Braddon Chatwin woke up the next morning with a pleasurable sense of anticipation. For a moment he stared sleepily at the blue chintz hangings that adorned his bedstead. Black cloaks and false mustaches had tangled together in his dreams.

Then memory seeped back. Lady Sophie York wanted to elope, and she wanted him to wear a cloak and mustache, and she threatened not to marry him if he didn’t appear at midnight. Laboriously Braddon sorted out the mingled strains of Sophie’s demand.

In the cold light of morning it seemed as mad as Bedlam, that was the only thing one could call it. If they ran off to Gretna Green, people would undoubtedly assume that they had anticipated the wedding night. Except she didn’t think of that, Braddon thought complacently. Well-bred young ladies don’t know the first thing about sex, so of course Sophie didn’t know what people would say about a runaway marriage. But given that there was nothing to prevent Braddon and Sophie from sedately marrying in St. George’s some four months from now, people would naturally draw conclusions about why they tied the knot so hastily. It wasn’t as if it were a love match or anything.

As to the question of why Sophie wanted to elope, Braddon put it out of his mind. He had decided long ago that the ways of women were impossible to understand.

He rang the bell for hot chocolate and then put his arms behind his head. Now what he had to do was turn his talent for schemes to one which would fool his future wife. In other words, he needed a plan that would outscheme her scheme, because there was no way in heaven he was going to do anything as featherheaded as tearing off to Scotland to get married when he didn’t even have to.

And what’s more, the trip would take at least two or three days there and the same back. If it didn’t take longer—traveling to Scotland in December! Granted, not a speck of snow had fallen this year. But he’d be damned if he’d leave Madeleine even for a week. Not now, when the very thought of her fired his heart and made him want to jump from his bed and go down to her father’s stables to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.

Braddon’s eyes darkened with annoyance. It wasn’t as if Madeleine would leap up to greet him if he did go to the stables. She was proving to be annoyingly, persistently, chaste. In fact, she showed no sign of succumbing to his imploring letters, or his gifts (which she refused), or any of his efforts to turn her into a lifelong mistress. She just said stoutly that she didn’t care for the position, and that was that. He had explained in vain that the daughter of the man who ran Vincent’s Horse Emporium could not expect to make a good marriage, or perhaps any marriage at all. She didn’t seem to care.