of London Society at all. She looked across at Charlotte and exchanged a rueful grimace, before their hostess caught sight of them and hurried over to greet them.
‘Harriet, my dear, so glad you could come.’ She kissed Lady Fitzpatrick on both cheeks and then looked at the girls, taking careful note of Charlotte’s white crepe open gown trimmed with silk forget-me-nots over a pale blue slip, and moving on to examine Sophie’s cambric high gown with its overskirt of pale green jaconet, which her ladyship considered more suitable for day than evening wear. ‘So, these are your charges.’
‘Good evening, Beth.’ She took Charlotte’s arm and drew her forward. ‘May I present Miss Charlotte Roswell. The Earl of Peterborough’s niece. God rest his soul.’
‘Indeed, yes. My commiserations, Miss Roswell.’ Reminded of her superior station by a dig in the ribs from Sophie, Charlotte executed a small polite bob, not the deep curtsy she had intended. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘You are fully recovered from your ordeal?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ It was obvious that the girl was painfully shy and would have to be brought out of her shell if she were to take well. Her ladyship turned to Sophie. ‘Then you must be Miss Hundon. Miss Roswell’s companion, I collect.’
‘Oh, no,’ Charlotte put in. ‘Sophie is my cousin and friend, not a paid companion. We share everything.’
‘That is to your credit, my dear,’ Lady Gosport said. ‘But you will find that the possession of an estate and great wealth, as I believe you have, will make your advance in Society very unequal.’ Then to Sophie, ‘I do hope, dear Miss Hundon, you have not been led to expect the same attention as your more illustrious cousin?’
‘No, indeed,’ Sophie said, though she longed to bring the lady down to size with some cutting remark. Only the thought of their masquerade being exposed stilled her tongue.
‘Come, let me introduce you to the company.’ There were a few young ladies present, they realised, as they were conducted round the room, and one or two young men, who stood about posing in tight coats and impossibly high pointed cravats, twirling their quizzing glasses in their hands and speaking in affected voices which made the girls want to laugh aloud. Instead, they bowed politely and exchanged greetings and longed to escape.
‘This is quite dreadful,’ Sophie murmured to her cousin when they had done the rounds. ‘If the whole Season is to be like this, I shudder to think how we shall go on.’
‘It is early in the year,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘The Season is not yet under way.’
‘I hope you are right.’
Just then a commotion by the door heralded the arrival of latecomers. ‘Why, it is Martin,’ Lady Gosport cried, hurrying over to drag her son into the room. ‘You are very late. I had quite given you up.’
He gently removed her hand from the sleeve of his green superfine coat and smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, Mama. Pressing business delayed me. May I present my friend, Richard, Viscount Braybrooke?’
The man behind Mr Gosport stepped forward and the whole roomful of people gave a combined sigh, including Sophie, who had told herself she was immune to masculine vanity. If vanity it was. He seemed unaware of the impression he had created, and yet, as she looked more closely she realised he did know, for there was a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes and a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth.
He was clad in a blue satin coat which fitted him so closely the muscles of his broad shoulders could be detected as he bowed over her ladyship’s hand. His waistcoat was of cream figured brocade and his blue kerseymere trousers, in the latest fashion, reached his shoes and were held down by straps under the instep, making his legs seem impossibly long. His cravat, though nothing like as high and pointed as those she had noticed on the other young men, was so skilfully tied, it drew exclamations of admiration from them.
His dark hair, cut short so that it curled about his ears, was the only slightly dishevelled part of him, but Sophie knew it was a style much favoured among the gentleman of the ton, called Windswept. Here was a tulip of the first order, and tulips were very definitely not what she was looking for, but beneath all that finery she sensed a man of great strength and power. She had a sudden vision of him unclothed, all rippling muscle, and a flood of colour suffused her cheeks.
She turned away to scrabble in her reticule for a handkerchief in order to compose herself. Whatever was the matter with her? She had never ever thought about a man’s nakedness before. Had he deliberately set out to have that effect? It was disgraceful in him if he had and even more disgraceful in her to succumb.
Charlotte, beside her, was openly staring. ‘My, would you look at that peacock,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, goodness, Lady Fitzpatrick is bringing them both over.’
Sophie, struggling to regain her usual serenity, was aware of Lady Fitzpatrick presenting the two men to her cousin. ‘Miss Roswell is the niece and ward of the late Earl of Peterborough,’ she was saying. ‘Being abroad, you will not have heard of the tragedy two years ago which left poor Miss Roswell all alone in the world.’
‘Not quite alone,’ Charlotte said, determined to include Sophie, not only because she felt overwhelmed, but because it wasn’t fair on her cousin to shut her out, as Lady Gosport seemed determined to do. ‘My lord, may I present my cousin, Miss Sophie Hundon?’
Sophie found herself subjected to a brown-eyed scrutiny which made her squirm inside and when he took her small hand in his very large one, she felt trapped like a wild bird in a cage which longed to be free but which hadn’t the sense to fly when the cage door was opened. Here, she knew, was a very dangerous man. Dangerous because he could make her forget the masquerade she and Charlotte had embarked upon, could make her disregard that list of virtues she had extolled as being necessary for the man she chose as her husband, dangerous for her peace of mind. And all in less than a minute!
She hated him for his extravagant clothes, for looking at her in that half-mocking way, for his self-assurance, for making her feel so weak. But no one would have guessed her thoughts as she dropped him a deep curtsy and then raised her eyes to his. ‘My lord.’
‘The cousins are to be brought out together,’ Lady Fitzpatrick told him. ‘Which I hold very generous of Miss Roswell.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, though she could not be sure if he was expressing surprise or agreement.
‘Not at all,’ Charlotte put in, making him turn from Sophie towards her. ‘We have always been very close, ever since…’ She stopped in confusion. She had been going to say ever since Sophie’s accident brought her to Upper Corbury, but checked herself. ‘Since the tragedy.’
‘Your soft heart does you credit, Miss Roswell,’ he said. ‘May I wish you a successful Season?’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She curtsied to him and he moved off. Sophie breathed again and managed a smile for Mr Gosport as he followed in his friend’s wake.
‘What do you make of that?’ Sophie whispered, watching the backs of the two men as they were introduced to the other young ladies.
Sophie made sure their sponsor had moved out of earshot, which, for her, was not very far. ‘I think Lady Fitz fancies herself as a matchmaker.’
‘Who?’
‘Why, you and Lord Braybrooke,
