Sophie grimaced at her mirror, thinking of the avid faces and deep curtsies she would face at the Dewland ball that evening. Uncertainty quaked in her stomach, an unusual flutter of self-consciousness. Was this the correct gown in which to announce her engagement? It was constructed of pale silver, gossamer-thin silk. Perhaps the color would make her look washed-out in the ballroom, once she was surrounded by glittering plumage, the bare breasts and crimson cheeks of the female half of the beau monde. Silver was such a nunlike color. A glint of amusement lit Sophie’s eyes. A nun would swoon at the very idea of wearing a bodice made in the French style, low-cut and caught just under the breasts with silver ribbons that wound around the bodice. And the skirt flowed narrowly past Sophie’s curves, flirting with the roundness of her hips.

Just then the Marchioness of Brandenburg swept into the bedroom.

“Are you ready, Sophie?”

“Yes, Maman,” Sophie said, throwing away the idea of changing her gown. They were already late to the Dewland ball.

The marchioness’s eyes narrowed as she looked over Sophie’s apparel. Eloise herself was wearing a gown of mouse-colored satin embroidered with flowers and fringed at the bottom. If it wasn’t precisely hooped, it gave that impression. It resembled nothing so closely as the styles of twenty years ago, from the early years of Eloise’s marriage.

“That dress,” Eloise said with asperity, “is a disgrace.”

“Yes, Maman.” That was Sophie’s usual response to her mother’s sartorial comments. She gathered up her wrap and reticule, turning toward the door.

Eloise hesitated, uncertainty crossing her face. Sophie looked at her in surprise. Her mother was French and seemed to view life as a battleground in which she was the only general with a standing army. It was uncommon to see her pause.

“Tonight,” said Eloise, “it will be announced that you have accepted the hand of the Earl of Slaslow in marriage.”

“Yes, Maman,” Sophie agreed.

There was a short pause. What could be the problem? Sophie wondered. Her mother was never short of words.

“He may desire some token of your affections.”

“Yes, Maman.” Sophie lowered her eyes so her mother wouldn’t see her mischievous enjoyment.

Poor Mama! She had been raised in a French convent and likely had come to the marriage bed exceedingly ill prepared. Given that Eloise had married an English marquis so obsessed by France and things French that he preferred the French spelling marquis to the English marquess, her daughter had been raised in a house thronged with French émigrés. Her nanny was French, the servants were French, the cook (of course) was French. Eloise had no idea just how earthy discussions had become in the nursery, long before Sophie had even made her debut. The last thing Sophie needed was instruction on what men wanted from women.

“You may allow him one kiss, perhaps two, at most,” Eloise said heavily. “I am sure you understand the importance of this limitation, Sophie. I am thinking of you. Your reputation …”