Braddon’s response was less moderate. He grabbed his betrothed by the shoulders and forcibly turned her toward him. “I don’t like that sort of look from you,” he complained.

“Think about how you’ll feel if an old roué makes a suggestive comment to Madeleine,” Sophie suggested.

Braddon’s eyes brightened. “She’s right, Maddie. Do it again!”

Madeleine giggled. “That’s exactly how my maman used to look at an impertinent servant,” she said.

Sophie frowned. “Servant? What servant?”

Madeleine’s face looked comically surprised. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just saw the look in my head, and copied it.”

“If your father was in charge of the Flammarions’ stables, your mother may have worked in the household before they married,” Sophie suggested.

Madeleine nodded.

“Now let’s pretend that Braddon has done something truly inexcusable,” Sophie continued, “such as pressing his leg against yours.”

Madeleine picked up her fan and whacked Braddon smartly on the knuckles.

“Ow!” Braddon pulled back his hand. “Maddie, you’ve broken my finger!”

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Braddon,” Sophie said. “Try again, Madeleine.” She demonstrated the gesture. “Just tap his hand. The tap should not be violent, so that if anyone is looking, you could simply be flirting. You want to scold the gentleman for his presumption, but at the same time, you don’t want anyone to see. If they know that he dared to put his leg against yours, they’ll blame you.”

“That’s true,” Braddon chipped in. “The old birds, like Sophie’s mother and mine, always think the girl brought it on. Here goes,” he said happily, pressing his leg against Madeleine’s, under the table.

Madeleine pulled back her leg, gave Braddon a quelling glance, and rapped him lightly on the knuckles. “Oh, do forgive me,” she crooned, her eyes hard. “Your hand must have strayed toward my plate.”

“Lord,” Braddon said, awed. “Damme if you don’t look as cold as Sophie’s mama ever did, Maddie. And she’s got the nastiest eye in the ton.”

Madeleine looked delighted.

“To pass Madeleine off as the daughter of a marquis,” Sophie reminded them, “she has to be more chilly than my mother. There can’t be a whisper about her manners. Now, let’s say that the footman appears with an Italian cream.”

A few weeks later, Patrick scowled fiercely at the tangle of papers lying on his rosewood desk. Interceding between the loading bills and letters from his managers abroad was a vision of what he had left when he slipped out of bed that morning—the soft white hand he had gently unclenched from his elbow. Sophie sighed and turned over in bed, the delicate cotton of her nightdress falling open at the neck. He had had to force himself to leave.