Devil-bright eyes looked back at her with a glance that was more of a command than a request, and which certainly had naught a drop of imploring, pleading emotion in it. It shivered her bones, the promise in his eyes; his glance skated from her face to her breasts and down her body. Warmth trailed down her legs, warming and weakening the back of her knees.

As she and Braddon walked away, Sophie reflexively looked down at her bodice. She had the sudden impression that her dress had fallen off, leaving her breasts tinglingly exposed to the air. But all was well. Madame Carême’s cleverly constructed bodices were proof against the most rakish of rakish glances.

Chapter 6

Sophie ate her dinner, laughing and talking to Braddon on her left, and Braddon’s friend David Marlowe on her right, while resolutely ignoring Patrick Foakes. He was seated diagonally across from her, quite a way down the long table, and she could see him under her lashes if she peeked, but she did so only a few times. David was delightful, a boyish curate who had come up from the country to meet Braddon’s intended wife.

“You’re very brave to take on Braddon,” he said.

“Why so?” Sophie took another sip of her champagne. She could feel the wine going to her head and she was letting it, letting the bubbles cloud her judgment and lend her a breathlessly intoxicated joy.

“Braddon was such a task at school.” David chortled. “There was a group of us—myself, Alex and Patrick, Quill—we took it on ourselves to get Braddon through. But it wasn’t easy. Someone had to hammer facts into his head the night before an exam. Not that it was such a chore,” David added hastily, remembering that he shouldn’t insult the brain of Sophie’s soon-to-be husband. “The real problem was Braddon’s schemes. He was almost thrown out several times.”

“Schemes?” Sophie was only half listening. Down the table that French minx Daphne Boch was flirting madly with Patrick. Under the table the toe of Sophie’s slipper started tapping as she saw Daphne lean toward Patrick, wantonly brushing his arm with her shoulder.

David was still talking and Sophie wrenched her attention back to him.

“Take, for example, the time that Braddon decided he could fool Master Woolton into thinking that he was his own uncle. You see, Braddon’s uncle is a famous explorer. And Woolton had mentioned to Braddon how much he’d like to meet this uncle. So Braddon got the idea that if he rented an appropriate costume he could pretend to be his own uncle and tell Woolton how remarkably intelligent he thought Braddon was, and then Woolton would be nicer to Braddon.”

Sophie was fascinated despite herself. “That’s absurd. How old was he?”

“Around thirteen, perhaps fourteen.” David chortled again. “Believe me, we did our best to talk him out of the idea, but Braddon was convinced it would work. Braddon has a great weakness for acting, you know, that’s why—” He broke off suddenly. One did not tell a lady that her future husband’s mistresses had mostly been actresses.