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“The act will prohibit imported grain, will it not?” Yasmin asked.

“It will prohibit imports at moments when domestic prices are high,” Stella explained. “That will protect the interests of landed gentry, obviously.”

“Those are my interests,” Giles said flatly.

Stella looked at the earl, surprised. “Surely you must look farther than your own interests. Unless foreign exports lower the price of grain, the poor are unable to afford bread.”

“We must look out for the unfortunates of the world,” Harold put in, rather pompously.

That was rich, given that the American was obsessed with his Parisian salon that would welcome—so he had told her—only the very highest in society.

“You aren’t to be let off so easily, Giles,” Yasmin said cheerfully. “French farmers sell their grain to the English, as I remember it.”

Lydia’s eyebrows flew up. “Giles?”

Yasmin blinked. “Formal address is so old-fashioned among friends,” she cried. “Silvester and I have been addressing each other by our given names for months, so please, can we all be more informal? Stella, your name is French, so naturally I adore it. Mine is Yasmin, which is not French, but a version of my mother’s favorite flower, jasmine.”

“I prefer informality!” Merry said, clapping her hands. “My name is Merry, as in Christmas. I know you say Happy Christmas here, but back in Boston, we are merry instead.”

Stella was fairly sure that Mrs. Thyme would consider Yasmin’s suggestion a sign of moral degeneration. She was aware that her aunt’s first name was Lillian, but she couldn’t imagine being asked to use it; her own uncle addressed his wife as “Mrs. Thyme.”

Still, Lydia murmured assent, so Stella agreed. She could hardly be the only one to insist on propriety, no matter how affronted her aunt might be.

“These days, no country should act as if it is an independent entity,” Merry said, returning to the conversation.

“An excellent point,” Giles said, looking intently at Yasmin. “I shall certainly bring up the impact on foreign relations.” He began plying Yasmin with questions about French farmers, not that she seemed to have many answers.

Stella tried to have all the facts—at least, those in the papers—at her fingertips, the better to help Giles make decisions, but Yasmin just laughed, teasing him for supporting the landed gentry and his own interests.

“No, I have no idea who grows French grain,” she said impudently. “Any more than I know who the English prime minister is!”

“Because you are a lily of the valley,” Silvester said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa next to Yasmin. He was close enough that Stella caught a whiff of warm man and river water, along with a touch of lime and apple.

Humiliatingly, the scent made her nipples tighten, and a ripple of heat wash through her body. It was mortifying to recognize (again) that her body didn’t care about Silvester’s adoration of Yasmin. Just the nearness of him sent a pulse of heat between her legs, something she was certain no true lady experienced.

Stealing another glance at him under her lashes, she caught a glare that went between Giles and Silvester that stripped the heat from her body. She would have described the earl’s gaze as savage.

Giles? Mild-mannered Giles? Stodgy Giles?

She must have been mistaken. If the earl was feeling savage, Silvester wouldn’t have smiled back so cheerfully.

Would he?

Suddenly, Stella had the unnerving feeling that she was too naïve to understand the games played by dazzling people like these three. She turned away and fed Specs another piece of cheese.

Lydia had been looking more and more bored. Now she jumped up and said, “Brother, I have another appointment, so I must return home.” She glanced at Yasmin, and added, “Immediately.” Dislike filtered through her voice like sediment through muddy water. “You may remain here, naturally, but I would ask you to escort me to our carriage.”

“Certainly,” Giles replied, standing.

Stella thought that he showed remarkable patience, given that his younger sister sounded like a minatory governess.

Silvester promptly took Giles’s place next to Yasmin, who greeted him with a melting smile. It was like a game of musical chairs that Stella had once played as a child.

Or perhaps a better analogy was to compare Yasmin to a cat. The other day Specs had caught a mouse in the fireplace, and until Stella intervened, she played with it, allowing it to run away only to catch the poor creature again.

Yasmin was a kindly cat, but then, she had two mice to play with.

Chapter Fourteen