“Yes indeed, m’dear. Why, when I was young I was always meant to go into the church, being the third son. But I remember when strangers would fancy me to be a Member of Parliament at the least, and once I was mistaken for a Venetian Count.” The bishop patted Sophie’s hand with a good deal more enthusiasm than he had shown toward her in the chapel. “You’re a charming gel, a charming gel, m’dear. I don’t doubt but that you and young Patrick will be prodigiously happy together.”

The little group of scandalmongers and gossips standing to the left took note of the readiness of the Foakes family to countenance the match. Of course, Lady Sophie was a great heiress, and it would be a baffling family indeed who wouldn’t welcome her into their ranks. Still, if there were anything tawdry about the match, one would think the Bishop of Winchester wouldn’t look quite so cheerful.

“Because it will reflect on the bishop if a child appears in seven months, won’t it?” Lady Skiffing was born to intrigue and was never happier than when she was taking apart the reputation of someone she had just greeted with utmost civility.

Sarah Prestlefield was conscious of her decision to support Penelope’s conviction that the hasty nuptials were romantic rather than scandalous. “Only those with an excess of spleen would imply such an ill-tempered thing,” she pronounced grandly. “Lady Sophie has made a true love match, and although one doesn’t see the like very often among the quality” (if ever, she added to herself), “none of us would like to imply that the dear children are marrying for less than the most virtuous reasons.”

Though dubious of the matter, Lady Skiffing was outranked by Lady Prestlefield and knew it. She changed the subject. “Did you hear that Mrs. Yarlblossom, that red-haired widow who lives in Chiswick, is boasting of having an Indian prince as her suitor?”

Sarah Prestlefield was fascinated. “Do you mean the red-haired hussy who keeps sixteen lapdogs?”

Sophie looked up to find her husband looming at her shoulder. His eyes met hers with such a heady promise that she couldn’t help glancing nervously at the bishop to see whether he had caught the message in Patrick’s eyes.

“Don’t worry about Uncle Richard,” Patrick drawled, stepping so close to her that his breath stirred her hair.

Sophie turned an enchanting shade of pink. Patrick’s hand slid up her hip to her waist. Would he always be able to make her tremble? Even the touch of his hand made her limbs feel strangely liquid.

Something in Sophie’s eyes made Patrick’s groin tighten.

“Time to go, sweetheart,” he said, his voice husky.