Lady Sophie York, the only daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg, had refused to marry a baron who had asked on a balcony. She had refused two honorables, a handful of sirs, and a viscount, all of whom punctiliously requested that honor in her father’s study. She had refused a marquess in the midst of a hunt, and plain Mr. Kissler at Ascot. Less fortunate young women could not fathom Sophie’s motives. In two seasons, Sophie had rejected the ton’s most eligible bachelors. But after tonight there would be no more proposals, hurried, paced, inarticulate, or otherwise. After tonight the uncharitable would unite in agreement: The girl had held out for a man of high rank. Lady Sophie was affianced to an earl, and she would be a countess by next season.

Sophie grimaced at her mirror, thinking of the avid faces and deep curtsies she would face at the Dewland ball that evening. Uncertainty quaked in her stomach, an unusual flutter of self-consciousness. Was this the correct gown in which to announce her engagement? It was constructed of pale silver, gossamer-thin silk. Perhaps the color would make her look washed out in the ballroom, once she was surrounded by glittering plumage, the bare breasts and crimson cheeks of the female half of the beau monde. Silver was such a nunlike color. A glint of amusement lit Sophie’s eyes. A nun would swoon at the very idea of wearing a bodice made in the French style, low-cut and caught just under the breasts with silver ribbons that wound around the bodice. And the skirt flowed narrowly past Sophie’s curves, flirting with the roundness of her hips.

Just then the Marchioness of Brandenburg swept into the bedroom.

“Are you ready, Sophie?”

“Yes, Maman” Sophie said, throwing away the idea of changing her gown. They were already late to the Dewland ball.

The marchioness’s eyes narrowed as she looked over Sophie’s apparel. Eloise herself was wearing a gown of mouse-colored satin embroidered with flowers and fringed at the bottom. If it wasn’t precisely hooped, it gave that impression. It resembled nothing so closely as the styles of twenty years ago, from the early years of Eloise’s marriage.

“That dress,” Eloise said with asperity, “is a disgrace.”

“Yes, Maman.” That was Sophie’s usual response to her mother’s sartorial comments. She gathered up her wrap and reticule, turning toward the door.

Eloise hesitated, uncertainty crossing her face. Sophie looked at her in surprise. Her mother was French and seemed to view life as a battleground in which she was the only general with a standing army. It was uncommon to see her pause.

“Tonight,” said Eloise, “it will be announced that you have accepted the hand of the Earl of Slaslow in marriage.”

“Yes, Maman” Sophie agreed.

There was a short pause. What could be the problem, Sophie wondered. Her mother was never short of words.