In the hallway she pulled her arm out of his grip. “What on earth has possessed you, my lord?”

George sighed. That was it for “George.” Clearly, the state of armed warfare had descended again.

“We must get dressed and into a carriage immediately, Eloise. If we leave now, we have a decent chance of catching them either tonight or tomorrow, before they reach the border. You know it takes at least two days to get to Scotland.”

“But who is he?” Eloise asked, somewhat pitifully. “I never told Sophie she couldn’t marry anyone she pleased. Why would she need to elope? Why wouldn’t she leave me a note? She must have left me a note!” Eloise started back to the door of Sophie’s bedroom.

George grabbed her arm again, his grip like steel. “We don’t have time for the note, Eloise. You need to get dressed. If we catch up with them in time, we can pretend that we are simply returning from a late ball.” He half marched his wife to her bedroom and pushed her in the door before him.

“Here, put this on!” George pulled a dress at random from the wardrobe. Eloise looked wildly at the saffron-colored ball gown.

“I can’t.”

Although his wife was one of the most stiff-rumped ladies in London, George thought, one might almost think she was near tears.

“Yes you can.” He caught the tie to her robe and pulled it off. Eloise instinctively clutched the front of her nightdress.

“You have five minutes,” George said very slowly, but his tone left no room for interpretation. “I shall order up the carriage. I’ll return in five minutes and I want you dressed and ready to go.”

Eloise nodded numbly. When he appeared at her door again she was wearing a neat walking dress of blue serge, rather than the ball gown. It gaped at the back where Eloise had been unable to hook it herself.

“No! You have to wear a ball gown.” And, in answer to her silent question: “It’s only one-thirty in the morning, Eloise. We must look as if we were returning from a ball.”

Eloise nodded. George briskly pulled the walking dress down over her shoulders, exposing the creamy white expanse of Eloise’s chest. Eloise backed up.

“You leave and I’ll get dressed,” she said hoarsely.

Her husband stepped back, a sardonic smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. “Do you know, Eloise, I haven’t been in this room since you gave birth to Sophie? I was invited in to see the new child—five minutes, I think—and never darkened the door again.”

Their eyes met for a moment and George walked back to his room.