing rooms. I shall be there, since Lydia and Lord Pettigrew will be introduced to His Majesty as a betrothed couple. We can talk there, Yasmin. You can’t simply leave for the country without speaking to me.”