couldn’t brace herself against the corner the way men could. André was driving too fast again. He thought of himself as a cross between a coachman and a courtier, and he had even adapted the trick of a Corinthian: He caught his whip as it coiled back through the air.
The horses trotted on and the carriage resumed its normal creaking rattle and sway. Sophie stuck out a foot in front of her, thoughtfully regarding her slipper. She was wearing a gown the color of bronzed gold—which was the closest she ever came to white. She never wore white. White was her mother’s preference. White was the preference of virtually every other unmarried girl in London. White, for innocence, engagements, and virginity. Sophie dropped her foot in exasperation.
Gold was not innocent. What was the name of the play she’d seen last week? Eros Undoubted ? That didn’t sound right. Cupid Defeated ? No, it wasn’t Cupid, it was Eros. Cupid was the god of love, but Eros was the god of desire. At any rate, Eros had been wearing a little toga of pale gold as he trotted around the stage shooting people with his gilt arrows. The play itself was terrible, one of those tragedies in which a pious young woman fell in love with a scoundrel (thanks to Eros). In the end she threw herself—in a remarkably unconvincing manner, to Sophie’s mind—off a bridge.
That’s what I need, Sophie thought. One little god in a toga to match my gown, and could he please plant a big fat arrow in Patrick Foakes’s back? Although now that she thought of it, Eros had done just that to the scoundrel in the play—and then the man had blithely left the heroine with a small child.
A secret smile tipped the corners of Sophie’s red lips. She had little fear that Patrick lacked desire for her. She could read it in the way his eyes darkened when he saw her. So what she needed was not Eros but Cupid…. That’s right. Cupid, wearing a pure white virginal nightshirt, to shoot Patrick Foakes with one of his arrows. Because if there was one certainty in life, it was that rakes never fall in love, especially with their wives, and if they do, it isn’t for long.
The thought calmed Sophie. She took a deep breath. The dream that Patrick Foakes might fall in love with her was just that, a dream. Whatever he wanted from her, it wasn’t marriage. Yes, she would see him tonight. But it was a dinner celebrating her engagement to another man.
Still … her heart danced. Even the hair falling down her back, spilling in precisely ordered curls, felt airy, silky, about to be touched.
The carriage jolted sharply as André drew up the horses before Sheffield House. The team reared into the air in tandem, settling back to earth with an irritable jangle of their harnesses and a petulant stamping of feet.
“Best not let his lordship see that trick with the hoasses, Andy,” one of the footmen called saucily. He hopped down from his perch and nipped around to open the door. Everyone knew that the young lady wouldn’t never complain about the rough ride, but Lord a’mercy, the markessa, or whatever her title was, she could give a rare trimming when she put her mind to it.
If the truth be told, Sophie was feeling slightly battered. First her shoulder had crashed into the corner of the coach, and then when the coach finally stopped she had been propelled sharply forward and landed on her knees in the center well between the seats.
“Philippe,” she said, accepting her footman’s assistance stepping out of the coach, “would you tell André that I feel like a tub of cream which Cook is determined to churn into butter?”
Philippe ducked his head to hide a grin. “Yes, my lady, I will convey the message,” he said, his voice half muffled by his high cravat.
Sophie ran lightly up the marble steps to Sheffield House and paused to smile at the portly butler who stood with the door opened.
“How are you, McDougal?”
“Ach, Lady Sophie, it’s beautiful that you look tonight,”
The horses trotted on and the carriage resumed its normal creaking rattle and sway. Sophie stuck out a foot in front of her, thoughtfully regarding her slipper. She was wearing a gown the color of bronzed gold—which was the closest she ever came to white. She never wore white. White was her mother’s preference. White was the preference of virtually every other unmarried girl in London. White, for innocence, engagements, and virginity. Sophie dropped her foot in exasperation.
Gold was not innocent. What was the name of the play she’d seen last week? Eros Undoubted ? That didn’t sound right. Cupid Defeated ? No, it wasn’t Cupid, it was Eros. Cupid was the god of love, but Eros was the god of desire. At any rate, Eros had been wearing a little toga of pale gold as he trotted around the stage shooting people with his gilt arrows. The play itself was terrible, one of those tragedies in which a pious young woman fell in love with a scoundrel (thanks to Eros). In the end she threw herself—in a remarkably unconvincing manner, to Sophie’s mind—off a bridge.
That’s what I need, Sophie thought. One little god in a toga to match my gown, and could he please plant a big fat arrow in Patrick Foakes’s back? Although now that she thought of it, Eros had done just that to the scoundrel in the play—and then the man had blithely left the heroine with a small child.
A secret smile tipped the corners of Sophie’s red lips. She had little fear that Patrick lacked desire for her. She could read it in the way his eyes darkened when he saw her. So what she needed was not Eros but Cupid…. That’s right. Cupid, wearing a pure white virginal nightshirt, to shoot Patrick Foakes with one of his arrows. Because if there was one certainty in life, it was that rakes never fall in love, especially with their wives, and if they do, it isn’t for long.
The thought calmed Sophie. She took a deep breath. The dream that Patrick Foakes might fall in love with her was just that, a dream. Whatever he wanted from her, it wasn’t marriage. Yes, she would see him tonight. But it was a dinner celebrating her engagement to another man.
Still … her heart danced. Even the hair falling down her back, spilling in precisely ordered curls, felt airy, silky, about to be touched.
The carriage jolted sharply as André drew up the horses before Sheffield House. The team reared into the air in tandem, settling back to earth with an irritable jangle of their harnesses and a petulant stamping of feet.
“Best not let his lordship see that trick with the hoasses, Andy,” one of the footmen called saucily. He hopped down from his perch and nipped around to open the door. Everyone knew that the young lady wouldn’t never complain about the rough ride, but Lord a’mercy, the markessa, or whatever her title was, she could give a rare trimming when she put her mind to it.
If the truth be told, Sophie was feeling slightly battered. First her shoulder had crashed into the corner of the coach, and then when the coach finally stopped she had been propelled sharply forward and landed on her knees in the center well between the seats.
“Philippe,” she said, accepting her footman’s assistance stepping out of the coach, “would you tell André that I feel like a tub of cream which Cook is determined to churn into butter?”
Philippe ducked his head to hide a grin. “Yes, my lady, I will convey the message,” he said, his voice half muffled by his high cravat.
Sophie ran lightly up the marble steps to Sheffield House and paused to smile at the portly butler who stood with the door opened.
“How are you, McDougal?”
“Ach, Lady Sophie, it’s beautiful that you look tonight,”
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