you.”
Braddon looked slightly alarmed. Ladies who announced the wish to converse with a person normally didn’t have a very pleasant topic in mind, in his experience.
Sure enough, a moment later he was shocked to the backbone.
“But—but—Lady Sophie!”
“I simply can’t wait. My feelings for you are so strong.” Sophie’s eyes were sweetly anguished, looking up at Braddon’s face.
She saw immediately that there was no point in insisting that she wished to elope due to love. The concept wasn’t in Braddon’s emotional vocabulary. She lowered her voice.
“It’s my mother. She’s driving me to the brink. You and I”—she put her hand on Braddon’s arm—”are adults, for goodness’ sake.”
“Absolutely.” Braddon was still uncertain, but he felt a sympathetic glow when Sophie mentioned her mama. Now there they really had something in common. “I know just what you mean,” he confided. “My mama has … well, you know her.”
“Then let’s elope!” Sophie looked up into Braddon’s face hopefully.
“Can’t do it, m’dear.” Braddon was shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be proper. Plus, my mother would never forget it, and I would hear about it the rest of my life. Do you know, she’s still talking about the time I disobeyed her and ran off to see a cockfight? I was all of twelve years old.”
Sophie leaned in toward Braddon, consciously making her expression as beguiling as she could. She pouted slightly.
“Oh, Braddon, you aren’t afraid of your mother, are you?”
“Naturally,” Braddon retorted. “My mother’s a terrifying old bird, you ask anyone. Besides”—and he looked suspicious—”isn’t this all because of you being afraid of your mama?”
Sophie was just marshaling her arguments for a new attack when a stern voice broke into their conversation. Sophie’s mother, the marchioness, was standing before them, the jut of her bosom indicating the utmost distaste.
“This party,” she said, her tone dripping with rancor, “is a disgrace.”
Automatically Sophie looked about for her father. There he was, seated quite properly next to Sylvester Bredbeck. In fact, George had acted with propriety all evening, at least at those points at which she had glimpsed him.
Braddon hastily rose and offered the marchioness his chair.
Eloise sat down, although she was clearly longing to call for her coach. “Miss Daphne Boch cannot be located,” she remarked in glacial tones, “and neither can our host’s brother, Patrick Foakes.” She leveled a basilisk stare at her daughter. “It appears that they were last seen heading into the garden. Miss Daphne’s brother can’t seem to find her.”
Braddon gulped. “I’m sure they will reappear very quickly,” he said, all too aware of the stories that had circulated about Sophie and Patrick.
Sophie stared down at her lap. Somehow her fingers had laced themselves so tightly around one another that they didn’t look as if they’d ever undo.
“I doubt that young lady will be foolish enough to reject Foakes’s hand.” Eloise dealt her daughter another enraged look. It galled Eloise to the quick that her daughter had made a fool of herself with a man who clearly made a hobby of compromising young ladies. Foakes must be desperate for marriage or some such.
Sophie felt Braddon’s shoulder press comfortingly against hers as he drew up a chair. His voice was soothing. “Patrick told me that Lady Sophie rejected his suit, and I can say only that I consider it a stroke of the greatest good fortune that she was still available to accept my hand.”
Braddon picked up Sophie’s knotted hands and gave them a brisk shake, pulling them apart. Then he romantically raised the limp hand he held, pressing a kiss on its back.
The marchioness looked at Braddon approvingly. Here was a young man with proper sentiment, and a pretty way of saying things too. In fact, he quite reminded Eloise of the bucks who used to court her in her
Braddon looked slightly alarmed. Ladies who announced the wish to converse with a person normally didn’t have a very pleasant topic in mind, in his experience.
Sure enough, a moment later he was shocked to the backbone.
“But—but—Lady Sophie!”
“I simply can’t wait. My feelings for you are so strong.” Sophie’s eyes were sweetly anguished, looking up at Braddon’s face.
She saw immediately that there was no point in insisting that she wished to elope due to love. The concept wasn’t in Braddon’s emotional vocabulary. She lowered her voice.
“It’s my mother. She’s driving me to the brink. You and I”—she put her hand on Braddon’s arm—”are adults, for goodness’ sake.”
“Absolutely.” Braddon was still uncertain, but he felt a sympathetic glow when Sophie mentioned her mama. Now there they really had something in common. “I know just what you mean,” he confided. “My mama has … well, you know her.”
“Then let’s elope!” Sophie looked up into Braddon’s face hopefully.
“Can’t do it, m’dear.” Braddon was shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be proper. Plus, my mother would never forget it, and I would hear about it the rest of my life. Do you know, she’s still talking about the time I disobeyed her and ran off to see a cockfight? I was all of twelve years old.”
Sophie leaned in toward Braddon, consciously making her expression as beguiling as she could. She pouted slightly.
“Oh, Braddon, you aren’t afraid of your mother, are you?”
“Naturally,” Braddon retorted. “My mother’s a terrifying old bird, you ask anyone. Besides”—and he looked suspicious—”isn’t this all because of you being afraid of your mama?”
Sophie was just marshaling her arguments for a new attack when a stern voice broke into their conversation. Sophie’s mother, the marchioness, was standing before them, the jut of her bosom indicating the utmost distaste.
“This party,” she said, her tone dripping with rancor, “is a disgrace.”
Automatically Sophie looked about for her father. There he was, seated quite properly next to Sylvester Bredbeck. In fact, George had acted with propriety all evening, at least at those points at which she had glimpsed him.
Braddon hastily rose and offered the marchioness his chair.
Eloise sat down, although she was clearly longing to call for her coach. “Miss Daphne Boch cannot be located,” she remarked in glacial tones, “and neither can our host’s brother, Patrick Foakes.” She leveled a basilisk stare at her daughter. “It appears that they were last seen heading into the garden. Miss Daphne’s brother can’t seem to find her.”
Braddon gulped. “I’m sure they will reappear very quickly,” he said, all too aware of the stories that had circulated about Sophie and Patrick.
Sophie stared down at her lap. Somehow her fingers had laced themselves so tightly around one another that they didn’t look as if they’d ever undo.
“I doubt that young lady will be foolish enough to reject Foakes’s hand.” Eloise dealt her daughter another enraged look. It galled Eloise to the quick that her daughter had made a fool of herself with a man who clearly made a hobby of compromising young ladies. Foakes must be desperate for marriage or some such.
Sophie felt Braddon’s shoulder press comfortingly against hers as he drew up a chair. His voice was soothing. “Patrick told me that Lady Sophie rejected his suit, and I can say only that I consider it a stroke of the greatest good fortune that she was still available to accept my hand.”
Braddon picked up Sophie’s knotted hands and gave them a brisk shake, pulling them apart. Then he romantically raised the limp hand he held, pressing a kiss on its back.
The marchioness looked at Braddon approvingly. Here was a young man with proper sentiment, and a pretty way of saying things too. In fact, he quite reminded Eloise of the bucks who used to court her in her
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