“Of course.” The Earl of Sheffield and Downes set off down the road, swinging his mahogany cane with a jaunty air. His demeanor indicated that he was far from indifferent about the fact that his dearest relation had consigned himself to the ignominious fate of leg-shackling, to take place at three o’clock in St. George’s chapel, precisely—and scandalously—six weeks from today.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Six weeks later, Sophie still felt the wedding was due to arrive too soon. Her bridal gown had just been fitted for the umpteenth time. Five seamstresses had scurried off to the upper regions of the house, bearing the gown as if it were an altar cloth embroidered by the pope himself. Sophie sighed. If this were an ordinary afternoon, she would sit down and work for an hour or two. She drifted over to her desk and stared down at the book of Turkish grammar that waited invitingly.

But just as she picked up the book, which sat precisely where her billets and bills would have reposed had the desk belonged to another lady, the door opened and her mother entered the bedchamber.

“Sophie, I think—” Eloise stopped. “Sophie, are you holding one of those language books?”

Sophie looked down at the small brown book in her hand. “Yes, Maman.”

“How did I raise such a featherheaded daughter?” Eloise ignored her own question. “Don’t you yet understand that childish things are put aside once a woman is married? Languages are the—the flummery of your childhood, and must be left behind, like all subjects of the schoolroom.”

Sophie hesitated. “Perhaps Patrick would not mind if he knew I spoke a few languages. He seems to be most amiable.”

“Don’t be a twit, Sophie. Men naturally find fault with bluestockings, and rightly so; overeducated women are the most boring creatures alive!”

Sophie bit back the obvious rejoinder. Eloise’s daughter probably ranked among the foremost bluestockings in London and yet not one gentleman had called her boring.

“Lord, I wish I had never let you continue in this silly vein of behavior,” Eloise said pettishly. “There’s something so dreadfully commonplace about studying languages.”

Sophie watched Eloise rustle about the bedroom, pushing small ornaments into straight lines. Her mother didn’t really care one way or the other about Sophie’s unexpected brilliance at languages. Other than decreeing that Sophie was never to be tutored by a male, Eloise had allowed Sophie a free hand at French, Italian, Welsh, Gaelic, and then German and Turkish in tandem, given that Sophie had had the good luck to hear about a Turkish immigrant’s wife from the German woman who visited the house every morning.