The marchioness took a large, calming breath. Her eye skittered over her ensemble. At least she looked perfect. A trifle old-fashioned, perhaps, but she did not approve of the new French fashions. She felt sure her own dear mother—so stern and unyielding in her moral convictions—would forgive her disloyalty to the latest French garments. No, she would never accept these waistless dresses. And she would never exchange her sturdy corset for one of the newfangled light corsets. Not that Sophie appeared to be wearing even a light corset! There wasn’t room under that nightdress she was pleased to call a gown. Eloise’s eye kindled again.

She had reached the entranceway and stood there impatiently, one slipper patting the marble floor under her wide taffeta skirt. Where was Sophie? The girl insisted on visiting the theater—Drury Lane too, where all the world was sure to see her—and since she apparently planned to attend the theater half-naked, she might as well present herself on time.

George emerged from the library, and Eloise cast a sharp eye over him. She knew what he was doing. Tossing off a bit of brandy, no doubt. Well, Shakespeare was difficult, and he’d been good enough to change his plans when she realized just how much attention they were going to receive tonight. Drat that girl! She didn’t even know what made her feel the more annoyed—that silly chit upstairs, dressed in a transparent napkin, or her sillier friend Charlotte, entertaining the courtship of a thoroughly ineligible earl. A shame, that’s what it was. A real shame. If there had been any other impediment, she would have advised marriage. But with no chance of children, there was no point to marrying. No, it was the twin brother who was the interesting target now. As soon as he emerged from wherever he’d gone—Borneo, wasn’t it? or India—she intended to make Sophie marry him. It was his child who would inherit the title, obviously. Goodness sakes, she thought a bit complacently, if I were Adelaide I’d get my daughter away from Alexander Foakes as fast as might be.

There was a whisper of silk and Sophie was standing beside her. “Lud!” her mother said peevishly. “I didn’t hear you coming. Undoubtedly because you aren’t wearing enough clothing to wake a mouse. You are wearing a petticoat, aren’t you?” Luckily Eloise turned away before seeing Sophie’s grin. In fact, Sophie was wearing a chemise, but it was made of the finest muslin, and she had dampened it as well.

Her father loomed up behind her shoulder as their butler helped Sophie into a velvet evening cloak. “No antics tonight, girl,” he said, his eyebrows curling fiercely.

“Oh, no indeed, sir,” Sophie responded demurely, twinkling up at her father.

Despite himself, George relaxed. His wife always took things so seriously. Perhaps she was blowing all of this gossip business out of proportion.