“Your rackety nature,” Eloise repeated. “Which,” she added, “you inherited from your father. And he has encouraged you. From the moment he supported your study of all those languages, he fostered your unladylike nature. There is little behavior more unmaidenly than learning Latin.”

She raised her hand as Sophie began to reply. “Fortunately, that is over. When you are a countess you will be too busy running a large household to indulge yourself in such fruitless pursuits.”

Suddenly Eloise remembered her primary grievance. “Had you married Foakes, the gossip would have died, but naturally your reputation has suffered since you turned down his offer.” She continued without pause. “No one believes he was able to bring himself to scratch!” The marchioness’s tone was biting, and an ominous red flush had mounted up her neck.

“I could not accept Patrick Foakes’s proposal,” Sophie objected. “He asked me only because Lady Prestlefield walked into the room. He is a rake whose kisses mean nothing.”

“I know little about meaningless kisses,” Eloise commented magisterially. “It would be nice if my daughter had the same delicacy of person that I have maintained. And what does it matter if Foakes is a rake? A rake can make as good a husband as any other man. He has extensive holdings—what more do you want?”

Sophie looked at the tips of her delicate slippers. It was hard to explain her aversion to rakes without making reference to her beloved papa, who made a practice of chasing every Frenchwoman who arrived in London. And given the turbulent situation in France, he had been very busy in the last seven years or so.

“I would like to marry someone who will respect me,” she said.

“Respect you! You certainly don’t try to achieve that goal in a very intelligent fashion,” her mother said, with a sharp twist of her lips. “I’ll warrant there’s no gentleman in London who doesn’t think of you as an approachable minx, if not worse. When I debuted, poetry was written in praise of my modesty, but I venture to say those verses would not apply to you. In fact,” Eloise concluded bitterly, “sometimes I think that you are entirely your father’s child—both of you destined to make me the laughingstock of London.”

Sophie took another deep breath, and this time tears began to prick the back of her eyelids.

Eloise’s expression softened. “I do not wish to be snappish, but I worry for you, Sophie. You will have an excellent husband in the Earl of Slaslow. Please do not place your engagement at risk.”

Sophie’s anger drained away, followed by a wash of guilty sympathy. Her mother endured a great deal of mortification due to her husband’s flagrantly public love of Frenchwomen, and now Sophie had thoughtlessly added to the gossip. “I never meant to cause you embarrassment, Maman,” she said quietly. “I was caught by surprise when Lady Prestlefield found me with Patrick Foakes.”

“Had you not been alone with a man, no one could have surprised you,” her mother pointed out, with irrefutable logic. “A reputation is not a trifling thing. I never thought to hear my daughter called a light-skirt—but that, Sophie, is what is being said about you.”