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She glanced up to see perspiration dampening his receding hairline, turning his fair hair to frizz. He had a thirsty look about his eyes. “An exquisite estate. It is my understanding your father is to be credited for its perseverance.”

“Yes. He has dedicated his life to the purpose.” She could almost see the scaffolding now, hear the incessant clanking of hammers and wet swipes of plasterers.

“A legacy worthy of pride, to be sure.”

Sophie smiled. She wasn’t sure there was any pride left in her father. Just melancholy.

They separated again. The skipping figures caused her white satin slippers to scrape up and down the backs of her heels. It would be a miracle if she walked out of this room with a normal gait at the night’s end.

The thought of walking away, or of at least smacking her partner’s wrists if he dared grip her so tightly again, was a luscious fantasy. But no. Sedate Englishmen with an interest in old buildings and aristocratic pride were the exact sort she was meant to entertain. To marry. To have children with.

A cold spark traveled down the back of her skull at the thought, but she ignored it, bowing at the cotillion’s conclusion and allowing herself to be dragged to the refreshment room. Mercifully, her dance partner neither stayed, nor claimed a second dance. It ought to wound her, she thought, as she accepted a glass of ratafia from a footman’s silver tray, that she had not made a favorable impression on the man.

It didn’t.

She wandered to the edge of the room, sinking into a chair beneath a faded tapestry. Her first sip was only satisfactory in that it soothed the dryness of her throat. The spirits went down sickly sweet, far too seasoned with fruit and sugar to be remotely pleasant. Better to let brandy be brandy for brandy’s sake than to embellish it so.

Was it something in her manner that had put the gentleman off? Had he looked into her eyes and thought, this woman is without soul, without an ounce of joy? Perhaps he had assessed her as being without maternal tendencies. Incapable of tenderness or love. She took another sip. Larger, this time, and quickly regretted.

“I say, Miss St. Quinton!”

Sophie wiped the grimace clean from her face as the hostess of tonight’s ball approached with rapid steps. “Lady Milton, how—”

“Don’t trouble yourself in rising, dear.” The plump, middle-aged countess took a seat beside Sophie, grasping the edge of her silk turban with a fingernail. She drew it farther down her forehead, concealing the grey V of a widow’s peak. “What has you hiding away here?”

“I am not hiding.” Sophie lightened her tone. “I have danced every set thus far, ma’am, and only paused for refreshment.”

“That may be, but a young lady in your position cannot afford to waste a moment’s opportunity on something as trifling as refreshment. Not unless you believe yourself truly at risk of swooning.” Lady Milton bared her teeth in an unconvincing smile. “I do wish you had some cousin or other to escort you to some of these events, dear. It is not entirely fashionable for you to make an appearance on the arm of your acquaintances. Perhaps once or twice, but …”

Bitterness settled in the pit of Sophie’s stomach. She gripped the glass in her lap. As if she needed a reminder that under any normal, fair circumstances, it would be her brother escorting her to tonight’s ball. She would be laughing and twirling and perhaps even flirting with a gentleman she truly hoped to know better.

“There is a gentleman in attendance tonight who you simply must meet,” Lady Milton prattled on. “He is the third in twice as many sons, and his elder brother has already fathered two boys of his own. Just the sort of strong male progeny your family is in want of. Oh! There is my dear Lord Milton now, let me arrange for an introduction!”

Sophie was left staring as the older woman scurried off with the same haste she had come. The dark, pomegranate-colored liquid in her glass glared up at her, but she could not bear to taste it again. Lady Milton’s words might be bluntly spoken, but they weren’t untrue. They shouldn’t bring about a wave of nausea.

Sophie rose from her chair. Whoever the gentleman was, it could do no harm to meet him. She strode in the direction of her hostess, whose head bobbed wildly as she spoke to her husband by the room’s open doors. They were gesturing and pointing across the ballroom, and Sophie caught the wisp of a sentence: take her to the lieutenant.

Sophie’s gaze locked with the blinding presence of a Royal Navy uniform. Pristine white trousers. A coat starched and heavy, crafted of the bluest blue. A gold epaulette affixed to the right shoulder, vying for the chandelier’s light. She knew how those coats felt beneath one’s fingertips. How proud they made the wearer, had made Edmund, as he had bid her farewell twenty-four odd months ago.

“I’ll be fine, Sophia,” he’d said to her, pinching her cheek just to make her swat him away. “You’ll be wishing I was gone still when I’m back to reign terror anew.”

The backs of her eyes scorched. Five months later, a messenger had delivered the news: Lieutenant Edmund St. Quinton had died at the Battle of Grand Port, his body lost to the Indian Ocean.

The sound of shattering glass made Sophie jump out of her skin. Her surroundings returned to her: her host and hostess swirled around to stare, the orchestra beat out a deafening reel, the air smelled of spirits and sweat. The lieutenant turned to stare in her direction, too, and she found he looked nothing like her brother at all.

“Good heavens!” Lady Milton was at her side, grabbing her wrist and flipping it over and back. “Are you injured?”

“What?” Sophie swallowed. “No, why—?” She saw, then, the shards of glass scattered around her own feet, registered the emptiness of her right hand which had previously held the drink. The ratafia had splattered the hem of her dress, dark spots against red, and the rest of the liquid puddled on the floor, sickly purple against the pale rug. “Oh. I-I don’t know what came over me.”

The countess dropped Sophie’s wrist and cracked a too-wide smile. “Hush, dear,” she said through clenched teeth. “People are looking.” She turned to face the rest of the room with a laugh. “No injuries! Nothing to fear!”

“Pardon me.” Sophie curled her hands into fists and made for the door before anyone could object. She would sacrifice many things to further her parents’ wishes, but suffering through an introduction with a uniformed man? She’d rather hang.

Male progeny. What a lurid concept! What did society take her for, a broodmare?

She kept a quick pace as she walked the ballroom’s perimeter, chin held high and refusing to meet the gazes she felt upon her. If anyone dared to poke fun at her filthy skirts, they would be made to regret it in the next instant. Heavens. She needed a moment’s peace. Something to dull her sharp, wicked tongue, which was clamoring for center stage.

The shadows of a salmon-colored corridor welcomed her. It was quieter here, and one of the candlelit wall sconces had guttered out. She edged open a door, hoping to find a water closet, but when the dim light followed her inside, it revealed what she presumed to be Lord Milton’s study.