“I know that chastity is an outmoded word, but it is not an outmoded concept,” her mother rejoined sharply. “Your constant joking and flirting makes you seem more accomplished than you are. In fact, Sophie, you have precisely the manners of a top-flight courtesan!”

For a moment Sophie stared at her mother in outrage, then consciously took a deep breath. “I have never done anything out of the proper,” she repeated firmly.

“How can you say that when Lady Prestlefield found you in the arms of Patrick Foakes, alone in a reception room?” her mother retorted. “When you chose to be indiscreet, improper, you were discovered by one of the most talkative women in all London.

“It would have been one thing if you became engaged to Foakes. But to be found kissing in a corner! You embarrassed me profoundly, Sophie. So I will tell you again—I forbid you to allow the Earl of Slaslow more than the most token gesture of affection. Any more of these heated embraces and your reputation will be ruined forever. Moreover, Slaslow will be justified in calling it off if he suspects your rackety nature.”

“Maman!”

“Your rackety nature,” Eloise repeated. “Which,” she added, “you inherited from your father. And he has encouraged you. From the moment he supported your study of all those languages, he fostered your unladylike nature. There is little behavior more unmaidenly than learning Latin.”

She raised her hand as Sophie began to reply. “Fortunately, that is over. When you are a countess you will be too busy running a large household to indulge yourself in such fruitless pursuits.”

Suddenly Eloise remembered her primary grievance. “Had you married Foakes, the gossip would have died, but naturally your reputation has suffered since you turned down his offer,” she continued without pause. “No one believes he was able to bring himself to scratch!” The marchioness’s tone was biting, and an ominous red flush had mounted up her neck.

“I could not accept Patrick Foakes’s proposal,” Sophie objected. “He asked me only because Lady Prestlefield walked into the room. He is a rake whose kisses mean nothing.”

“I know little about meaningless kisses,” the marchioness commented magisterially. “It would be nice if my daughter had the same delicacy of person that I have maintained. And what does it matter if Foakes is a rake? A rake can make as good a husband as any other man. He has extensive holdings—what more do you want?”

Sophie looked at the tips of her delicate slippers. It was hard to explain her aversion to rakes without making reference to her beloved papa, who made a practice of chasing every Frenchwoman who arrived in London. And given the turbulent situation in France, he had been very busy in the last seven years or so.

“I would like to marry someone who will respect me,” she said.