‘It is romantic, their being so unfashionably in love.’ Toby, her dear friend since childhood, leaned on the polished walnut balcony rail, his elbow nudging companionably against hers. ‘Everyone knows the story of how Lord Elmham came back to England after eighteen years abroad and tumbled into love all over again with his childhood sweetheart.’
‘They weren’t childhood sweethearts. They met when Mama was making her come-out and it was all terribly proper and repressed – secret glances, heavy sighing, soulful yearnings, I imagine, from what Mama has let slip. And then she did the dutiful thing and married a man old enough to be her father and had me and never stopped loving Lucas Randall. And Step Papa did what all impoverished younger sons are supposed to do, he went abroad and made his fortune and pined for her. Then he came back with a title and wealth and found Mama was a widow and swept her off her feet and now even the starchiest old dowager whips out a handkerchief and sheds sentimental tears over them.’
‘Whichever it was, they have been a bye-word for romantic love for, what? Six years? What is so wrong with that?’
‘Because they are the exception that proves the rule. Why do you think people sigh and smile over them? Because true love like that is as rare as hens’ teeth. But seeing them makes every foolish girl believe that a young man who gazes deep into her eyes and whispers sweet nothings in the moonlight loves her heart and soul, when in fact all they want to do is get under their petticoats or into their trust funds.’
She had certainly fallen for that fairy tale. Head over heels into the romance woman-trap with eyes blinded by star dust, until the reality of male desire blew away every glimmer of magic. Foolish, innocent, gullible girl that she had been.
Most men wanted one thing, and one thing only. Power. They wanted money and sex too, but those were so intimately tied up with power in the male psyche it was hard to separate them, as far as she could see. Step Papa was a notable exception, a man of honour and decency. Toby, when he grew up a trifle, would be one too, she earnestly hoped.
The waltz came to an end, couples bowed and curtseyed, the floor emptied and the volume of chatter rose.
‘That’s pretty harsh, Sophie.’ Toby straightened up and tugged down his waistcoat, the picture of wounded male feelings. ‘Not all of us are rakes or fortune hunters, you know. Some of us have the purest of intentions.’
‘Your intentions, my darling Toby, are very pure and very obvious – to stay as far from Parson’s Mousetrap as you can get.’ He grinned and settled back at the rail with her. ‘You run screaming if a respectable young lady comes within five yards of you.’
‘They scare the daylights out of me,’ he admitted with a shudder. ‘They are all done up like the prettiest of presents just begging to be unwrapped. I’m no saint, I’m tempted. But you know you mustn’t so much as tug on a ribbon or you’ll have compromised the chit and be leg-shackled before you can blink. And even at a respectable distance they giggle and blush and look at a fellow with those great big eyes and I haven’t a clue what to say to them.’
‘You have no trouble talking to me.’ Sophie tweaked her amber silk skirts and batted her eyelashes at him. Blushing to order was beyond her and she certainly was not going to giggle, not even to tease Toby.
He grinned and bumped elbows. ‘I’ve known you ever since you pushed me in the duck pond aged six and you don’t expect me to come the pretty with you, Soph.’ She could feel his eyes on her. He was about to say something typically tactless. ‘But what about you? You’re twenty five.’ He flinched as she glared at him. ‘Twenty four, then. You’ll be on the shelf if you don’t start doing some flirting yourself.’
‘When I am good and ready. I have a system intended to save me making an idiot of myself with giggles and blushes. And it weeds out the rakes and the fortune hunters for me. I call it WWIGG.’
‘Whig? You’re taking an interest in politics? Are you set on not marrying a Tory, then?’ Toby swivelled round to face her and, as always when faced with Sir Tobias Greenwich’s earnest bafflement, she smiled.
‘No, not the political party. It is an mnemonic to help me remember all the important characteristics of the ideal husband. W, W, I, G and G. I think about it if I find myself falling for someone with broad shoulders but no brains, or an indecent amount of charm but dubious antecedents. W and W stand for – ’
‘Weasely? Wobbly? Weak-minded? There’s Dunsford and Pilling, they’d fit all of those, especially when Dunsford’s forgotten his corset.’
‘Idiot. Well-bred and well-endowed.’
‘Well-endowed? You brazen hussy, you.’ Toby’s grin was positively evil.
‘Well-off, I mean. It’s the same thing isn’t it?’ He was smirking. ‘What is so amusing about well-endowed?’ She had better find out, it was probably something that no-one told young ladies.
‘Er, well…’ Toby had gone red now. Definitely something risqué then. ‘You know.’ He made a sweeping gesture at the front of his black silk evening breeches. ‘In the trouser department.’
‘What?’