Sophie’s belly somersaulted at the announcement. Mama’s pink cheeks and shining eyes left no doubt that the visitor in question was a gentleman, and Sophie couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Peabody had come to call. It was the height of foolishness to suspect it—and even more foolish to hope for it—but her body thrummed at the mere possibility that he might be sitting in her drawing room.

“Who is it?” Sophie asked in a stage whisper.

Mama merely smiled and met her halfway down the stairs, grabbing her arm so she could hurry her up to the landing. “You look lovely,” Mama assured her. “The brisk walk home has given you a fetching glow. Let me take your portmanteau so you may join your guest in the drawing room without delay. I’ve already rung for tea.”

Sophie planted her feet outside the drawing room door and faced her mother. “You’re not going to tell me who’s in there?”

“Go see for yourself,” Mama said, giving Sophie a surprisingly strong shove toward the door.

Sophie stepped into the drawing room and spotted her gentleman caller lounging on their slightly shabby settee, his back to her. His broad shoulders, clad in an expertly tailored jacket, were visible above the settee’s curved back, and his muscular arms spanned its length as if staking out his territory.

Drat. Lord Singleton had finally succeeded in cornering her.

She looked longingly over her shoulder at the door but knew she couldn’t avoid the marquess this time. “Good afternoon, Lord Singleton,” she said, trying valiantly to mask her lack of enthusiasm. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He quickly scrambled to his feet, took her hand, and bowed over it. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Kendall.”

Sophie resisted the impulse to snatch her hand away. The marquess was well-mannered, impressively fit, dark haired, and clean-shaven. Attractive by most standards … just not hers.

When she could politely withdraw her hand, she waved at the settee, encouraging him to sit. She poured a cup of tea, handed it to Lord Singleton, and pretended to be oblivious to his chagrined expression when she sat in the chair opposite him rather than joining him on the settee.

“I spoke to your father again last night,” he said smoothly. “He’s eager for you and I to … move forward. As am I.”

Sophie’s tea gurgled in her belly. This conversation was the primary reason she hadn’t wanted to be alone with the marquess. “I see no need to rush into anything, my lord.”

“No one could accuse us of rushing.” He blew out a long breath, clearly frustrated. “Your father led me to believe that you were amenable to the arrangement. If you’ve changed your mind…”