Braddon bustled toward her and she paused, sweeping him a curtsy. Braddon grinned and bowed. As he straightened he automatically yanked at the bottom of his waistcoat, hauling it back down over his bulging tummy. Sophie lowered her eyes politely.

Braddon bowed again, to Charlotte, before taking Sophie’s arm importantly. This evening his future bride would be formally introduced to his family, and he had thought out the hierarchy of the whole occasion carefully.

“My mother first,” he whispered, steering Sophie toward the far end of the drawing room, “and then my sisters, and finally my godmother because she can be such an infernal nuisance, and also she is a duchess, so …”

Braddon’s family was known far and wide, and only the kindly referred to them as “difficult.” The average gentleman was more likely to label the Countess of Slaslow a hell-born virago. But Sophie had survived nearly twenty years of her own mother’s scathing comments. No amount of rudeness could shake her calm.

Braddon stopped in front of his mother, hovering slightly on the tips of his toes, as if poised to fly to the other side of the room. To Sophie’s mind, Prudence Chatwin looked surprisingly young for one with so fierce a reputation. Her face was deceptively unlined, given that she must be (Sophie calculated swiftly) at least fifty.

Sophie sank into a deep curtsy, bowing her head submissively.

The countess rose to her feet. “Lady Sophie,” she said, her voice as sweet as syrup and clear enough to carry straight across the long room. “How grateful we are to you for rescuing our poor son from the throes of bachelorhood.” She turned a dragon’s eye on Braddon, who was already quailing. “Why, do you know that more than three young ladies turned him down? What can they have been thinking of? But they were very young; it obviously took a more mature eye to see the shining light of dear Braddon’s virtues.”

Quite good, Sophie thought appreciatively. In one stroke she had made Braddon into a slacker and Sophie herself into an aging and desperate spinster.

“Just so,” Sophie murmured. The last thing she wanted was to cross swords with Braddon’s mother.

“And how is your dear, dear mother?” The question was accompanied by a poisonous smile.

“Mama is quite well, thank you. She will be here any moment, I am sure.”

“Poor dear,” the countess said kindly. “We all know what a burden she struggles under. Your father … Well, well, mum for that!”

Sophie ducked her head again, biting her lip.

“Must introduce you to m’sisters,” Braddon broke in. “Our excuses, ma’am.” He tried to pull Sophie hastily to the other side of the room.

But Sophie walked slowly. She needed to collect herself before meeting Braddon’s sisters.

“She can’t help it,” Braddon said dismally. “Mama just says whatever thing comes to her mind, and—”

“And everything that comes to mind is unpleasant,” Sophie finished.

“Yes,” Braddon admitted. He awkwardly patted Sophie’s arm. “Doesn’t mean she’s not glad that you’re marrying me, because she is. Must have told me a hundred times in the last week that she never thought I’d do half so well. It’s just that she doesn’t notice what she says, or she doesn’t know what the effect is, or something like that.