“My lord, my head is reeling!” Daphne’s voice sounded prissy to Sophie, and she wrinkled her nose as she and Braddon decorously slowed to a standstill.

Braddon stopped with a grateful sigh. “There you are,” he said, wiping his forehead with a large silk handkerchief. “Trifle hot in here, isn’t it? Would you like to wander outside? I am sure no one could object, given our status.”

Sophie stared at him, not at all sure what he meant.

“Our status as an engaged couple,” Braddon repeated patiently. He was quite used to not being understood and never took affront.

“Oh yes,” Sophie murmured. She allowed him to lead her out to the terrace, where they were joined by the majority of the dancers. But when Patrick solicitously led Daphne Boch onto the terrace, Sophie turned away.

“Come along, Braddon,” she said briskly.

Braddon looked at her in a rather startled fashion. His betrothed had never addressed him by his first name before. And there she was, picking her way around the large pots lining the terrace and heading down a garden path.

“Oh, I say—” Braddon plunged after her.

Sophie paused just outside the circle of light cast by the torches.

“You are quite right, my dear sir,” Sophie said encouragingly, patting Braddon’s arm. “There can be no negative attention given to us, considering our status.” They walked a little way down one of the brick-lined paths.

“It’s rather dark out here,” Braddon said. He was feeling a bit nonplussed. What were they doing out in the garden? What would people think? It looked peculiar, to his mind.

Sophie stopped and leaned against a tree. In the soft dark, her dress had a faint golden gleam, a faint golden echo of the moon.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

Braddon looked down at her and opened his mouth before he thought. “No.”

“No?”

“That is, of course, naturally,” Braddon scrambled, well aware that the expression of shock on Sophie’s face boded ill for marital peace. “I just don’t think of you in those terms,” he added rashly, digging himself in deeper.

“You don’t think of me in those terms?”

To his relief, Sophie seemed not to be the hysterical type. In fact, she looked rather thoughtful, and really quite lovely. He much preferred a woman with some meat on her bones, but still, Sophie York would make a very pretty countess, to Braddon’s mind.

“You’re very beautiful.” His tone was hopeful, a peace offering.

“Thank you, Braddon.” Sophie sighed. “I think we had better rejoin the party now.”

Her mind was racing with humiliation and confusion. She was marrying a man who didn’t think of her in terms of kissing, and the man whom she thought of (in terms of kissing) was completely ignoring her.

Just then Alex appeared in the tall French door, smiling genially. “Lady Sophie, may I borrow your beloved for a minute?”

With a huffing bow and a tug at his waistcoat, Braddon happily followed Alex into the house, leaving Sophie stranded on the terrace. She drifted to the right—she couldn’t drift left, as he was over there.