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But I gather his most important mission was to communicate Empress Joséphine’s contemptuous congratulations.

She knew, you see. She more than knew: she planned it. She loathed my mother for seducing Napoleon, and Hippolyte was a weapon close to hand. They had been lovers, which everyone but myself knew. My ruination was the perfect revenge for an angry empress.

The two of them laughed openly about how easily I’d been seduced. I thought I outgrew the pain, but I didn’t. It affected my attitude toward intimacy. My clothing is provocative because I cannot give in to how gossips characterize me. Still, inside, I have always felt disgusted by the memory of my own behavior.

You taught me not to be ashamed, and I will always be grateful.

I don’t have much more to say than that. I wanted you to know that although I was a silly girl, I was outgunned, as they say.

All best wishes,

Yasmin

Two weeks later

Dear Giles,

I haven’t heard anything from you, likely because you agree with the wisdom of my first letter. Or because you are busy. I read the account of your fiery speech in Lords. Bravo!

My grandfather’s new puppy has been delivered. He has named him Puck, after the mischievous Shakespeare character. He got hold of one of His Grace’s favorite velvet slippers . . .

And a week later . . .

Dear Giles,

I have decided to ignore the fact that you are not writing to me. I am used to embarrassing myself, after all. The French court believed I would quietly fade out of society after that dreadful thing happened with Hippolyte. I keep imagining that perhaps my letters are going astray, so in case they are, I told you in an earlier letter about how silly I was at sixteen. Yet I insisted on returning to French society two years later. I could not allow that malicious creature, Hippolyte, to ruin my entire life.

The scandal followed me here, along with the lascivious gazes, the pinches, and the rest of it. But at least I held my head high. I suppose that’s why I’m still writing to you. I am too stubborn to accept it when people turn their back.

We had a conversation at dinner last night that made me think of you . . .

Another week, two letters, another week . . .

Dear Giles,

My grandfather and I have been invited to Cleo and Jake’s country house, so we will travel there tomorrow.

My grandfather’s correspondents tell him that Lydia and her betrothed are celebrated everywhere. I’m sure you know of the attention paid to her wedding gown in the gossip columns. I also read that you are certain to marry Lady Stella, having danced with her twice at a ball.

I have been thinking about my first letter, the one in which I told you that I would not marry you. Your silence seems to agree with me. Certainly, I am not what you wish for in a countess. In my own defense, I am faithful and principled. I have integrity, and Hippolyte is the only man whom I allowed to take advantage of me. Before you.

I’m forcing myself to write this final letter, to tell you that I’ve changed my mind about our marriage, and I hope you will at least consider it.

For years, I have never wanted to kiss anyone, until I met you. In fact, the very idea was repellent. My revulsion stemmed from the aftermath of that dreadful affaire, the way people in the French court characterized me as a grisette, a bonne amie looking for another man.

Yet from the moment I saw you, I wanted to kiss you.

The truth is that I have fallen in love with you.

I am hopeful that you might come to love me as I am. That you chose a woman who is undignified because that person—me—will make you happy. I know my reputation is wretched. But couldn’t we overcome the scandal together?

Please write me back. I have penned this letter eleven times and crumpled it each time. I am going to force myself to send this to you.

In all sincerity,

Yasmin

Lydia did not like getting up early. But in the service of her family, she forced herself downstairs at the crack of dawn to sift through the mail waiting to be handed over to the post. Sure enough, her brother—her poor, besotted brother—was writing to Yasmin every night. One day he wrote to her twice.