Sophie had teased Charlotte the next day, laughing at her for standing so close to Alex, for allowing his arm to circle her waist, for looking up at him so intently. Now, Sophie understood Charlotte’s surprising quiescence.

Her own body had become foreign to her. She was irritable because the other Foakes twin wasn’t in the ballroom. She missed a heady closeness that she hardly knew. Her mind had become a traitor, unable to fix on the prospect of her future husband, Braddon, and constantly straying off to think about wicked black eyes and a laughing mouth.

It was nauseating, paltry, humiliating—she broke off the strain of self-reproach and rose. “Shall we greet your brother now?”

Peter politely discarded his plate of savory pheasant without a backward glance. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied. “I shall ask my mother to accompany us.”

Sophie nodded, startled by her own forgetfulness. The last thing her reputation could bear was for her to disappear with yet another man.

Viscountess Dewland smiled on the young pair approvingly and left her cozy circle of gossips to stroll to the library. You would never catch her indulging in rusty complaints about Sophie York, she thought. The girl has a kind heart.

Kitty Dewland had noted with a mother’s watchful eye that her beloved Peter was not genuinely attracted to Lady Sophie, and that unless she missed her mark (and she rarely did, Kitty thought to herself), Lady Sophie showed every sign of being in love with the Earl of Slaslow. The rumors she had heard of an engagement to be announced confirmed her impression.

Kitty sighed romantically. What a wonderful evening she had had when her own engagement to dear Thurlow was announced. The quiver of ignoble but delightful triumph she had felt as she circled the room before a cluster of young misses, her future assured! Kitty mentally shook herself and bustled into the library to introduce Quill to Lady Sophie.

Quill—or Erskine—wasn’t at all what Sophie expected. She had vague memories of a thin white face at the window during the fireworks display in the Dewland gardens. But the face that turned about from an armchair was tanned chestnut, much darker than were the complexions of most London fops, used to indoor amusements and placid rides in covered carriages. Quill’s face was lean and stamped with lines of pain, but it was arrestingly intelligent and very good looking.

Now he was standing before her, cool lips brushing the back of her hand. He seemed to stand without problem, and it was only when he sank back into the chair that she realized the effort it took for him to stand upright. Quickly she sat down on the first thing she saw, a small padded stool placed before the fireplace. She didn’t want Quill to feel awkward, given his inability to remain standing in the presence of a lady.

Peter pulled over one of the heavy leather chairs, and his mother drifted over to speak to the Honorable Sylvester Bredbeck, who had retreated to the library to rest his gout-ridden left ankle.