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line of his perfectly starched chitterling or the fit of his waistcoat.
    The Marquess of Eastlyn did not require the use of a mirror for affirmation of his fine countenance. His mirror was every approving look cast in his direction, every warm smile that greeted him. Society was favorably disposed to him, and it was a circumstance unlikely to change no matter what sort of nonsense he perpetrated with his friends.
    He was not so different from her father.
    Sophie received that thought as though taking a physical blow. It caught her just below the rib cage, and she actually stiffened with the pain of it. Her mouth parted, and she drew in a short breath, making every effort not to gasp.
    "Are you quite all right?" Eastlyn asked. It seemed to him that Lady Sophia had become several degrees more sober, if such a thing were possible. The wash of pink in her cheeks was gone now; even her mouth was pale. He was moved to look behind him, suspecting that whatever had caused this change in her countenance must be at some distance beyond his shoulder. East saw nothing but the garden wall and the stone bench, neither occupied by any member of her family likely to induce such alarm. "Shall I get you something? Water? Spirits?"
    His offer of assistance forced Sophie to collect herself. It required rather more effort than she wished it might. "I am all of a piece," she said calmly.
    One of Eastlyn's brows kicked up, and he made a survey of her face, flatly skeptical. "You are certain?"
    "Yes." Sophie watched him draw his fingers through his hair, leaving it furrowed until each burnished strand fell back into place. Clearly he did not believe her, yet he had no choice but to accept her at her word. She forced herself to return his steady, inquiring gaze, hoping he could not see past the lie. He could not truly want to be burdened with the truth; it was only his innate civility that prompted what appeared to be genuine concern.
    She thought of all the ways he was different from her father and started with the physical, coloring being the most obvious. Where her father, the late Earl of Tremont, had been fair-headed and fair-skinned, the marquess was much darker, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that were only a shade more warmly polished. Sophie's father had shunned the out-of-doors, preferring gaming hells to pastoral pursuits. In contrast, there was a touch of sun caught in Eastlyn's complexion, lending him the look of a man who had interests beyond the gentleman's clubs he frequented. Eastlyn was of a height with her father, though he cut a trimmer, more athletic figure. Sophie allowed that perhaps it was not a fair comparison because her clearest memories of her father were toward the end of his life, when drink and dissipation had left their mark at his thickening waist and heavy jowls. The portrait of Frederick Thomas Colley still hanging in the gallery at Tremont Park showed the younger man, the one who had difficulty with the serious pose he affected and whose quicksilver smile hovered like a poorly kept secret at the corners of his mouth.
    When Sophie captured that portrait in her mind's eye, it was much harder to see how Eastlyn might be different.
    She did not know a great deal about the marquess, although she would have had to have lived abroad these last three years not to know something of the man he was. He played at cards, she knew, and wagered often with his friends. He was a member of several clubs and kept a box at the theatre. He was welcomed at Almack's, though it was not his habit to attend, and he was invited to every function of note by every hostess who desired her gathering to be well attended. The particulars about his life were unexceptional, including the fact that like so many of his peers, he kept a mistress in town.
    Sophie doubted anyone intended she should know this last thing about him; it was not the sort of detail one discussed in front of the rumored fiancée. Even had the engagement not been