He was dressed in a plum-colored silk frock coat and breeches, with the lace of his cravat nearly as deep as her own, and an almost unwieldy signet ring on his right hand. His white stockings were spotless, and Sophie guessed he had demanded that his bearers carry his chair into the reception hall, so not a single speck of slush would mar his hose. As Metcalf walked forward, he slid a quick glance at Lady Auliffe, and in that glance Sophie was surprised to see a glint of fear, or at the very least what looked like a momentary lapse of confidence. Was the earl afraid of something? The terriers? How could that be possible? She must have misinterpreted his expression. Puzzled, she continued to study him further, but he immediately assumed his usual air of ennui. “Miss Hinds,” he called, “My lovely little betrothed.” His drawl, and even more so his choice of words, set Sophie on edge. She endured his quick kiss to her hand, even though there was nothing offensive in his dry, polite peck or the subtle pressure of his fingertips.
