Braddon bowed. “Lady Sophie, I believe that they are calling for a dance. Will you do me the honor?”

As they moved rather ponderously into a boulanger, Sophie had a moment’s qualm. A lifetime of labored dancing lay ahead of her. Nothing in her experience of the world led her to believe that Braddon’s waistline would lessen after marriage; in fact, he looked as if he might attain the girth of his deceased papa.

But when they reached the bottom of the room, she looked up to find Braddon’s friendly blue eyes twinkling down at her. “Did you have a good time in the garden, Lady Sophie? Some infernal game Lady Sheffield thought up, what? I had the scarf myself for a bit,” he confided, “but then Patrick Foakes wandered up, bold as brass, and he had another one, just like mine. So it looks as if she was playing a bit of ducks and drakes with us, don’t you know.”

Sophie thought about that and wondered. Ducks and drakes was right. Two scarves—and how had Patrick found her so quickly?

“Braddon,” she said, “shall we sit comfortably for a moment or two? I should dearly love to discuss something with you.”

Braddon looked slightly alarmed. Ladies who announced the wish to converse with a person normally didn’t have a very pleasant topic in mind, in his experience.

Sure enough, a moment later he was shocked to the backbone.

“But—but—Lady Sophie!”

“I simply can’t wait. My feelings for you are so strong.” Sophie’s eyes were sweetly anguished, looking up at Braddon’s face.

She saw immediately that there was no point in insisting that she wished to elope due to love. The concept wasn’t in Braddon’s emotional vocabulary. She lowered her voice.

“It’s my mother. She’s driving me to the brink. You and I”—she put her hand on Braddon’s arm—”are adults, for goodness’ sake.”

“Absolutely.” Braddon was still uncertain, but he felt a sympathetic glow when Sophie mentioned her mama. Now there they really had something in common. “I know just what you mean,” he confided. “My mama has … well, you know her.”

“Then let’s elope!” Sophie looked up into Braddon’s face hopefully.

“Can’t do it, m’dear.” Braddon was shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be proper. Plus, my mother would never forget it, and I would hear about it the rest of my life. Do you know, she’s still talking about the time I disobeyed her and ran off to see a cockfight? I was all of twelve years old.”

Sophie leaned in toward Braddon, consciously making her expression as beguiling as she could. She pouted slightly.

“Oh, Braddon, you aren’t afraid of your mother, are you?”

“Naturally,” Braddon retorted. “My mother’s a terrifying old bird, you ask anyone. Besides”—and he looked suspicious—”isn’t this all because of you being afraid of your mama?”

Sophie was just marshaling her arguments for a new attack when a stern voice broke into their conversation. Sophie’s mother, the marchioness, was standing before them, the jut of her bosom indicating the utmost distaste.