“There’s no need to be tetchy about it,” he said finally. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Sophie knew she had to capitalize on her success before Braddon thought it through or, worse, discussed the plan with one of his more sensible friends.
“I shall expect you tomorrow,” she replied firmly. “Tomorrow at midnight. Be sure not to tell anyone, Braddon. People are such spoilers.”
Sophie dropped her voice to a thrilling whisper. “Midnight is the best time for schemes…. I shall arrange to have a ladder propped up to my window. When you arrive in your cloak, you can climb the ladder and carry me off!”
Braddon was fascinated at the idea of climbing a ladder with his cloak billowing behind him, and carrying a lovely maiden off into the night. And since he was marrying Sophie anyway, why not get it over with?
“All right,” he agreed. “Midnight.”
The coach jolted to a halt. As the footman opened the door, Braddon descended, feeling a good deal more dashing than he had when he’d entered the coach. He held out his hand and Sophie placed her small fingers trustingly in his. As he walked her up the marble steps to her door, she paused a step ahead of him, so that their faces were level.
“You are my champion,” she whispered.
Almost mesmerized, Braddon bent forward and his lips brushed hers reverently. Then he bowed and departed.
Sophie walked into the house, tired but well satisfied. So what if Patrick Foakes was to marry a horrid French girl who had thrown herself at his head? She, Sophie, was going to be married well before Patrick even sorted out the settlements with Lucien Boch, and once she was married, she wouldn’t think about Patrick, or Patrick’s disturbing eyes, or his quicksilver touch, ever again.
Back at Sheffield House, there was a faint hiss of excitement when the Honorable Patrick Foakes strolled through the French doors of the garden room shoulder to shoulder with his brother, the earl. Miss Daphne Boch was nowhere to be seen!
Barbara Lewnstown counted herself a special friend of Daphne’s and had been busily recounting Daphne’s likely married bliss with Patrick.
“Oh la,” she cried airily to Patrick, “where is my dearest Daphne?”
Patrick looked singularly indifferent. “As soon as we stepped outside a bee stung her just below her eye. It swelled up quite hideously,” he added, in response to Barbara’s dismayed shriek. “Charlotte took her off to pack some mud on it.”
From romance to a swollen bee bite … Not even the most assiduous of scandalmongers could believe that Patrick Foakes would feel any necessity to propose to the poor girl the next morning. Probably that bite put him off her for good, they reasoned. His tone was far too dispassionate for one whose heart had been touched by the girl’s cruel fate. Why, Daphne might not be able to attend social events for a week or more!
Chapter 7
